My little red raincoat,

Worn out from strenuous work and tender fondness,

Hangs above the doormat in the hallway,

Waiting to shield me from the rapturous flood.

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

For centuries I have lived in this house.

The air is static,

Warm yet bleak and frozen.

Each room is identical,

Forever repeating one stagnant remnant of a dream.

Though I cannot leave,

The essence of my being reaches out towards the sunlight,

Elucidating my core inhibitions

Shunning me from the nature of mankind

And saving me the despondency.

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

The wayward birds never returned in the spring,
And Sarah keeps crying in the hallway.
I wait for her to stop and help me move boxes.

A melancholy sound echoes through the roads
And curls around the streetlamps that have yet to brighten the wounded night.

If I were to sleep tonight,
I question,
Would I wake up in a haste just like the morning before?
For mornings are meant to be tranquil
Pastoral

But all I find is broken sunshine through dark green curtains
And Sarah crying over her breakfast. 

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

The hands work vigorously at the thin white paper,
Folding each crest with accuracy and skill.
The knuckles are ashy and worn,
Like the leather on your grandfather’s favorite brown shoe.
Though yes, the hands work so hard and so perfectly,
The eyes are blind,
And cannot see that the hands are making a monster. 

I stand alone,

entranced by the sun 

confined by my own resistance

Infinite love and hate concomitant

adhere to my bones,

trickle from my pores.

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

I used to be soft
with supple skin
and laughing eyes

but look what I’ve become
a statue of indifference 
cracked and brittle
with a concrete mouth

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

   Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

   And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

   When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

   Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

   And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

   And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

   That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

   And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

   Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

   Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

   And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediæval grace

   Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

   But sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,

   And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

   Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

   And kept on drinking.

E.A. Robinson

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

The machine bits off the insect’s head

Effortlessly

Silently

There is no such need for you to fidget in your seat

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

nature reoccuring

its growth unabated

a seamless stream of liturgy

in an endless, timeless plight

forgotten not, the summer

whisks away the unfulfilled

statues of adherence, and a wolf cries

in the steam of night,

unforgiving

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)

Answer with Spring

O, succulent Earth

who’s leaves I’ve yet to write

the flowers thirst

and the people pray

for the sweetness of your light

the harshness of

the Winter fades

when dew replaces frost

and yet the blooming 

of the trees

is not without a cost

for when the heat

of summer ends

the dying months will bring

the lonelingess

and longing for

another infant Spring.

(Source: anthrograndiloquence)