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Everything I once knew has been stilled:

I fathomed my mother’s voice whispering
In my juvenescence,
She weaved a tapestry of tales
Whilst her pearlescent eyes
They glistened,
Enveloped by downy lashes
Ebony and yet unassuming
For
The night domineered.
Unblemished enough to
Garner the praise
In the clarity of
My reverential heart,
As I lay there
Tucked in,
Once peacefully,
Yet now shaken
By
The disquietude
Of the restless twilight,
Upon an azure king-sized mattress
Primped in creaseless Space Jam sheets.


They were set by
The grace of her manicured hands
However slightly,
Chestnut and replete
That longed to,
By the Blessed Oracle
Speaking with a God,
Summon the Salvation
Of my long lost rest
That Raged Leviathan
Where,
To be cocooned in The Sea of Shadows
The thew of dreams would be born.

She sanctified my fears
Like coal oppressed for aeons
By
That Treasured Sphere
(Terraqueous Gaia)
Until by
The Womb of the Mountainous Mother,
Were reborn
As the Children of Diamonds.

Or perhaps
Like a baptismal kiss
That floweth from an ivory chalice
By which
The soil of my life flowered,
For a quaked youth was
Bestowed
With a fading taste
Of the transcendence at dawn
Poured upon my palate
Until
The Garden of the Valiant
Bursted into bloom.
(Tis where the Behemoth lay nestled
Under the Age Old Tree of Life
And Sylphs soar beneath iridescent twilit skies
Illuminated by Providence
Of the Half-Faced Crimson Moon).


If I so chose
I could
Be anything
That
I imagined, even
Today.

Ephemeral though
Those moments were
My reminiscence
Doth memorialize in crystal stasis
My infantile longing,
Tis ceaseless in its yearning
To be comforted
When
Pangs overtake me:

But what fable is my weapon
Now?
The Hallowed Excalibur,
Or perhaps even The Ultima Weapon
With the Impenetrable Aegis
Imparted by
The Mighty Crystal
Bestowing might to its Anointed
The ones who war with their own iniquity,
Until their paths align
Like celestial bodies
And they’ve arisen triumphant,
Eclipsed the fictitious light
Of a false deity
Who besmirched the truths
That upheld The Cosmos
Since its genesis?

There is one tale,
(Lean in, listen closely,
This is my Susurrus in the Night)
Tis no figment
And one I found most favorable,
One of a man
Simple,
Strong,
Stunning,
Sound,
Sapient,
And high over all but
The Desideratum of the Holy,
The one to whom
Even the angels, seraphs, and cherubs bow.

He was scourged
In flesh and spirit
Till his pulse was silenced,
His inestimable blood
Prophesied to vanquish
Chaos and
The Futile Wind
Of life
That by
By the disobedience of
Our
Tarnished Father,
Is now
An accursed child

She
Is effaced by
Time
(For Sorrow has no end)
And
Tormented by Space.
(Height,
Breadth,
And depth,
O that Existential Fabric)
His caverns
Condemned Her
Without
Compassion.

The thought of solitude
Looming in mortality
Were the dreadful horns
Of an Auroch that
Pierced
Her consciousness
Until by
Proud Oppression
Hope
In its frailty
Was a dandelion
Strewn by skinless hands
Against the immaterial
Brush of the breeze.

To flourish then
Wither,
Wax and
Wane;
Never
Was a fate
That our God intended.
For eternity shines and
Is a supernova
In the galaxy of our hearts
And though undiscerned
By many
Has always been
And
Will always be
The Cherished Wish of the Stars,
For though we are an exhalation
By contradistinction,
Even they become nebulous
Fading into dust.

We shall
Become
Exalted and ennobled
Even to these who are
Of the luminaries,
Lowly
Brothers and sisters
Without Ears,
Eyes,
Hearts,
Or minds.

Yes,
(These vibrations resonate from the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
Soon enough they say,
Soon enough.
Hey guys, this poem is written as a thematic embodiment of a religious-based autobiographical piece I am in the process of assembling (It will be a metaphorical interlude if you will in between two segments of the piece and thus act as a segue). It was written as a free-verse piece. I have not written in about a month which has given me time to reflect and introspectively examine the Universe around me; consequently, I hope that you guys can perceive my metamorphosis in my month long cocooning as a writer. I wanted to encapsulate the whimsicality, fancifulness, and innocence of youth by incorporating myth, imagery, and imagination (almost reminiscent of a fairy-tale whispered to a child before bed, hence the title "A Susurrus in the Night"). I kind of rushed putting this out because I was so eager to share with you guys, so forgive me if it's not as refined as my usual writings. *Since posting I have edited it on this website* I this does not convolute and thus make it less understandable! I have so much to say through this piece! Thank you so much for your support and God bless!
Nina O'Donovan Apr 2016
There is a new roof fitting itself to the sky,
sea-roughened and grey as the vast paving
I dropped teeth on as a child, lightheaded

and living faster. Outside, a steep hill drops sweet
like the dip of a spoon, and in this life I see
my own reflection. It may come from narcissism.

It may come from gut. But its momentum is trapped,
a statue on one foot, it asks to be uprooted. How can I
carve this future into something soft and creaseless?

If I was an artist, I could catch its outstretch—
I would pull the army by the hand, out from the dark
intrusive damp, and ask it to stay.

On the line, a white sheet takes hard gulps of air.
I'm quick to learn its rhythm.
But in the morning it has lost its breath;
in the morning there is a small damp circle
under my cheek.
Patricia Arches Oct 2015
write as if you have something to say
because you do

write as if the sky wasn't blue and every day is as upside down as the next
write in colors then write in black and white

write to me
write to those who need it the most, even if they won't admit it

write about your dreams and hopes for the future
and watch them come alive before your very eyes

as you write whatever thought comes out of your head
though it may sound like gibberish

write because you can
it is your freedom

write novels that span pages upon pages bound together by leather or
some short words

write as if he didn't break your heart
and then write as if he did to piece it back together

write to unlock doors and open minds
write to make others and, more importantly, yourself aware

write because you will see
you will see your ideas trickle down into your fingertips and out your pen

onto a tangible and real medium that you may look back on one day
and remember why you started writing in the first place

write to make sense of what doesn't
in hopes that, one day, it'll be more than just in writing

write and fold it into a creaseless paper plane
let it fly and, boy, enjoy seeing where it takes you

then write to: home on one of those rectangular postcards
document every day and its little details

write it all down
and then live it all out
note to self
Creaseless warm bed
Soft pillow under head
Sleep tightening noose
Just then hell broke loose.
Breaking through that spell
A remote warning bell
Prised open the eyes
In streaming rhymes’ disguise!
Day’s stress though immense
Mind strained in patience
To find from maze a clue
For images one or two!
In that poetic trance
Sleep lost all its chance
In an agonizing dingdong
Clock said night was long.
The bed became one of thorn
Sleep died poems were born
Some trapped some were gone
Like night lost at dawn.
Three prongs, darkened wrinkled skin:
a weather beaten talon
perched firmly on a sticky background.
Tightened grip loosening,
the freeze and thaw of daily chore.
To catch a wind and stretch
then shrink; grabbing hold of extra hide.
Even the swan: pure, glossy
friend tires of morning, afternoon
evening end. What chance do these creaseless eyes
have against the hardened feet of
crow, stampeding, marched in footprint.
Disguise is all she can hope for on a rainy day
tears may dance and cause dismay
yet vanity lies and she is fascinating
premature crowing dances
should never slow a man’s advances.
PK Wakefield Sep 2011
when nights collide with me i am

completely stars innumerable

and crisp creaseless lines

ceaseless lips colluding with

your lips(nakedly small and pink

they are intimately open against

)in evening i, perhaps almost

,but then, surely when darkness is,

am your skin aligned

with gently

                  tugging you loose

to foil about my suddenly body

your body

                 and climb each other

into heaven mostly
PK Wakefield Jul 2012
you look at nice at body baby not mind dear but you look like fast in lacey nothing baby you have eyes like you've seen ******* you but and baby i like might also to see in you me dear your straight short creaseless hips skinny broken are whole angels of nouns where i'd like to put a comma
My legacy was
To be laved twice a day,
To disport myself around the garden.
Enveloped in my crisp creaseless clothes,
Encircled by the aroma of blossoms.
My gladsome day was rounded
Off with a dinner fit for a King.
My education taught me
To read, write and a lot more.
I was conditioned to expect nothing less.


Her legacy was
To toil the soil on the farm
In threadbare clothes.
Steeped in baked clay,
Engulfed by the stench of the fields.
Her meed was to eat
Whatever there was.
Her education was to do
More than her fair share.
She was privileged to expect nothing more.


We walked the earth,
We breath the same air,
Yet,
Like the two oceans,
Our lives never transgress.
Our challenge is to reconcile our inheritances with what should be.
Satsih Verma Jul 2018
Standing on a rock
near a temple's dome, the
bells chime voicelessly.

For a dark secret, passing
through your big eyes, the colors
want to believe in cryonics.

Freezing the dead body, of past―
face intact, making a heap
of wins, the bundle of desires.

Only skeletons of empty
words hang from the windows
where chattering sparrows used to sit on sills.

Give me your skin. I will
were that till end, creaseless,
hanging from the bony arms.

I am still alive daring the
tomorrow to walk through me.
PK Wakefield Feb 2020
i love you constantly
that you are my Wife
(and my Children also)

,and both my body and my lips

(i want to kiss you constantly)

your sweetness and your smile
and the smell off of your hair
and light sparkle of your eyes
and the very correct angle of your nose.

i love you always, that you are.

And that is no little thing
i think because
i love also the Spring,
our children,
the direct sheen of moonlight
on pale snow,
and always your constant hips.

i love them,
and not least,
but most;

for you are my wife:
always something,
easily eternal.

and I love you,

as nothing which is eternal
is not you;
nor the gate of your walk,
or the folding inwardness
warmth of your
creaseless thighs.

i want only to love you
for all my days and nights—
and when they are done;
spent of laughter and tears,
i will rest easily in the ceaseless
crook of your sea.   .    .
Evan Stephens Aug 2020
"Ghost cries out to ghost -
but who's afraid of that?
I fear those shadows most
that start from my own feet."
-Theodore Roethke

It's true that each dark step
in the night-heavy hall
is given to the grave
in the air.  

But never, never accept
death's creaseless small,
cold palm. Be brave -
even a breath is a prayer.

— The End —