"aglitter" poems - Hello Poetry

How long will our bewildered heirs marooned in possessions not theirs puzzle at disposing of these three cunning feignings of hard candy in glass- the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets, the flared end-twists as of transparent paper? No clue will be attached, no trace of the sunny day of their purchase, at a glittering shop a few doors up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place for all its testaments from Hemingway. The Grand Canal was also aglitter while the lesser canals lay in the shade like snakes, flicking wet tongues and gliding to green rendezvous. The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof Italian succulence, sized us up, a middle-aged American couple, as unserious shoppers who, still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire in the face of any enchanted vase or ethereal wineglass that might shatter in the luggage going home. Yet we wanted something, something small .... This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy, at last we decided. She wrapped the three glass candies, the cheapest items in the shop, with a showy care worthy of crown jewels-tissue, tape, and tissue again sprang up beneath her blood-red fingernails, plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad though she surely was, on her feet waiting all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese. Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao. Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher the little repair, the reattached triangle of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist, its mending a labor of love in the cellar, by winter light, by the man of the house, mixing transparent epoxy and rigging a clever small clamp as if to keep intact the time that we, alive, had spent in the feathery bed at the Europa e Regina.

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4.5k

John Updike

Venetian Candy

How long will our bewildered heirs marooned in possessions not theirs puzzle at disposing of these three cunning feignings of hard candy in glass- the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets, the flared end-twists as of transparent paper? No clue will be attached, no trace of the sunny day of their purchase, at a glittering shop a few doors up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place for all its testaments from Hemingway. The Grand Canal was also aglitter while the lesser canals lay in the shade like snakes, flicking wet tongues and gliding to green rendezvous. The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof Italian succulence, sized us up, a middle-aged American couple, as unserious shoppers who, still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire in the face of any enchanted vase or ethereal wineglass that might shatter in the luggage going home. Yet we wanted something, something small .... This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy, at last we decided. She wrapped the three glass candies, the cheapest items in the shop, with a showy care worthy of crown jewels-tissue, tape, and tissue again sprang up beneath her blood-red fingernails, plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad though she surely was, on her feet waiting all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese. Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao. Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher the little repair, the reattached triangle of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist, its mending a labor of love in the cellar, by winter light, by the man of the house, mixing transparent epoxy and rigging a clever small clamp as if to keep intact the time that we, alive, had spent in the feathery bed at the Europa e Regina.

46

A frozen avalanche set my night aglitter, A festive shroud descends upon the theater. Crimson sirens cleave apart the verdant veil, Into the darkness we stride without fail. Beyond the jubilation lies the next chapter, With adamant fortitude we give thee cheer. To each their own joys; for none with least, Lest we drown in today, few dice are cast. Behold my picture, let the verdict be: asleepy. I jest, I grin, yet within: smooth boreal sea. Tis simpler to repulse that which is coveted, A gaze that levels souls; I've gladly forfeited. Why? I cannot answer what I do not know, Yet reason continues to war with my soul. Let the rain cleanse my self-aimed ire, From whence come this burning desire? By dulcet caitiff, I set my conundrum aside, The crux of life remain, my Draconian hide. Plebeian ennui paralyzes my gifted facilities, Enough sophistry, let I bid thee turgidities. Let mine eyes be painted blind. How else to behold beauty so fine? Why, my sober vision... Scream in revulsion! :DD

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Aug 28, 2010

Aug 28, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC

jacky-xiang

Cosmetic Milestones

A frozen avalanche set my night aglitter, A festive shroud descends upon the theater. Crimson sirens cleave apart the verdant veil, Into the darkness we stride without fail. Beyond the jubilation lies the next chapter, With adamant fortitude we give thee cheer. To each their own joys; for none with least, Lest we drown in today, few dice are cast. Behold my picture, let the verdict be: asleepy. I jest, I grin, yet within: smooth boreal sea. Tis simpler to repulse that which is coveted, A gaze that levels souls; I've gladly forfeited. Why? I cannot answer what I do not know, Yet reason continues to war with my soul. Let the rain cleanse my self-aimed ire, From whence come this burning desire? By dulcet caitiff, I set my conundrum aside, The crux of life remain, my Draconian hide. Plebeian ennui paralyzes my gifted facilities, Enough sophistry, let I bid thee turgidities. Let mine eyes be painted blind. How else to behold beauty so fine? Why, my sober vision... Scream in revulsion! :DD

24

Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and ***** its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ... Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch I. Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember —upon awaking— is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. II. O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs! I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. III. To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams— they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. IV. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream—that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. V. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. VI. I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought— I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow.

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Apr 14, 2020

Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Southern Icarus

Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and ***** its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ... Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch I. Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember —upon awaking— is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. II. O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs! I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. III. To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams— they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. IV. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream—that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. V. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. VI. I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought— I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow.

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in the city where they rise now, weeds waist high in summer times, aglitter under with still-luxuriant diamonds when the sun shines just so, even in winter before lost under snow all that's left of the window from which a sweet Juliet surveyed prospects playing touch football below in the street, pausing gridiron glories for passing cars or ladies with bags of groceries in arm the broken tooth of the block, just a lot, brick and rock packed hard under metal treads of reaping machines, attracting a profane collection of neighbors’ wind-blown refuse to which none will lay claim today the lovely vanished, as if her gaze west as sun set finally pulled her away through clear panes, one life rejected limited, mundane and left lifeless a cradle to crumble none here remember her every face changed, new as the years or aged by insults of time and moved on - nor she the stoop, once so sturdy and safe; an ancient sycamore's welcome embrace, cool every August, would last forever to the innocent mind of a child and the woman forgot the crack in the cemented back yard where ants lived - a girl once stared for hours as they harvested a crust of sandwich hidden from the raucous street, the heat of the sun, which she decided to follow to its glorious end, leaving behind a field fallow where ants, oblivious to a world that had changed, fend, still, for a meal in their broken concrete

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Feb 20, 2011

Feb 20, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC

robert-zanfad

A Brief History of a Vacant Lot

in the city where they rise now, weeds waist high in summer times, aglitter under with still-luxuriant diamonds when the sun shines just so, even in winter before lost under snow all that's left of the window from which a sweet Juliet surveyed prospects playing touch football below in the street, pausing gridiron glories for passing cars or ladies with bags of groceries in arm the broken tooth of the block, just a lot, brick and rock packed hard under metal treads of reaping machines, attracting a profane collection of neighbors’ wind-blown refuse to which none will lay claim today the lovely vanished, as if her gaze west as sun set finally pulled her away through clear panes, one life rejected limited, mundane and left lifeless a cradle to crumble none here remember her every face changed, new as the years or aged by insults of time and moved on - nor she the stoop, once so sturdy and safe; an ancient sycamore's welcome embrace, cool every August, would last forever to the innocent mind of a child and the woman forgot the crack in the cemented back yard where ants lived - a girl once stared for hours as they harvested a crust of sandwich hidden from the raucous street, the heat of the sun, which she decided to follow to its glorious end, leaving behind a field fallow where ants, oblivious to a world that had changed, fend, still, for a meal in their broken concrete

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As the sun set, I waited for the cool breeze. I had not felt yet, the moisture of cold in the joints of my knees, but out over the churning waters, of my mistress, sea, I was reminded of you and what I dreamed we'd be. Too often on nights like this when the moon affixes my eyes to the heavens aglitter I remember your face asweating and I won't be forgetting the scar on your belly that I caused and won't regret. We'd given birth to a world that we cradled in our arms, and we split that world apart, each claiming to be Atlas, or Hades. No God deserves such precious gifts. As the sun rises, I walk out into the pastures. My feet are christened by such little blades, but it is my heart that's cut, torn, bleeding, and I'll never see you again, because you died for one of our worlds.

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May 24, 2016

May 24, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC

DEW

It's Heard Through Morning Dew...

As the sun set, I waited for the cool breeze. I had not felt yet, the moisture of cold in the joints of my knees, but out over the churning waters, of my mistress, sea, I was reminded of you and what I dreamed we'd be. Too often on nights like this when the moon affixes my eyes to the heavens aglitter I remember your face asweating and I won't be forgetting the scar on your belly that I caused and won't regret. We'd given birth to a world that we cradled in our arms, and we split that world apart, each claiming to be Atlas, or Hades. No God deserves such precious gifts. As the sun rises, I walk out into the pastures. My feet are christened by such little blades, but it is my heart that's cut, torn, bleeding, and I'll never see you again, because you died for one of our worlds.

27

The moon and the sun Together once stood When the heavens were young And the world yet good They sang together Across the blue sky Of far off things Unseen by the eye In time however They grew apart No longer together Of one shared heart The sun grew lonely The moon jeleous and bitter As they took their turns Setting the world aglitter Long ages past Infinite orbits revolved Yet the two celestial's problem Could not be resolved The pain of loneliness And that of regret Struck the two bodies Every time that they set Tired and lonely The sun reached out And lended its light That healing might sprout And though together They could never again be They shared their light Over both land and sea That is why the moon Carries the light of the sun Long after it sets When the day is done And Ever do they sing Carrying on that ancient tune That once they sung together United sun and moon

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Jul 6, 2016

Jul 6, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC

hadrian-veska

United Sun and Moon

The moon and the sun Together once stood When the heavens were young And the world yet good They sang together Across the blue sky Of far off things Unseen by the eye In time however They grew apart No longer together Of one shared heart The sun grew lonely The moon jeleous and bitter As they took their turns Setting the world aglitter Long ages past Infinite orbits revolved Yet the two celestial's problem Could not be resolved The pain of loneliness And that of regret Struck the two bodies Every time that they set Tired and lonely The sun reached out And lended its light That healing might sprout And though together They could never again be They shared their light Over both land and sea That is why the moon Carries the light of the sun Long after it sets When the day is done And Ever do they sing Carrying on that ancient tune That once they sung together United sun and moon

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Take sapphires, rubies, diamonds bright, Each stone aglitter with starlight, And with these gems, a harp then mould With finest strings of pure spun gold. A cherub then to pluck the strings While by his side with folded wings In dulcet tones an angel sings In praise of Him, the King of Kings.

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Aug 7, 2013

Aug 7, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC

dennis-n-obrien

A Hit in Heaven

Take sapphires, rubies, diamonds bright, Each stone aglitter with starlight, And with these gems, a harp then mould With finest strings of pure spun gold. A cherub then to pluck the strings While by his side with folded wings In dulcet tones an angel sings In praise of Him, the King of Kings.

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when I think of K I think ***** gross, crawl under the bed find the lost shoe drag out the ***** & ******* & have an op-art party when I think of m I think of the holy earth in its orbit around the sun; I think of snooch when kdf cro sses my mind; idk why I've seen the light I can smell the light I just want to sing praises to her golden fleece; her *** is several miracles at once ya, for the deluge is coming she's insti nctively brilliant & beautiful w/ the son of god in cat racing rapid space; come low & sing softly M to me means I can walk 1,000s of snowy, sandy, snowy miles w/out stopping I look for u on the stagecoach; the old film I saw; her musi c is awandering; she got write love right brain d d d nor not des loi aa s kil she got gypsy blood she is behind me isn't she speak Eng lish e I'm thinking thnk eyes th ing of KDF makes me . s, . . cream into my cookie jar; . oh the bowl is so hollow I no now know she is a silver shadow on my her Spanish childrennn shattered mi rro r M e she makes me strong stronger than any mortal man has a right to be Lo we a **** is a strong st s I she knows I''m smoking looking over her open fan eyes aglitter w/ phosph erus sulfur bu we lov

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May 24, 2018

May 24, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC

johnny-noiπ

woman on the cross, amused

when I think of K I think ***** gross, crawl under the bed find the lost shoe drag out the ***** & ******* & have an op-art party when I think of m I think of the holy earth in its orbit around the sun; I think of snooch when kdf cro sses my mind; idk why I've seen the light I can smell the light I just want to sing praises to her golden fleece; her *** is several miracles at once ya, for the deluge is coming she's insti nctively brilliant & beautiful w/ the son of god in cat racing rapid space; come low & sing softly M to me means I can walk 1,000s of snowy, sandy, snowy miles w/out stopping I look for u on the stagecoach; the old film I saw; her musi c is awandering; she got write love right brain d d d nor not des loi aa s kil she got gypsy blood she is behind me isn't she speak Eng lish e I'm thinking thnk eyes th ing of KDF makes me . s, . . cream into my cookie jar; . oh the bowl is so hollow I no now know she is a silver shadow on my her Spanish childrennn shattered mi rro r M e she makes me strong stronger than any mortal man has a right to be Lo we a **** is a strong st s I she knows I''m smoking looking over her open fan eyes aglitter w/ phosph erus sulfur bu we lov

22

i run fast naked, barefoot, in open pursuit of closed-eye visions: here mistakes are not made, purpose is proposed, the earth beneath my feet is effervescent, bubbling. I run fast: oily sweat and silver tongue pant words iridescent aglitter breathing earthly substance of hard dirt, bared teeth white and ferocious........! I run fast, not fast enough to match my panting vision, I run my stretch reaching. Take me dream! Run with me! take me to your home, your bed, your infinite well of wisdom and eternal dreaming visions.

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May 7, 2014

May 7, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC

wordvango

..i run

i run fast naked, barefoot, in open pursuit of closed-eye visions: here mistakes are not made, purpose is proposed, the earth beneath my feet is effervescent, bubbling. I run fast: oily sweat and silver tongue pant words iridescent aglitter breathing earthly substance of hard dirt, bared teeth white and ferocious........! I run fast, not fast enough to match my panting vision, I run my stretch reaching. Take me dream! Run with me! take me to your home, your bed, your infinite well of wisdom and eternal dreaming visions.

9

Upon prima facie first blush me mind's eye all atwitter, sans long forgotten "FAKE" ****** exploits set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter, boot like short order cook I hapt tubby quickly realized trumpeting collusion, a near fatal collision course with Matthew Scott's antimatter caw zing friggin insomnia finding ma noggin scrambled likesome lithesome cockamamie critter whipped into frenzy like battered butter holy grits, alm manned in fight of ma life cause I haint acquitter baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter, this raging red bull inside me mind, now body wheeling wickety wack, lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter bitta asthma - insides got balled into wah racket like quietly rioting unfetter herd plain tennis (see) hens, gone south tub bespatter ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky reducing gray matter, and all flesh sundered into meaty platter to pulverized, irradiated, cremated... faux fluffernutter batter analogous tummy Aunt Jemima's famous flapjacks, she fantastically fashioned better than Betty Crocker tossing spatulated glommed **** suitable as bonesetter high as the Taj Mahal, while she merrily jabbered, her native patois singsong blatter all this inaudible clatter muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter madly clangorous dinner cowbells aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter ring jitterbugging fantasies of barenaked ladies doth splutter as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry like cocky rooster that did stutter!

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Mar 5, 2019

Mar 5, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Get Out Of My Head Mister Chatterbox!

Upon prima facie first blush me mind's eye all atwitter, sans long forgotten "FAKE" ****** exploits set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter, boot like short order cook I hapt tubby quickly realized trumpeting collusion, a near fatal collision course with Matthew Scott's antimatter caw zing friggin insomnia finding ma noggin scrambled likesome lithesome cockamamie critter whipped into frenzy like battered butter holy grits, alm manned in fight of ma life cause I haint acquitter baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter, this raging red bull inside me mind, now body wheeling wickety wack, lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter bitta asthma - insides got balled into wah racket like quietly rioting unfetter herd plain tennis (see) hens, gone south tub bespatter ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky reducing gray matter, and all flesh sundered into meaty platter to pulverized, irradiated, cremated... faux fluffernutter batter analogous tummy Aunt Jemima's famous flapjacks, she fantastically fashioned better than Betty Crocker tossing spatulated glommed **** suitable as bonesetter high as the Taj Mahal, while she merrily jabbered, her native patois singsong blatter all this inaudible clatter muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter madly clangorous dinner cowbells aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter ring jitterbugging fantasies of barenaked ladies doth splutter as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry like cocky rooster that did stutter!

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