"antiquity" poems
1332
Pink—small—and punctual—
Aromatic—low—
Covert—in April—
Candid—in May—
Dear to the Moss—
Known to the Knoll—
Next to the Robin
In every human Soul—
Bold little Beauty
Bedecked with thee
Nature forswears
Antiquity—
19.3k
She thinks that she is only silver.
Second place, forever and again.
But this girl ... she is so, so much more.
She is my dear, dearest friend.
Her soul, while brighter than the sun,
is tortured by confusion and things in her past ...
lofty goals that would thwart even the toughest
and a lifestyle going so fast.
Courageous ... and meek.
A warrior ... and a flower ... all at the same time.
Legions of followers, those who look up ... never to see,
the little girl who roams in her mind.
She will get were she is aiming ...
my heart believes in her so.
She is strong, stubborn ... so very brave,
and this child inside her grows.
Now distant, I'll still watch her life
unfold
from this abyss, for reasons that may forever remain
untold.
She is far more valuable than any silver, precious gems ...
yes, even gold.
No object d'art or more costly antiquity ...
has ever,
ever been sold.
I only wish that I could have somehow ...
somehow
made her see ...
that as my friend ... she was so, so much more ...
than merely silver to me.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 7:11 AM UTC
Lost is the African pride
Gone are those who could ride the tide
Left are those who drown beneath the wave
Prone to dehumanization because of greed
I see burning buildings
Mutilated bodies
Escalating violence
And social unrest
Lost is the Spirit of Ubuntu
Left is a society deprived of its integrity
Selfishness and poverty is at the core of our society
Is the real Africa lost to antiquity?
Crime is rife as people strive for a decent life.
A decent life earned through decadence
Should we stone foreigners because the government is failing to provide employment?
Or should we burn down buildings so that our voices can be heard?
I am ashamed of the profanity we breed
It’s a calamity for us to be xenophobic
It’s a taboo for us to call Africans foreigners in their motherland.
It’s not who they are.
It’s not who we are
It’s not who you are
It’s not who I am
Together we are the Africa that has survived slave trade
The Africa that has survived apartheid
The Africa that has survived colonization
The Africa that is surviving westernization
We don’t fight for employment
We create employment
We don’t breed resentment
We translate sentiments
Let us evoke the Spirit of Ubuntu
And let’s behave like men not animals
Let us ignite the Spirit of Ubuntu
And let’s stand like men immortal
The Spirit of Ubuntu is what separates us from animals
Terrorism shouldn’t exist in Africa
It’s a disgrace for us to be unethical
Xenophobia shouldn’t be heard in Africa
Animosity is not our portion
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 6:28 AM UTC
.
Its 2 am and I am so wired.
Why can't I just be normally tired?
As others enjoy some restful sleep,
I am in a place far more deep.....
And the abyss calls so inviting,
a leap into the unknown and beyond.
With clarity I jump out and fly,
an excuse for reality to quietly abscond.
Psychedelic nausea as the dimensions twist,
forcing me to a place where I do not exist,
a land in which I may be killed or kissed,
but certain my presence would not be missed.
The feelers take a hold of me,
whispering secrets of antiquity,
revealing images of aeons gone,
in spoken word, rhyme and song.
I have the histories of many worlds
all in my mind strung up like pearls.
A line of lanterns alight once more,
open and willing for me to explore.
And my pale blue eyes no longer see
the images created by any reality.
It is secret knowledge of ancient times,
I receive in the script of cryptic rhymes.
© Pagan Paul (09/08/18)
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
heavy, deep and dark.
louder, louder;
the twofold pounding
of clockwork respiration.
thud, (thud-thud)
goddess arms hang
into the abyss, like
dead weight.
depth obscures,
lesser life forms
meander on their own,
unaware of the wayward colossus.
/lonely/
a shroud of antiquity
suspended --
veiling the secret
of ages.
thud, [thud-thud]
percussive life
continues alone,
out of time.
evolving
longing
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
Pikachu is not totally fiction after all,
There's this cute rodent called Pika,
This Pika is Pikachu's inspiration,
Found in the foothills of Sikkim,
But the scientists think it's new,
Pika is one tiny Indian rodent,
Its standing posture, its ears,
Have been the inspiration,
Not just now but for long,
Since antiquity it's there,
Only now got discovered.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Drip yourself into a cup
Fill up your body with antiquity
Let the collagen insist
An allegory of Capricorn
Memories crystallised
Settled in
Forevers harvest
Insensitive
Misconstrued chemical
Collective symmetry's sin
A condition, livid
Fleeting in Human imagery
Ships break
Loop our tongued
Hands, tossed in Dramamine
Whittled in a succession of malleable fashion
Talent spilled spread in supper
Collate our atrophy
And drink from baroness
Flavours tarnished
Super-collider
Blood soaked in Gematria
A garden of totality
High brow comparison
Entitled in your vacuous stigma
Forever burning
In the lesser key of Solomon
28 daemon
Tessellation in trigonometry
Temperance towards an infinite
Champion of mind, complex
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
What little sunshine being recognised
Out of a storm flames approaching disorder
Building vast contradictions without impediment
Widespread in antiquity with alluring interpretations
Constituting mutilated transformations whose opposing
Lies stinking and fly swarmed, rotting at our feet
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
My mother is a piano
A little out of tune
Dusty keys
That play with ease
Ivory as the moon
Sometimes I’ll touch the wood
And admire its antiquity
Think of all the things that it
Ever dreamed to be
Sometimes when my fingers
Fly through a song
I wonder how this piano
Ever got so strong.
My mother is a piano,
She makes music out of air,
She answers each finger
With an embrace, with care
Her legs planted firmly
in the ground
How much I love to hear
her deep, rich sound.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
how sad to be misunderstood
to be evicted from life
to have the full tenure
of a torrid human existence
gesture horribly at you
in faultless reputation
like that of a rancid rage
over a lost trinket
or to be quarantined
while fingerless skin scolds
and noiseless voices are raised
in a donated generosity of savage ignorance
striving to make copious amends
in vain efforts to regrettable
slow acting poison that boils the mind
oh how sad to be misunderstood
such varicose viciousness
oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood
to live through and inoculated hour glass
giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy
and when your breath speaks they laugh
black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths
shudders
knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils
oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood
to be drenched in the rain but not get wet
in which antiquity rests with its
mythologised stupendous ill effects
getting vivid shadows massed all around
oh how sad it is to be misunderstood
until dactylic, hexameter, elegance
completes and slithering syllables
by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek
that sends an exploding heart through your chest
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
my Mumbai woman
~~~
to my Indian poets & friends
all be advised,
my piety, my muse,
has decamped me for weeks on end
to your
yon far and fair lands
the red dot beside her
electronic signature
a sign of her absence,
seemingly to have been
magically transferred
to her forehead
so perhaps my love poetry
will become absent, reticent,
quiescent
or perhaps
it will build brighter, effervescing
in my very own Taj Mahal,
an edifice built by great love past
and yet ever still present,
for I testify,
I have many times it,
seen imbued,
lovingly observed
between a certain
men and women here writ large,
who there permanent reside,
and in my heart as well
spend a minute many,
all my fingers and
toes employed
how many, so many,
Indian fellow travelers
on poetry lanes and yellow dust encrusted roads,
in cities unpronounceable
that this illiterate literary fool
has come to know and multi-arm entwine
to you,
I commend and command to you
her safety,
asking immodestly for
an imposition, an interference
pray to the local gods,
your heads of state and highest nature's,
that they be her
beside,
her unobserved
safe-keepers,
as she treks your country's
Northern pastures
let her skin glow from
your brighter rays,
eyes even wider~wiser opened
by the newness of your antiquity,
your glorious,
poetic place
in our world
of words
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Today's a new.
Took a breath, stepped outside and Ponder upon Paradise Avenue.
Most haven’t a clue.
Stuck between a hard place and a rock bonded by that encrypted glue.
So don’t be rude.
Look the other way While I pursue.
Get in the way and even you’ll be tighten, fastened and ******* Intrigue or intrude?
Acting with passion taking my life wealth of metaphorical food.
I'm not in the mood.
I came to conclude.
The knowledge hidden will soon be removed.
Over the covenant stove.
Hypnotize lives will be brewed.
Ether produced broth of truth I accrued.
So in this life of Manipulating strife.
Conflict of fundamental issues got me on strike.
Take a hike, better yet ride a bike.
My mind has been overlapping Triple stacking in the apparent. Trying to come up with my own Patton of satin.
I will Manifest anything that’s internally speaking in a Ridicule fashion.
I'm rapidly expanding and the abundance is over flowing.
Is it me, is it you, is it us, was it he who walked above the sea?
Yes best believe.
Antiquity relics through Allegory marriage.
Helps to see Beyond and above the perished.
Come to believe and you will achieve.
That’s the hidden recipe.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Eyes open
Upon the silent abode
Marvel at me
The heavens echoed
Predicaments dissolve into the trivial
The mind is spotless
You forget the greed, the hate
You remember only the love which intoxicates
Their watchful eyes
Shining upon us since antiquity
Embedded into the skies
An ever lasting source of serenity
Their melody decipherable to wanderers
Providing solace to the adrift
A message from our ancestors
Whispering that clear will be the mist
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
Cherubim, Seraphim
Watching from above, afar a flying dove; crepuscular
Peace of mind in you we find, arcane
Playing amongst the darkness, what we were I forgot
Bairn devine,
Define;
Angelic promises, Demonic pride
Cosmic tears, is it to ourselves we lie?
Through my eyes I see the mirror of indifference
Aeon-Antiquity
Shadows illuminated by night, the moon the bringer of light
Corona, soul.
Angelic promises made in hell!
Deistic dipterous demons within thee; watch 'de'skies',
Demonic pride facing fears vanquishing friend or fiend
The belligerent zenith a conflagerated nirvana.
Inside ourselves we die, we lie for salvation; trying.
You watched us in thy darkness-
You took away the light;
Now know more, shadows shed pain
An acrimonial heaven built upon the burning of sepulchre.
Tear drops of eternal rain
Splashing on the doorstep of purgatory
Like dew on a rose
Dawn arisen,
Ethereal ebullience the dream of cornucopia;
An Elysian asphodel
Cerulean, Azure.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
I lack inspiration, when sound does not riddle the causeways of my mind
when echos bounce less around my cranium and more from my lips i find..
solace,
solace in the fact that no longer am i directed from indirect communications but more from the sound i make,
i learnt to grasp the steering wheel in both hands and turn sharp in the corners,
i learnt that without sound echoing through my ears my eyes work with pinpoint accuracy..
i never noticed the way the grass grows over old cobbles..
i never noticed the way my heart beats
the way it skips, and bleats,
i learnt not to be a sheep, but a profit,
a guider to the blind,
don't tell them I'm blind as-well
because it doesn't matter if i can see or i cant
it does not matter if what i say is truth or lies
but if the fiction of my antiquity compels you to lift your heart up
brings joy from the desolation of your mind but to the fore front of the battle field that is your life i have achieved something incredible, I've achieved peace
peace through happiness, joy through inspiration so read on!
read on young soldier,
your broken mind and battle ready battle wounds are bound too tightly by your compassion to conform
take of your bandages and read on! read forwards and on wards and strive to learn, why
why young soldier i know you've never been trained
and i know your mind is ill with discontent and i know your shoes are whittled to your socks and i know
i know how hard it is to stand with two broken legs and only the solace of that barren bare cranium to lean on
but in my antiquity young soldier
i have learnt that we are all warriors
fighters along a broken line standing our ground against greater odds then you could ever conceive of battling...
i know young solider that many will fall and die
and many will perish to broken minds and hearts and souls,
but the ones who make it through this perishable existence, the ones who fight beyond any compassion beyond any reason,
god I've met boys who will tear out each others throats with their teeth I've learnt that men are shells of creatures that have never been fully understood,
my existence has been about
nothing but fighting
and now i have reached an age where i can lay down the rifle of my words, i can leave my blunted knives to rust in a back closet i realized young soldier
the agony of your existence may seem like the end, but its just the start.
and when your reach a point in your life where you can rest,
savor it,
do not let someone tell you how to exist without your consent , do not fight a battle you do not want to fight,
stand your ground young soldier
re-reinforcements are on the way
L.G
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Manipulation,
What a move,
Act like a friend,
Wanting to see
What my body can do,
In a private display,
Only you can obtain,
With the exception of him,
You knew of in vain.
Now you foolishly claim
Your intentions are true
While I'm in your room,
I knew not to do.
Attraction both ways,
In our case at least,
With a demeanor so smooth,
With a face you can't beat.
Alas, I'm no fool,
In entirety,
My current union
Going back to antiquity.
I'll settle for no less
Than what I deserve
Which isn't pretentiousness
On a plate of interest, well served.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.
For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.
But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
O Chansons foregoing
You were a seven days’ wonder.
When you came out in the magazines
You created considerable stir in Chicago,
And now you are stale and worn out,
You’re a very depleted fashion,
A hoop-skirt, a calash,
An homely, transient antiquity.
Only emotion remains.
Your emotions?
Are those of a maitre-de-cafe.
3.1k
Sweeten, let’s, a coast of dun
Therefrom which, the tides erode,
A castle to blind the mighty sun
Affront to that Poseidon, and others
On the beach.
***** the walls and battlements
Fair crystal arm the turrets
The audience of the hermit *****
Pay silent homage to the throne
Intricate are its libraries, etched
Our history inside the tomes.
Only grains of perfect stock
From which antiquity, in full credit,
Will revere the lot
And poetry of human might
Shaped and forged to kiss the day of light
Only that may suffice.
In this endeavor, no ancients will tenet
Its salty beams but the children of the morn
For we shall build the universe
From when progenitors are born.
Before it began, we were dismayed
Our future, castle, by waves waylaid
Aspirations sink, now, from shape.
But, Gods, I curse you!
Let my destiny rise free!
Look now before you:
A stone in ocean of mediocrity!
All these that build up forts
Lack in that spirit to fight, retort
**** you, **** you, waters of my doubt
Turn false the shades of realism
Which I thought it all about
**** you, **** you sands of time
For now all that founds my dreams
Is erosion of the shoreline sand.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
I shall love diners after Death
Famished from a million mile trek
Soft dances, whimsical, flowing
All in time and in step
Effervescent in its antiquity
Light penetrates the vociferate soul
A blinding silhouette Reveals the true physique
casting no shadows
back, at last, back to the harmony &
surrealism of our sacrarium, our home
no more hours to waste away
nothing to signifying
night from day
no need to search for words to convey
As we began we return just as we should
our recrudescence revivifies our sainthood
with No judgment charged upon us
with no reward for the good
neither condemned are the noxious
immoral nor the many many absurd
For those deleterious malignant calamities
must remain incarcerated on Earth
from whence it came
As we Return once again
soul cleansed in beatific death
The physical abandoned with sin
The dead left unknown,
un birthed
Shut in
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for my self mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chapped with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
’Tis thee, myself, that for my self I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
2.7k
Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
Albido
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Or
Completely snuffed
Mountain
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Buffet
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.
Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless
To give a place
To the missed
That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.
Odysseus
Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of
Helios
No,
These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
Sowed
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Eloah.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
......
The silver moon
Alone
With the southern wind
The papers of poetry,
Songs
Wandering with thousands
of unspoken words,
Stanza
Resonance in the sky,
In the wind and mind
but grew pollination in the pen and the poetry
This glorious night
The poet
Very lonely
With the mystic brightness of light
Only speaks the antiquity
...
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC