Pitterpatter

Here are three poems for those in the stages of a broken heart, the first is rage, the second is resolve, and the third is moving on.

The Message

Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,
Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee,
Yet since there they have learn'd such ill,
Such forc'd fashions,
And false passions,
That they be
Made by thee
Fit for no good site, keep them still.

Send home my harmlesse heart againe,
Which no unworthy thought could staine,
Which if it be taught by thine
To make jestings
Of protestings,
And breake both
Word and oath,
Keepe it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lyes,
and may laugh and joy, when thou
Art in anguish
And dost languish
For some one
That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.
- John Donne

Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
-Dorothy Parker

Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit;
sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
that brushes your heel as it turns going by,
the man who wantts to ;live is the man in whom
life is abundant.

Now you are only giving food to that final pain
which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,
but to live is to work, and the only thing which
lasts
is the work; start then, turn to the work.

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into
your own field,
don't turn your face for that would be to turn it
to death,
and do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what's alive in the furrow, what's dead in
yourself,
for life does not move in the same way as a
group of clouds;
from your work you will be able one day to
gather yourself.
- Miguel de Unamuno

And now onto fun ones that seem to be just there for enjoyment!!

Tiara

Peter died in a paper tiara
cut from a book of princess paper dolls;
he loved royalty, sashes

and jewels. I don't know,
he said, when he woke in hospice,
I was watching the Bette Davis film
festival

on Channel 57 and then -
At the wake, the tension broke
when someone guessed

the casket was closed because
he was in there in a big wig
and heels, and someone said,

You know he's always late,
he probably isn't here yet -
he's still fixing his make-up.

And someone said he asked for it.
Asked for it -
when all he did was go down

into the salt tide
of wanting as much as he wanted,
giving himself over so drunk

or stoned it almost didn't matter who,
though they were beautiful,
stampeding into him in the simple,

ravishing music of their hurry.
I think heaven is perfect stasis
poised over the realm of desires,

where dreaming and waking men lie
on the grass while wet horses
roam among them, huge fragments

of music we die into
in the body's paradise.
Sometimes we wake not knowing

how we cam to lie here,
or who has crowned us with these
temporary,
precious stones. And given

the world's perfectly turned shoulders,
the deep hollows blued by longing,
given the irreplaceable silk

of horses rippling in orchards,
fruits thundering and chiming down,
given the ordinary marvels of form

and gravity, what could he do,
what could any of us evr do
but ask for it?
- Mark Doty

Right, that is enough poetry for now, I hope it helps a little for any who need it.
Toodles