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Of where the red, blue light meet:
Children found a place to stay.
Safe in the universal land,
Awake, to the mystic sounds of silver sand.

A radiant joy houses the godly Nature,
Trees shine the glory,
Upon artists of conscience
Of will, veiled in storm shrill sails
Of consciousness, a sagacious mast of gilded pearls.

A gold-smug rain of dust,
And a jewel moon,
Songs in the attic;
Choose your sign
In the divinity, of day and night.

Of any door you choose,
The pact remains same
Fly it on the reverie stage,
A Utopian shaman dances in a blues station!
It took some time to craft substance in it,
Pls do have a read, have a delight!!
The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

for Harvey Stanbrough

I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme ...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

This poem was originally published by The Raintown Review when Harvey Stanbrough was the editor, then later by Mindful of Poetry. I wrote the poem out of dissatisfaction with the strange idea that poetry should consist entirely or primarily of concrete images. Would the “experts” who espouse this bizarre idea junk the great soliloquies of Shakespeare and Milton and the direct statement poems of A. E. Housman? It also bears noting that the twin titans of English modernism, Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot, did an awful lot of “telling” rather than always “showing.” Keywords/Tags: Harvest, roses, images, imagery, imagism, meter, time, beat, rhyme, shimmer, gloss, perfume, reap, reaping, gossamer
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Baking, broiling, blindingly bright, blistering sun,

The kabob that is my body searing, skewered

Over scorching, sweltering, sizzling sand.

Deceptively blue skies devoid of any deliverance,

No cavalry of clouds coming to convey compassion.

Rising balloon-like bubbles of hot air

Causing distant objects to ripple and dance,

Shimmering in the atmospheric boil.

Falling to my knees, I detect in the distance

Glimmering patches of blue and green—Mirage!

A maniacal mime of molten mockery

Deriding my dreadful demise.
11/19/2019 - Poetry form: Imagism - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
SO much depends upon a red wheel barrow
So MUCH depends upon a red wheelbarrow
So much DEPENDS upon a red wheelbarrow
So much depends UPON a red wheelbarrow
So much depends upon A red wheelbarrow
So much depends upon a RED wheel barrow
So much depends upon a red WHEEL barrow
So much depends upon a red wheel BARROW
Madison Sep 2018
Still, without the touch of the needle

The silent record sits in wait.

Line after line of etched in melody

Worn, -- even abused

Scarred and scraped

A scratch here

Some dust there

Replayed, again and again

Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin

Only to be abandoned on the turntable

Where it once served its purpose.

Neglected, unused

The silent record stays still

Hoping to one day turn again.
For a workshop exercise on imagism, in which I had to create a 'portrait' of an object. I picked a record, of course.
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
A composition, bordered by brown track, white shelter and
yellow line;

off-white, smear-windowed building (background)
                                  hexagonal floors, brutalist mandala;
triangle across the frame, a *****, polluted structure
                                  one half of a red cross logo, boarded windows
                                  - chipboard, corrugation, MDF;
and Southern Rail green is grass in the lower foreground
                                  arrows, words, people.
East Croydon Station, July 2018 (see cover photo)

As part of 'View from...', a collection of observational poetic experiments, whereby I allow myself five minutes to finish a poem regarding my surroundings at that time.
ms reluctance Apr 2018
The potted banana tree has borne fruit.
Light, water, fertilizer,
I gave it as needed.
Every day I watched it grow.
Every day it made me happy
to see the potted banana tree
and not just survive,
in a place it wasn’t supposed to be.
NaPoWriMo Day 11
Poetry form: Imagism
Annie Ra Jan 2018
Clouds cast shadows
on the mountain
Sunlight peeks through
white brume
Wet grass shines
like glass
An attempt at Imagism. Why not?
Michael Frost Apr 2017
Out of the
Black veil of night,
Crystals fall,
In the icy wind,
Illuminated by
The yellow glow
Of streetlights,
Along the
Winding boulevard.
Samuel Fox Feb 2017
I fancied burning;
nursed charred fingertips
from placing them between.
lips. I enjoyed love warm.

Love was easier
to kindle with friction
under sheets pre-lit,
shaped by body-heat.

Somewhere, an oasis
is brushing her hair,
is rippling with light,
lush with a fleeting smile.

I found her in autumn
laughing like a creek.
Her hair the color
of poplar leaves afloat.

She, restless, cascading
away and sometimes
over me, cannot
be contained readily.

My other lovers:
they were forest fires,
were all holocausts
filled with sharp facets.

An oasis is still sharp
to the taste. Her kiss
smooth: I can feel it
douse memories of cinders:

her eyes turn soft with mist
within my scorched daydreams.
Wrote this for a friend/lover.
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