"accoutrement" poems
land's moniker
mulls utmost care
Kalinga
branding the ox
of men with glaringly
immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
reticence.
chase angel-ward, the synopsis
of meaningfulness,
jagged, indelible accoutrement
akin to the brand of
chaste heritage,
galvanizing this epitaph
with aesthetic nativity,
gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
carve in me what the rippling
shrill of air has toppled
in the highlands
you have us shaking the blood
of this archipelago like boughs
breaking free from water's ebb,
frenzied by the river-warm
serpentine embellishment
the strike of the thorns
mints in our untouched bodies!
altogether in this numerous hike
we go in pursuit, hunting the
nibble from flesh to bone,
revealing the rebel, body
to soul.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
this swifter's grift -
lifting loosely
fitted accoutrement
lourden fruit
carelessly held
silkened, gimlet lit
shamelessly rivened
to a paler shade
of need.
solitude's
enchanting seed
may confer
a grander banquet’s call
but, this tug of
grandiloquent oblige
and politesse . . .
master and slave consort
black and scarlet
swift of tongue and fingertip
unbound so neatly
and leather blind
tell me muse of the anger flesh on fire
is there really dignity in defeat
that eludes the victor
tell me muse of the truth in nature
ill-graced tail-lamp broken
is destiny all ways ordained in contradiction
tell me muse do hearts all times submit
to the beacon call
shyness long forgotten
narrative so harshly written
as ne'er before
with an insistence
ageless yearnings bellow
as but glazened shadow
if reason sleeps
there will be no learning
no refuge
only to each
for their crimes
a four-chambered riddle
All Rights Reserved
James R. Morse, NYC 2013.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
blood now is the accoutrement.
night's tenure is the morning's
leasing: what will continue to
light like a beacon in this
vicissitude is the flash
of a snuff-nosed nozzle.
no sound is heard.
no bones were felt
trembling.
all the voices were muffled,
thrown into a makeshift exodus.
the pains will be etched away
like moss unraveling the secret
of wall upon wounds like old scarves.
but the ground,
which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget:
death's squadron enters. harbingers.
what has hidden them in the lull
has now sung severances:
a distance closed
by a fusillade
of bullets.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
I’m trying to have a
Pity Party…
But people just won’t leave me alone…
I’ve got all the necessary accoutrement...
A bottle of Richard’s Wild Irish Rose...
Flannel Pajamas with oddly shaped holes
In all the wrong places...
A proper toothache ensuring my face is
Properly lumpy…
Worked hard on this body now properly bumpy
From too much soul food
That is... Food For The Soul
Such as
Pizza… and
Pudding…and
Tater Chips and Dips… and
Coco Puffs by the large serving bowl...
Donuts
And the holes to go with them...
Lifetime Channel already tuned in...
Blinds pulled down...
Unplugged my phone…
But these people!
They just won’t leave me alone!
Being all supportive and huggy and lovey and clean-y
I don’t see…
Why they don’t see…
That now is just not the time…
They need to get on out’a here
And let me drink my wine… cuz
I’m trying to have
A Pity Party!
But I swear they just won’t leave me alone…
NOW HEAR THIS!
NOW HEAR THIS!
Would
All
Pity
Party
Poopers
Please
Just Go Home!
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous, ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex.
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
but sets me up for a personal review, self awareness
Gone mad and with finger, on gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Old soul connects to
foreign body, moving
beautiful and dutiful
nutrients from point a
to point b; in this human
body cell sits centuries of
shaking table ornaments and
a quivering sense of gratitude as
orange meets purple meets blue.
Good morning lovely!
You are the sun beaming magnificent.
You have a gift that
you must keep secret
until it whispers its way through you.
You will sooner than later
break in two and
create a path of solar systems.
I have the energy of
an uncrushed coffee bean
singing praises to its mother.
Oh, thank you dear giver!
For I see the light
reverberating out of my
wrist bones and
showing the silence which
accoutrement best fits.
I am wearing me in the latest fall fashion,
how nice!
I am vibrating toothpick nonsense,
I am sweet potato princess,
hinged on old selifes
taken in bad lighting.
Old cells in a
new body, flimsy and throwaway.
How do you balance?
Can I be four, five, and a billion twenty three?
I am a built-up web of contradictions
flirting each other into oblivion.
Lips hinge on every last smoked cigarette,
******* cancer down;
beautiful, dutiful disease
having its way slowly but surely with the universe.
Did you ask first?
She is a magnificent mistress who
deserves at least the tenderness
of a question.
You can do better, darling,
than a flicked eyebrow upwards and
the rolling thoughts of "Me, me, me,"
on repeat in endless sequence.
Can't you see the patterns,
the exquisite dance between
embroidery and thin willow wisps of thread?
Each one of you is
countless stitch marks,
beautiful patchwork crescents
calling out "Who is your maker?"
from the quilted cosmos.
I will catch my breath from its endless throwing,
and I will sell my soul to a constant want for knowing.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Whispering her smile
Looking beatific,
Looking arousingly terrific,
Uninvited but invitingly,
Place my pointer finger
Upon her breast, ******* already attentive,
***** she preps to dance and to
Leave me
Bid her despedida,
For my adieu is tinged
With desperation internal raging,
For tantalizing, J'accuse,
Guilty as charged
My tango muse,
Off to dance in dives,
Where all the men are
Strangers, who paid in cash,
With creased and stained $20 bills,
To soil themselves, to dance with my woman,
Paid far in advance.
For consorting with the enemy,
I renounce her not, but guilty charged,
For mesmerizing, J'accuse,
Guilty as charged
She'll return, after three,
Undress before me,
Purportedly sleeping,
Pointedly, slowly, knowingly,
To insure I scent the sweat
That tango demands,
The ****** side effects,
The Argentines invented,
Accoutrement rituals,
Excuses to invent dance,
In order to pleasure intensity,
For teasing w/o mercy, J'accuse,
Guilty as charged
She chambers her body bullet,
Sliding in unrobed,
For a negligee would be
Negligent in her condition,
Laughing at my pretend closed eyes,
She whispers,:
I return here, to you
For one reason alone
Despite soul and body, exhilarated,
While gone, you have been composing
About me without permission,
Of this, of thee,
J'accuse!
I know you have penned
Poem,
Which long after the dance thrill has chilled,
Will belong to me forever,
I will kiss you now so I may taste the
Words that are mine, until next week,
When I will be guilty again
Of charging your imagination
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
Here you are at last my mysterious friend,
said the wise man as his strange red, white and sooty guest
emerged from the hearth his heavy sack laden,
dragging behind oddly alive, morphing shape, wanting to express.
What have you brought?
Well, what have you asked for?
I never ask for anything because though I have heard of you
you’ve yet to arrive at Yuletide as imagined.
So my wishes have always melted into dreams diaphanous
For I find it best to simply muse,
not to expect or hope for the unlikely.
Well, said the guest, unlikely is now here,
and we shall unwrap gifts of muse this eve.
We shall expect nothing but delight by firelight.
You know, don't you, sir,
That I just squeezed my considerable Self
and the enormity of my bag’s unconscious accoutrement
Through the liminal space of your narrow chimney,
Yet not a single flame burned me?
And so the two old fellows sat and spoke of dreams and images
memories before time without definitions
and the flames slowly waned as midnight passed toward the dawn.
They danced on a feather toward sleep
when the mysterious guest woke with a start.
I must be off, he said,
to tend the soul of the world.
It needs the salve of its own sweet tears
which I just happen to carry in this heavy parcel of my heart.
But don’t leave yet, the host exclaimed.
First you must sign my guest book
everybody does, even strangers,
and especially one I never expected to meet
who comes unbidden with messages
I am left to translate with the secret alchemy of myths yet written.
Then show me where it is,
your library is so immense
tomes everywhere I look.
Don’t you see it there by the mantle,
that great leather volume.
You can’t miss it, it’s big and all in red,
Oh, yes, that’s the one I’d love to have you sign.
Then I can remember you visited this magical night
and though nobody might believe it
I will know you were here
if only for a moment
by firelight.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:49 AM UTC
tired of my drooping Hanes,
my slept-in choice for greeting
a new morning tad overexposed,
my weekend breakfast table
body's accoutrement,
"coverup" she deemed accurately
as in-suffice,
my nighttime slept-in choice for
welcoming the new morning
as a single continuum,
exposing my true colors,
thus declaring biblically,
"Let there be night, let there be day,"
in a manner of speak
she-woman wryly declares
over her slim sizing
yogurt Greek and half of a laugh
of a banana downsized,
"You need some loungewear"
pondering this ponderosa-sized ponderosity,
grasping its monstrosity insulting me,
coffee pouring, Eye, a
first responder
contemplate irresponsibly,
thinking to reply with bravado,
that on said day,
when Eye accrete
such a class of clothing
so nomenclatured as
"loungewear"
upon my person,
or in my ward-so-unrobed found,
unasked for,
Eye will require transgendering
but my tongue bites me,
so instead
draw down on my John Donne,
on the subject of
food, good taste
and being unclothed,
and instead
He-poet
bequeath the she-woman
this riposte...
*"Full nakedness!
All joys are due to thee;
as souls unbodied,
bodies unclothed must be
to taste whole joys.*
wisely retreating than be
defeating,
not wanting
a world war conflicting,
with coffee mugged, Eye return/hide,
under the bed's blanketing comforter,
thinking of the taste of whole joys
of her body unclothed,
when later, she creeps in next to me,
to practice the serious art of
lounging...
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Love those accouterments, my eyes catch, even if hidden,
though I don't particularly pry for them in any one, such ambiguity
helps to see world as a place, cryptic messages get transacted,
some are very open even, though no one seems to notice,
like this women I go out with, a free spirit, not the type
who keeps few secrets stashed away in a dark corner of an attic.
Enormous wings she has, I was fascinated by their lasciviousness
how light she would feel, when she soars up viewing the scene
from above, blessed she is , an envied celestial being
she would be in all other's eyes."Ever fancied flying on
your own wings?" I ask her, in a tone so matter of fact
not revealing I know her secret, as if just to know her feeling
as a flier.But her words make me think how strange this world is!
Just imagine this, she was never aware of her wings! How strange?
Pure white, delicate, befitting to her petite figure, soft yet sturdy,
her wings weren't a reality, how can it be, when I myself am a witness
the wings never came to her notice, so they cannot exist, she argued.
Her wings were thin, white, silver petals, that shines during dawn and dusk
at a midnight moment she levitates, we fall deep in a pit of velvety clouds
but by some quirkiness of reality, quantum physics may explain perhaps,
it isn't there, her wings,though for the purpose of mathematical calculations
it is counted as a reality; in my imagination, she makes me fly with her.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Remember when we
cannot remember anymore,
the Sun shining through
windows sealed shut,
when we talk about it
we do not talk about it, we call
it with a different name: aberration.
I cannot remember you anymore
so small and languid in this
life. Everything pales in comparison --
offered by chance, filled with hesitancy
as if obligation, emptied by coming
into the fullness of it, saying it as a plump word
with the same accuracy of knives
tucked within the soft recess of the kitchen
counter that same day, you were different
as any other when we cycled through
Alexandrite Street, the world new again
like we were born in the similar moment
splintered by much less of a force waiting
outside the black gate of the home, and so
much more of a name slipping away
from the cliff of my chafed lip onto your
body's sustained pit, the drop barely an
indent, only as if of limited exertion but
possibly a weight for us to solder
through and through. I told you I could never
indulge into the fray and hold armaments
of it, but twice-told this battle I can
fit in: you, my accoutrement for war,
hallowed you are in excess of flow and march
through rain and light smiling through
opened windows with a blank circle of lightness
that is your face held close and memorized
before taking the commute home, force-equipped
with time's persistent pleading and our
untoward compliance like a reciprocal of stiffness:
you are the wall of your home and I,
a suspended pendulum with a dumb clockhand
in a stalemate.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
You don't see my eyes...
They look away whilst my cheeks
with a band worn thin,
hold up this mask.
With effortless ease,
I maintain this smile
plastered upon the sheen
of cheap mouldable plastic.
Fooling others
with a face acceptable by default,
when my neck and collar
stain wet.
Protected and hidden
are my innermost thoughts
and emotions - a morbid
sense of oneness and freedom.
I, therefore, cannot shed
such an accoutrement.
This mask - a fort I will hold and
a bastion, I will not compromise.
Because behind it I feel safe, hidden
and unjudged.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
***You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition***
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a pool's patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
yet sets me up for a personal review, a self awareness,
Gone mad, I am, and with finger, on a gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
***So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them***
<>
May 21, 2013
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
“Immediately a decisive alluring connection from the onset,
As our ****** accoutrement deceptive lay’s softly on ground,
As the captivation of our present euphoria lays beneath our skin,
Complacency and beatitude with the enticing joy betwixt us,
I had fallen in love with her as the flowers cling to the earth,
Hearts hewed as one beating with powerful acquiescence,
Convivial contentment to us both as eve slowly turns to daybreak,
Reflex of love there is enigmatic elation never before perceived,
Etiology of twinging with euphoria trail of kisses lingering afore,
As in the charisma of a cold chill of that as glacial trails,
Sensed make our blood run cold now as souls entwined,
May she never leave and forestall a broken nature of being,
I know that deep in the intensity of my heart you triumph,
There is invariably space for altruism to reside always,
For all the delectation that once were unified of ours,
I not endeavor to conquer my contemplative devotion,
Your flowering existence sheds invisible petals as I,
Claim them as something I could own should I keep them?
Or scatter them or are they even yours"
By Andrew Guzaldo © 09/01/2019 #165
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
Come take comfort in relieving your trouble
His ears ripple like puddles taking in the stories
Betray your vulnerability as a confidant
And know your armor remains a safe accoutrement
While revealing your fears in several categories
Oh the glorious lessons of love that you've known
The epiphanies and Persephone violets that you've blown
The heartache and strife behooves flowers once sewn
With only the reassurance of knowing you've grown
And how they expired to make room for Rome
And sitting contemplating in quiet reflection
The listener's gift is to sigh and admonish while offering perception
He'll ask you of switching roles and give advice
He'll conjure up any answer until the finale does suffice
Listening to your footsteps fade as you walk out the door
Until the next time you need a vice similar to before
Is one more reassurance to bring His pain to the floor
One last confirmation to cease searching for a moor
Negate the endless need for vulnerability et amour
Until there are no longer holes in his own armor
*Nothing inside to hide or frighten you
Et pour ne rien révéler sous*
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 6:11 PM UTC
if i were a piece of furniture i would probably be a table
though my edges are coarse and the splinters would sting
i'm not much to look at and not the most comfortable
but i could very easily hold most all of your things
if i were a table i would most likely go unpolished
though a sealed satin finish would do me some good
if your friends had their way they would see me demolished
but you can appreciate all of my rough-hewn wood.
someday i might get a bit of sandpaper and stain
and show you just how stunning i can possibly be
i'll bring out my surprisingly uniform grain
and you'll wonder just what your world was without me
but for now i'm just a rough-cut accoutrement
that sits in your dining room waiting to earn your sentiment
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained,"
But people never speak of
The part that says,
"Nothing ventured, nothing lost,"
Which is much more important;
A sentiment, a shield.
Distant, detached, disengaged;
Accoutrement to cope.
In nature, fugacious.
Human condition, fleeting;
Faith fades like liquor,
Or the last in the carton.
Pen put to pages;
All words have their place.
Time now has come,
To leave and move forward.
One last drag,
Before I go.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
°
*a bardsong soars as waters
soaking
my rooted, versant digits
boundless accoutrement
caressing
each, with tendrilled deftness
liquid crystals frolic
cascading
envelops my vision
of your solicitude
we will rise together
and float, forever
descending
into each other
until there is no breath
within music
rising
on spray roused crags*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
A fine accoutrement, be sure,
A funeral pall of gold,
A lively crown the laurels make,
For those that death preserved
And death, his hand, or her's,
For death is equal parts,
Is softer than a velvet veil,
And harder than men's hearts
Oh friend, do not the silence break,
With comfort driven word,
I know where we are going
It needst not be heard
And though this world I leave,
Another comes to view!
Oh friend it is so lovely!
It would be glorious with you!!!!
And do not be afraid, my friend,
When death comes seeking you,
The hall of death is velvet soft,
The sweetest of all fruits!!!
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
She bought this light green chair at an estate sale, with a red pillow as an accoutrement she smiled like a young child; proud of her find, all I could do was smile back, afraid to hurt her feelings, you hate it she said, I can tell-would it make you want it more if I told you it was from Ernest Hemingway's estate, such a find- I was in a bidding war with another woman, I purchased it for you
its been a couple years hence, sitting in my light green chair, she knew it was the perfect chair, to do my writing, she would smile, if she could see me here, shades of the writer that I am
time to move on, all the memories left- I sold everything; never though, would I sell the light green chair with the red pillow, as it reminds me of her always
By Michael Perry
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 4:55 PM UTC
I now understand the non-crust people
The people who don't eat the pizza crust
You know those people?
The ones who don't eat the crust after they finish the pizza?
When the marinara
The mozzarella
And the accoutrement are gone
That last piece of bread
With nothing else on it
Nothing but crust
You know those people?
You probably grew up with those people
The non-crust people
And you ask
Why don't you want your crust?
My favorite part is the crust!
And they say
I just don't need it.
I just don't like the crust.
Why don't they want the crust?
What's so bad about just bread?
There's nothing wrong with the crust
I never thought there was anything wrong with the crust
I genuinely did love the crust.
But I've reached a point,
Where I've had too much crust
And not enough of what makes a pizza,
A pizza
Feb 24, 2023
Feb 24, 2023 at 12:08 AM UTC
She's painted as a lonely soul,
she is not,
aesthetic in her heart and mind,
she is an exquisite work of art,
she's waiting to be recognised.
A masterpiece of soul inside,
she is painted on a canvas,
in tones of royal blue,
an accoutrement of scarlet stripes,
she caught them on her painted lips.
She is sat at the daytime terminus,
she is eating ice cream,
freezing cold,
while sipping at her plastic straw,
filled up with diet lemonade,
it sates her need for sugar and it keeps her fizz alive!
(C) Livvi
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC