"abjure" poems
In my childhood rumors ran
Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
That the highroad held in store.
Of mermaids' doleful game
In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.
Tales like these were too absurd
For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
Though with cause indeed for fear.
Now I know the mermaid kin
I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
But are deadlier for that cause.
Dragons have no darting tongues,
Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
No black poison from their tails:
For they are creatures of dark air,
Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
In mid-whirl of mental storms.
And there's a true and only fiend
Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
Lest the race of man should die.
Ever in vain will courage plot
The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.
Mermaids will not be denied
The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
The true fiend governs in God's name.
4.3k
THE CAMINO CHRONICLES
( Sidhe – Spirit, Ard Ri - High King, Tir na nOg – Land of eternal youth )
JUST A MOMENT AGO
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
Father in Time embracing Mothers Melody to rhyme
Birthing Sidhe candles smile, lights of love, souls glory
Stars dancing with joys release, Sidhe awakening to loves destiny
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
I stood upon Erins western shore amidst constellations considerations
And dreamed I had sailed again across the eternal sea
To Tir na nOg there returned to be
Oisin the Wanderer no more, ever seeking my beloved Naimh’s shore
Queen of the Sidhe, her consort again, Ard Ri of Eternity
Ah my heart demands my Sidhe sings of Naimh’s wondrous beauty. .
Her Eyes Like Twin Candles Dancing
Lips Full Of Mysterys Promise
Her Hair Bound, Crowned With Lustered Glory
A Smile To Die For . .
She Moves . . Sidhe Moves . . Like Poetry . .
Aie, Her Voice, Her Voice, Like Honey and Cream
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
When love was a rose without thorns
Before tides of centuries tears
Swept us apart
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
The glorious moment of our days glory
Our age of grace
Father in Time embracing Mothers Melodys Grace. .
INTO THE DARK
What does a candle remember . . .?
What does its flame recall . . .?
Aiee Aiee . . . Akhenaten Flee We . . . Nefertiti Aieee Aieeeee
Flee . .Flee . . . Undone We . . . Betrayal. .Flee Flee
Akhenaten Akhenaten . . . Must Flee We . . . Wee Wans Take
Nefertiti Holds . . . Flee We Must . . . Fleet . . . Flee Fleet . . .
Harps heart has chambers that sigh with grief
Ashes of roses burned with weeds
Remains of our loves day
Harps heart by hearts harp no music moved to test
Hall of memories by no one chorus caress
No whispered echo no candles smile no Nefertiti
NOW MY CITADELS HALL I MUST NEEDS MY IRE
RETREAT TO WHERE NEEDS MUST ABJURE DESIRE
Once more to recite survivals bitter creed
By heartstone embers to gnaw betrayals cold deed
WILL TO BEAR SILENT DEEP EMPTY DAY
HARP HEART STILLED
by no Nefertiti played.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
It started with a thought -
a solitary lie.
Cunning in it's deceit,
no freedom, lest I die.
No normal pangs of hunger -
gorging beast within my face.
Heaving it up in sacrificial abjure,
a rejected fall from grace.
An act of complete surrender -
heavy pressure in my chest.
The beat continues beating;
Yet I fear it will arrest.
Mirrors turned to enemies;
A smile turned to grief.
A day without ingestion
becomes a dangerously sweet relief.
Abandoning dreams to disappear -
affliction taking hold.
Imperfection sought to fix, with
restricted weight controlled.
It started with a thought -
a solitary lie.
Cunning in it's deceit,
no freedom, lest I die.
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 1:15 AM UTC
A good place to start would be an introspective analysis of self, but what of the ramifications of objectified manifest? If evil is incarnate then what is the nature of corporeally preternatural? Can we save each other from the truisms of self we all embody, or do we all wallow in the pandemic phatic of our own fatidic as we seek augur's tout. My imagination tells me I can create a personification that has mystical properties but can this be functional garb or is it basically illusion. Can we touch each other, or even ourselves with these extrapolations? So many of us live by this platonic proxy photic aimed humanitarian instinct, maybe the reason we don't seem to succeed is because we need to be bad to be good. Further some of us are so bad that we obviously don't deserve to live but are those of us so inclined doomed to die of the ramifications thereof? And will this malady be a contagious virulence for all? Were it not for the astonishingly astounding and incredible nature of life itself I would almost be forced to abjure the nature of metaphysics on a corporeal level. Fortunately for me the answer is much more simple, I need someone to make love to, or **** if you will. I believe in retrospect this is obviously clear! Forgive my blither.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
My heart is gravity
My heart pumps Pb
Our weak ventricles murmer
Our bloodlines muddle
All is as it should be
With a strong sad smile
A short wink hooded
Our precocious Facebook children
With mutant gifts crinkling
Brow concentrating in deep
Play practicing trying catching
Pokemon policy phrases
Riffs to redeem siblings lost
Down Kentucky mine shafts
Yet tribal rite remembers
How blacken heart recapitulates
In our habitual memory
We abdicate poetry
We abhor progress
We abjure peace
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
Where do society's extremists abide?
Rallies and Racists go side by side.
BBQs offer up well-done bigots;
On Jordan's lap dance the zealots.
Dogmatists rant in wild front rows,
True believers don't put on such shows?
Sexists cower in coastal Compounds,
Sects marry often in Salt Lake towns.
Troglodytes tan beneath southern suns.
Sepratists hold their final stand
On this side of The Rio Grande;
Fanatics occupy far Left and Right,
Partisans Op Eds are meant to enlight.
Mysoginists grab till they have blisters,
Huns and louts date brothers and sisters.
Philistines take our private spaces,
And whistle-blowers can't show their faces.
Of all the ists I know and abhor,
The musicist is a bigoted boor;
A connoisseur I abjure,
Who chooses tunes he insists
Are superior than my interests,
And disses tunes I like best.
So now I'll lay my needle down,
I've turned the table that goes round,
And plead musicists won't hesitate
To enjoy the tunes... don't discriminate.
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 9:41 AM UTC
Approximate
Accidental
Area
Astoundingly
Advanced
As
Astronomical
Advisers
Abjure
Absurd
Assumptions
Arranged
Alongside
Affection's
Arousing
Absence
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Where I came from
It was that time in history
White people who loved
Black guys faced misery.
There was a huge batch
Of ugly names we earned.
And sometime more than
Just crosses were burned.
Where I came from
The Bible was used to beat
To abjure and vilify us
And toss us into the street.
We were demonized for
Bedding animals they said.
I just couldn’t stand that
Kind of hatred in my head.
Where I came from
Hypocrisy and bigotry rule.
They go to church Sundays
And the rest of the time
They act the total fool.
They demand the right
To tell me who to choose.
Demand the same of them
And brother, you lose.
Where I came from
They throw around the words
Of someone called Jesus
As if they had really heard.
But talk to them of the book
They claim is the word of god
And they come up with answers
That can only be called odd.
Where I came from
There are beggars on the street
And children without food
Or shoes on their tiny feet.
And yet they sing songs
Of good will to all men.
But they really don’t mean it
And prove it again and again.
Where I came from
Much is called restricted.
The Golden Rule and peace
Are so totally conflicted.
I grew up seeing goodness
Reinterpreted by the white
That practiced prejudice
And hate and called it right.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
A good place to start would be an introspective analysis of self, but what of the ramifications of objectified's manifest? If evil is incarnate then what is the nature of corporeally preternatural? Can we save each other from the truisms of self we all embody, or do we all wallow in the pandemic phatic of our own fatidic as we seek augur's tout. My imagination tells me I can create a personification that has mystical properties but can this be functional garb or is it basically illusion. Can we touch each other, or even ourselves with these extrapolations? So many of us live by this platonic proxy photic aimed humanitarian instinct, maybe the reason we don't seem to succeed is because we need to be bad to be good. Further some of us are so bad that we obviously don't deserve to live but are those of us so inclined doomed to die of the ramifications thereof? And will this malady be a contagious virulence for all? Were it not for the astonishingly astounding and incredible nature of life itself I would almost be forced to abjure the nature of metaphysics on a corporeal level. Fortunately for me the answer is much more simple, I need someone to make love to, or **** if you will. I believe in retrospect this is obviously clear! Forgive my blither.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
Reality forsaken
For a chance at the golden ring
And though it’s only made of brass
A chance to grab it still could bring
Dreams of glory yet remain
Waiting on the shelf
For father time to come along
To turn them into wealth
And so our good friend harkens
And listens for the call
Remembering dreams of glory
Before a mighty fall
And time alone can put aside
The fears of remaining true
Refusing to abjure the dreams
Or asking where or who
Can take a chance again each day
Looking to the goal
For brass or gold it’s still a ring
A circle with a hole
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 5:22 PM UTC
*I drink away your absence
I smoke in my nuisance
I sleep to dream you
To wake up to feel you
You gave me a future
I can only abjure
You gave me a cause
I can only pause
You were my love
now you’re my dove
I was your Vivian
now I’m your burden
To you. Out there.by Lou*
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
You are obsolete on death,
You flicker on a minute.
Those eyes will glitter among the earth,
So cry yourself to sleep.
Your vocals are hoarse,
You strung them so swift.
Those will be the remnants of the earth,
So cut out the periphrases.
You are redundant ,
You are circumvented with flesh.
You have a figure,
An outline, for which you will pass.
You will leave a whisper of your craft,
A murmur of your sleep.
Those eyes will glitter among the earth,
So silent a word to keep.
You do not defy!
You have no time to hiss!
You are a minute on earth,
You abjure your own gravity,
only then you stand still.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
fulfill painful
unify placebo
cultivate shiv
kind abjure
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
.
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
The ancillary argument is an asclepion which is anaphoric to anathema, anointing anecdotal evidences as an asymptomatic astonishment, assumptive of an averring the verbiage unwavering used to auxesis an auxiliary found aiding the circular back to an autonomy, assuaged in its entirety, appendant to an irony, giving appurtenance to astronomy yet astringent to all company of asters in the wovenry.
A sweetened ingredient in life’s vermouth, is a lesser known but still common truth, resounding voice a sound so routh and unforgiving of jockeying jocose uncouth but the greatest parts of life we know are sorely wasted on the youth and so fundamental is this truth or verities vivacious muse that some might say we light a fuse when using such verbose abuse that angry are they who find our use an anathema to amuse?
To wit so that I must abjure the painful notion there is a cure to a playful mind’s language of slur not meant as such but thus obscured the difficulties so inured on my ment-al-lity of thought a crime, a retching twist of someone’s time thus wasted on a poem blurred, a freedom though has just occurred; my mind a paradise, my thoughts a bird...
You wonder why I wrote this po-em,
Think on your life and about your ho-eme,
Look back at youth’s wondrous days,
When life was new and full of plays,
And ask yourself is this a maze?
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,
My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.
My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.
My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.
My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.
My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
these ramifications
are farcical
I abjure effable
subterfuge
when that kiss
the one you
live on
pulls on
its gloves
and glares
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 11:41 PM UTC
Betraying my muteness,
exposing my thoughts,
breaking my silence,
like a hermits' chronicle.
Alienating my wishy-washy state,
provoking a consciousness.
Breaking the yoke of fear,
stirs up a doggedness.
With an askance glance,
a nefarious activity is detected.
In truth, we stand!
In wisdom, we believe!!
In lines and verses, we speak!!!
Gazing at the sky,
casting my mind back,
Oh! Rabeeya's thoughts...
"A writer is a human being,
trying to create places,
between words and spaces".
I do it for the people,
I do it for the depressed,
I do it for the downtrodden,
I do it for those folks who still believe in redemption,
I do it for love,
I do it for humanity.
Holy thy pen,
mightier than sword,
soaked in wisdom,
possessed with power.
To say that the ink is dry,
is an abjure of moral allegiance;
an abuse of elementary divine-ordinance.
With an exceptional effulgence,
it echoes my thoughts.
My ink, my voice!
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2014
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:19 AM UTC
only a someday can compare to now
on a good day with the best
of company
knocked on my door you did at dawn
needing consolance and reasurring words
and I most happy to abjure
on how we are all alone
must deal with things we forage up
said no worries dear
we all scream alone
it didn't make you smile
nor did I intend it to
I will lie
for nobody
not the brightest smile or a play be
it Shakespeare even
no Juliet can make me
injure my conscience
I tell the truth even sure of
my lies or reasons no more
in the presence of the saddest eyes
it is the hardest thing
my dear
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
this is time
bleeding out
i've a certificate
of please continue
i resist all of your
entreaties to abjure
some or any
tomorrow
row row row
some any boat
and if i could be
dry any dry and
warm and dry
any warm any dry
i would be high so
high just to be
not so thirsty
Mar 26, 2023
Mar 26, 2023 at 8:58 PM UTC