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Emery Iler Feb 27
The sweet perfume of gardenias rise,
caress the senses with passive fragrance,
and at their presence my awareness festers-
not by sight, nor by soul, but rather
some subteranean desire

A tap! A stir of that trembling thing,
which lies trapped beneath the skin of man
And with vehemence it rises,
forgotten monster, lost to lore
Old histories that bubble in the blood
Primordial lineage, heritage of wild dawn

Brewing with passion, brood of nature and man,
so burning in the moment,
drunk on manufactured feelings,
With it awakened, all the universe seems to race, to pulse-
and so it sings;
"Spring is coming! The world is alive!"

The flowers blossom with buzzing splendor
Daisies, sunflowers, orchids, dahlias
Colors and hues of joy and delight,
Palette of new-born glee
The roses laying among them,
ruffling their layered scarlet dresses
In hypnotizing swirls all troubles dissolves to affection

Each sit pretty in perfect rows
Each blossom a near plastic complexion
Crafted, subdued, formed, pruned to exact mold
Cultivated to arouse an instinct,
and set illusion to the throbbing urge-
for life, exists within their black chambers
Those petaled maidens sitting in mirror of spring's designs

I feel an ache, my body trembles
to a realization it treats merely a poison to purge
These white walls who echo steady chatter, the rattle of shopping carts,
who have only passing use of Earth's fickle flesh,
who know how pointless all those other things become,
when all consumption awaits
They **** the tacit question, to cool the void of passion slayed;

"How much does it cost to buy spring?"
This was an interesting attempt at a large poem, and I would love some constructive feedback from anyone who has the time.
Emery Iler Feb 26
The clouds are heaven's cherry blossoms,
Scattered on the branches of dawning day
Sugary with the cream of off white,
Crowned with a diadem of golden light,
And by noon shall be whisked away
Emery Iler Feb 7
The pink streaks on heaven's brim, the productions of a painter in whiplash, a trail,
splash and stream of peach on a placid canvas
now aglow to an even more orange brilliance,
ripe fruit of morning bliss.
Azul akin to new day, a dashing originality,
most pure sea abirthed by aurean glow,
a masterpiece framework for the skeletal shadow of limbs
left from winter's ravages
Emery Iler Jan 26
Butterflies are drunk
of that I'm sure
They toss and tummble in the air,
dramatic acrobatics shared,
with on lookers in delight
As they sway and stumble in heaven
so pleased are they,
that too I'm sure
Merry in unsober stupor pure!
I could be so happy too
if I could get half so drunk on life
Emery Iler Jan 25
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp

Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse

Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating

In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright

Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Inspired by the odes of John Keats, I think modern poetry may have lost a hint of the same sort of grace, cleverness, and beauty he was so talented at creating.
Emery Iler Jan 25
Myopic ancient holy wishes, religious dream
the blue birds harmonize
with ravens,
And camellias blush
a merry scarlet.

And gone are white meadows, bare trees,
frozen streams, while freedom rings
its gentle choir.
Till they believe we've embarked upon Eden,

But all I've come upon and seen
Abound in Earthly Spring
Emery Iler Jan 25
He's gone,
he will never come back
Do not cry for those long
gone, your tears will not buy his return

In the morning
you may see him on the horizon,
and you may wish to gaze on in forlorning
But alas! Is a facade! He is gone

Do not weep-
He is far, oh so far, and if he were
to join you in that bed in which you sleep
he would be farther still

So be still.
Do not move from your anchored ground.
Do not to his eyes abandon your steel will,
for even if you search, he will not be found

Lost! Lost! and yet more lost
He shall never find you
For even if after you he sought,
you were too far gone before his presence even strayed
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