"adornment" poems
Shut amid the swell of boredom
Hole in the nose, sparkling adornment
Dye in the hair....a blonde invention
Image altered......still bored
Plenty to do, still bored
Not whilst doing it.....always
But the longing for a bolt hole
Registers, raising its voice to be heard
Yet boredom creeps in, mud spattered steps
Flicking dirt here and there
Clinging sometimes leaving telltale tufts
Staining....can’t wash it out or hide it away
A rash of what you want lands perfectly
Creates a broad grin in anticipation
And no sooner it’s arrived ...well boredom
Rears up grabbing the lead role
You might say ‘be careful what you wish for’
And you might be right...how come...??
Wager the odds on r and r ...v...
Over exposure in the commitment arena
You’d think it would win out
So what’s going on here?
“Boredom”
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 8:19 AM UTC
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.
bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way
**Your body pixilates in an ******* focus**, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.
All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter
body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away
The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you
**my arc, my carnal ******
any other epilogue is dystopian
cdh
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
Agung, Abang, Batur
sacred volcanoes
gateways to Gaia
standing silent
omnipresent
dawn’s light your only adornment
at your feet
paddy fields
emerald carpets
across which you stride
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 2:30 PM UTC
Day and night vie for each other
now, but the darker is winning;
The moon mourns in her ruddy veil:
tonight, the garden's wet by tears.
Incredible, the attraction,
of carbon for carbon.
Even more, the attraction
of carbon for gold.
In the wild, they rarely bond.
But in man, inseparable.
Carbon and mammon: be not yoked,
says the jewel diamond of our race.
Who cares? The cross,
an adornment nice.
Mammon in mud? Silicon
too, says the IT guy.
Fullerenes in the sky: on this
Guy Fawkes night, sparks truly fly.
Carbon will **** for gold.
This the oldest maxim of old.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs sprayed all over the everywhereworld.
"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.
And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.
These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.
While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:44 AM UTC
Her birthday cards
All lined up on the mantle like
Happy paper people, waiting to give praise.
She placed her flowers just below
On the fireplace bricks like
A bouquet garden,
nurtured for ripe admiring.
It’s an impromptu display, in gentle notions reading:
“I am loved!”
Next to Grandpa’s old chair,
Where part of Grandma’s heart sleeps
At night.
What a beautiful home
She has kept
And keeps.
Memorabilia of a better time
When pride came from the simple things.
With a warm heart and keen eye,
Every adornment
In its proper home placed,
And atop the fireplace mantle
Is where you’ll find
The birthday cards.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
From the sea I bring you it's treasure's my love
the bounty I have is from Neptune's shallow domains
with his blessing I have a purse full of pearls
I will endeavour to find a merchant skilled
and he will make this adornment for me
proclaiming my undying love for you
I am your humble servant
with a purse full of pearls
to put around your slender neck
I have held all your letters to my heart
wishing year after year we would meet again
not just as lovers, but the best of friends
For I have travelled far and wide
with salt winds in my eyes
to give you a purse full of pearls
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
When the wars of men
Shall finally end
Will the lands still be green
Bejeweled with floral adornment
And the mighty seas spirited
In their azure echo of the skies
Or will it reek like the woeful demise
Of a fateful unfading resolve
By the mortal greed of folks
Sedated in devilish hoax
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 12:59 PM UTC
heart adornment,
unknown, unseen, unappreciated,
until...
**
G
I A
V W
E A
N Y
**
and...
unwrapped!
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
<>
Eye Liner
Her only adornment
as she dances
entrances
throws glances.
<>
Eye contact
Her one flirtation
as she sways
displays
shyly plays.
<>
Eye catching
Her unique attraction
as she calls
enthralls
gently falls.
<><><>
© Pagan Paul (15/07/16)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
Jolly antlers
Curling happily like fingers do
Adornment of a stranger's imagination
Funny toothless braying
A beautiful accompaniment to the white rocks
"Ting ting"
The bell strung from your neck joyously speaks your odd truth
Tender plodding of new hooves,
The scabs of your retelling leave their own interpretation of your metamorphosis
You may be reconfigured
But you are complete
My little reindeer
Jul 8, 2021
Jul 8, 2021 at 12:26 AM UTC
For all of the truly happy people,
Take a short walk in my shoes,
To hear some of the thoughts,
That run through my mind,
Would break you down,
Instantly,
You for once in your life,
Would experience,
True hurt,
Then maybe you'll understand,
You just might start to understand,
Why I wear these scars,
Maybe you'll finally understand,
Why I feel like nothing,
These scars,
You say I'm crying for attention,
Well *****
Then why do I try so **** hard,
To hide these ******* scars
These scars,
These are a sign I fight,
Myself and everyone else,
Scars are emotional,
And scars are physical,
But most of all,
These scars are an adornment,
For life.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
in endless pursuits
of things, only proposed
that lay in adornment of
destiny's stony brook
adjacent, to our hopes
these objects of desire
of longing
they languish, as we slave on
for naught much more than to live
to have enough
they are forgotten in our dark times
in our moments
where light leaves us,
and are brought back
with fresh life
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.
And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.
But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.
Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.
Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
A Man will ask himself:
Is the glass taken of half
Or given of it?
We hear this tale
Unworn and aged
(Like a fine wine
Save a rich cheese
Always a decadence
An adornment so sweet.
Fruits that our mother
Blesses us with)
and look into the crystal
Search for grace
We think comes from
Wonders of the light.
But man’s feeble mind
Is so beguiled
(Hoodwinked into
Vizard
By the lures
Of such a beautiful thing
As crystal.)
And rapt with greed.
So much brawn
Is put to
Pondering the
Substance
Of the vessel
(such thought
That manifests itself
In a disease
More blood ridden
Than a
Plague)
in materialism
(the silent
Murderer
That infects the
Mind of a
worldly soul)
and has no cure
To emerge from
A field of
Medical travesty.
When all has
Passed
And man answers
for his sins,
One will in the end
Discover
the question
That never works it’s way
To the lips
(If not even
Figments of thought
In words)
What have you to say
About the fill
Of a glass
When it has
Shattered
Upon the floor?
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
April is their month.
They've sat,
Patient,
Throughout the winter,
Those sturdy oval buds,
Sometimes cased in ice,
They don't seem
To mind.
Are they awaiting,
Tax time?
These jewels
Keep company with
Their pretty pink
Cousins,
The Redbud.
Why does the dogwood
Ask
For our attention
So?
Perhaps because it
Blooms so early,
When
There is so little else
To see.
Perhaps it is the legend that,
From the poor dogwood,
Came the wood,
From which was fashioned,
The true cross.
More likely it's just,
The timeless beauty,
Born-in beauty,
From long ago,
Needing no
Adornment,
And not a bit
Of pruning.
Touch it with a knife,
You'll invite disease.
Let it grow ***** nilly,
It will give you,
Perfect beauty,
On its own.
Wild,
It sits beneath
The forest cover,
Like a craggy,
Wasted twig,
Dwarfed,
By its bigger cousins.
And then,
Before any others,
That slim and subtle
Beauty
First appears,
As an
Exquisite miniature,
Creamy yellow flowers,
That open,
To bleach themselves white,
And show the
Blood red crosses
At their center.
They are
Gems,
That change,
Day by day,
So leave your camera
Home.
You cannot catch
Their beauty.
Instead,
Imprint the view
Upon your mind.
They'll be back
Next year,
More beautiful
Than ever.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
I stood waiting for her I was told she would come
I stood waiting cold and numb
Numbed by the pain, tablets and lotions
Numbed by the hope of a notion
A notion that said I might find a cure
A cure that would let me lead a life I could finally endure
For my life has been one of repeated pain
Pain from the physical, emotional, where there is no gain
A life that is lived in between, of darkness and then sparkle
A life that is to my own heart no more than a debacle
I was told If I met her she could help me create
My own alchemy, a precious recipe that would make
A remedy that would soothe my soul allow it to rest
Allow my physical body to stop undergoing this continual test
I heard movement come through the blackness
Towards me to meet, a beautiful figure, dazzling and complete
Her beauty was breathtaking her adornment a delight
She illuminated my world at once and reignited my own light
She has a familiarity that my body recognizes, a bejeweled
Being who lights up my world with her smile and surprises
Even me as I watch and stare as she moves through the darkness
With such knowledge and without care
I follow her light down passageways and past keeps
And notice parts of my body awakening like from a sleep
A body that wants to talk to me and say
That authenticity is the alchemy from which you have strayed
Your body has such wisdom its waiting to be read.
This is the alchemy you search for, its that voice in your head
It is an illuminated manuscript gilded with the finest gold, gold of your own making
your life experience is the beauty you need to hold.
The magic is in your intuition, that you hold deep within yourself
You follow this beautiful lady and yet she is a mirror of your own self
She came because you finally called her and she sits in front of you now
Administering her balms that lingers on your skin, it caresses the pain you feel
and smoothes you from within.
But this is a balm of your own making , made out of all your own pain
It sparkles with the light you have been seeking it is your own beauty,
Hopelessness and pain.
So look no longer for the alchemists hand, behold what you see in the
mirror and be glad that you stand, for you are a beauty to behold, a life
to be treasured, a life that is lived in, a life that can be measured.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 9:26 AM UTC
*ink of sky inhabits her eyes
essence of serenity almondine
so spanish in silvern adornment
though her soul is hafnium pierced
a haven for both life and death
embodiment of artistic expression
openly hooded in earlobe spirituality
nominally patrician by disposition
my source stirs in futile disarray
kindred energy infusing the moment
a tree appears on a barren landscape
devoid of foliage, vivaciously rooting*
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Stripped of all my former glory
every adornment, achievement on the floor
exposed to the elements, bared to the storms
the wind threatening to remove my last source
till nothing remains but bark and twiggs and branches
but rooted deep, receiving from unseen waters
nothing on the outside, yet anchored on the inside
seemingly no hope, yet new life just a season away...
And even in the midst of winter
Birds still chirping on my arms, People still finding peace and shade in my limited stature...
Maybe winter isn't so bad after all...
Maybe winter strips us of all that is us, till our only hope is the water from within...
And maybe even with all the tears, and exposure, coldness and death, those who embrace and hold on
are allowing for a harvest of new life...
A seed has to die for new life to begin.
We remain oaks of righteousness in summer or winter because our righteousness stems from our depth in God...
This is only visible in winter.
Why does the oak remain?, even after rain, wind, storms, losing their leaves...
Because all along the strength of the oak was not the bright sunshine or the colourful spring, but the life within, the deep, inner, hidden, source...
The living water of John 4...
Our Christ within, the hope of Glory
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 4:12 AM UTC
Spoken: What is heard
The adornment, gospel truths the pious believers of your personal faith. The Heresy, the voice of those you’ve ******
Spoken: That which can not be taken back
Your frivolous certainties had no hold but now frame our reality because they are always in the peripheral only seeing what it allows you
Spoken: half truths
The victimized, the wronged, the offended just to validate unscrupulous act to those who have wronged you.
Spoken: White lies
The coddling which breeds an ignorance for the knowledge of decorum, decorations and vails to hid behind
Spoken: That which the universe asserts
That which the universe listens to, vibrations that it assimilates making it part of the whole without losing its agenda
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
**An alien fruit
on a low hanging branch,
she swings invitingly
flaunting her color,
that pulled me near
what an adornment
you would be to my
meager fruit basket,
inebriating scent emanating
overpowers my senses.
Your design, I certainly smell
I hear the whisper,
the disclaimer to entice me
to your side, "I don't like him,
the keeper of my orchard,
he pretends he owns it
but does he know the truth?
it's different, fruits aren't
his passion, just a hoarder
he doesn't enjoy the ripe fruits,
and I am a **** fruit,
I see yearnings play hide and seek
in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy,
I've been waiting to come this way,
take me, soon I'll forget him,
throw away your qualms
like fruit peels to the dumps"
I can't now discern,
what I now think,
no, I am no purist
who detests tartness,
I like the taste of vinegar,
this fruit offers so much,
this is a taste I relish,
but I am not game for this,
like to chase and hunt,
fruits from higher branches,
"wouldn't touch a carcass,
even if it promises much"**
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
I trained my gaze to turn a blind eye
To the incessant strobing wheedling away
Weeping willow tears, burrowing footsteps
Needling the swell of pure panic
When you said to me "The anxiety's
Bad at the mo", I became heavy with
The suffocation of 'What to do'....for you
My race to the winning post to
Grab the prize. the cure of all cures
The potion that'll dilute the multiplying
Butterflies grabbing onto your
Worry beads, slung around your neck
Should you forget their existence
A never ceasing adornment lines
Your palms with moistured intensity
Slips your grip on life, where once was peace
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC