"apse" poems
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant ******
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.
6.8k
Bohat dukh hay ke tumne mujhe chora
Bohat dukh hay ke tumne mujhe apna na samjha
Bohat ghussa hay ke tumne mujhe chora
Bohat ghussa hay ke tumne mujhe apna na samjha
Mere Paas to is dukh ko baatne ke liye bhi koi nahi
Mere Paas to aisa bhi koi nahi jispe apna ghussa nikalun
Ekk tum he to thi Jisse apna har gham baat ta Tha mein
Ekk tum he to thi Jisse baat karke Mera ghussa Kam Hota Tha
Tumhe to mene wo wo batein bataayn Jo kisi se keh nahi sakta
Tumpe to mene itna bharosa Kiya jitna kisi pe Kar nahi sakta
Apna saara dukh in alfazon pe nikalta *** mein
Andaza lagao Meri bebasi ka
Andaza lagao mere akele pan ka
Apna ghussa in lafzon ke zariye Kam karta *** ab
Aakhir kab tak likhta rahun ga ye sab apne gham aur
Apne ghusse ko mitane ke liye
Aakhir kab tak
Kabhi to mujhe sache Dil se samjha Hota
Sirf tumhare liye to jeeraha Tha mein
Sirf tumhare liye to ye Dil Tha zinda
Sirf tumhare liye to ye saansen chalrahi thein
Abto apne apse nafrat hogayi hay
Ye zindagi bojh bangayi hay
Meri kismat mein Aakhir kyun thi itni bezaari
Aakhir kyun Tha mein itna badkismat
Aakhir kyun
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
Humsafar wo hai jo dukh sukh me sath de....
Humsafar wo hai jo har safar me apke sath **
Humsafar wo hai jo apke sath kadam se kadam mila ke chale...
Humsafar wo hai jo apki khusiyo ko apke takleef ko apna samjhe....
Humsafar wo hai jo apki kamiyo k sath apko accept kre...
Humsafar wo hai jo apse pyar kre..
Humsafar to hum safar hai...thats mean
Hum- mai+tum
Safar-rasta
To duniya k har raste pr hr situation me sath chalne wala humsafar hai...
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC
"Every time I look into a mirror I see the eyes of the devil".
The perpetual flame of life
A new dawn, an enlightening dusk;
The translucent sun
The convection of eternity,
Abysmal adversary,
The convocation of co-eternal legions!
''Every time I cry I see the face of God".
Influencing twilights perfection,
Hells paradise devouring
The ardent fervour of the carmine flame
Piercing the atmosphere,
Constantly tantalising the air- fuelling.
The forests engulfed, bellowing from the apse shaped canopies
Violet blue threads of of ribbon;
Wofting unto nothingness
Vapourising smoke.
Natures delightful beauty, casting a shadow
The conflagration immanently consuming lands;
Raging across the earth
Dehydrated and scorched.
Baptismal tears vanquishing the fire,
Heavens standing ovation, applauding
A contained flame,
The sound of rain the fires lamentation.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
I climb the limestone stairs
through an arch in rock,
into the earth’s womb,
pass through to a surprise:
George loves Lisa painted on a wall.
I wonder, did he ever tell her?
Did she ever know or think of him,
raise a brood of screaming children?
Did they kiss near wild ginger
above the stony apse?
Did lady’s slipper orchids
adorn their meeting place
where deer drink from rocky cisterns?
Did their love wither like maidenhair fern,
delicate as English Lace?
The symbols have outlived the moment.
There is only today, only
the murmur of water underground,
my finding one trickle into a pool.
I never knew this George or Lisa.
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot long ago.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
And in the folds
Of every heart
Is a nave
That ends in an apse
Of reminiscence
Sacred and august
An apse to be trudged
Only by the beholder
To perform
Not very often though
A little prayer
For this corner
Is an ether
Volatile even by a thin lustre
As it lights bright through
The shades of retina
The altar of the sacred corner
Is ablaze; all aglow
A trickle of single tear
And sanctified smile
Often unnoticed yet appear
So close just
Yet away from the world
The altar of memories
Is cherished year after year
Seldom to be mass opened
And yet for a pure prayer
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
Today, I was scolded
Was told that I was a boor;
That I had, inadvertently
Rendered some holy cattle
Of theirs a death rattle
A battle I won, without knowing
I had even fought, thought
I was just being amusing,
Somehow confusing my path
Down through the tulips
As a meander down the apse
Of some secret church.
Unfair! I was unaware.
And even now, I fear I care
Far less than they do
About their holy cows.
I didn’t then, I don’t now.
But, I have accepted, long ago
That, with social networking
I simply has to be so
That people will be offended;
Starting open-ended rancor,
Scoring slash after ****** slash
Across my Mr. Perfection sash
Granted me by nobody but me,
And that they will put a smudge
By bearing a grudge
About what I see
As a trifling inconsequentiality.
But is their cathedral,
Their Mecca to bow to
And thus I will be the target
Of slings and arrows.
Shall I be sure to only speak
If I speak plenty of inanities
Muttering banalities about love
And the weather and books
Shall I fear the looks, the scorn
Born of misunderstandings
Taken as mishandling
The hearts of the tender
And render myself informationless,
Opinion free, without personality
Speaking when spoken to eternally
So I don’t trip over hidden wires,
Don’t **** on burning fires
Of pet peeves, rip off the sleeves
Of hair shirts, do idols dirt?
Is that the way it should go?
I don’t think so.
But, what do I know?
I am the scurrilous, stumbling fool
Who ****** in someone’s pool
And told them it was raining.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
The boy sitting by his locker
While the horde heads to Wendy's
Likes to read Emily and Sylvia.
The girl with the flowing floral muumuu
And tatoo reading Nature likes
Ralph, George and Robert.
The man standing in the apse
Of St. Patrick's reads
Milton and Blake.
The mother reads Dr. Seuss, often,
The same story, over and over again.
And who reads me?
All of the above?
None of the above?
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
For a man who held fire in his homilies
and set the souls aflame with hell
he was gentle at the apse, smiling, smiling
warm hands and crisp cuffs and collars
no burns or bruises
nothing to give away his belief
in kingdoms buried in the clouds
of scriptures that he could quote
adding references to each little parable
like he himself, managed the manuscripts.
Come Easter, and the darkness would settle
on his purple robes and sceptre
as he walked down the aisle resplendent
and roman as Pontius Pilate
with a cleaner soul.
Christmas was different, he patted children's heads
blessed the old nanas who dropped off those chocolate
cakes and port wine, fortified with ***
and brandy biscuits. He was always thankful for the spirit.
But the day he looked at me long and hard
the spark of hell ignited my guilt
at not going to Mass for a whole summer of sun
and without a twitch of his bushy eyebrows he said:
"Been busy getting a suntan? Hell will make you black!"
but he grinned that extra-sip of wine grin
and I entered the church to repent
for all the sins I did not commit!
Bless me Father.... blah blah blah....
Author Notes
I know him well. He once called me an 'outstanding Catholic' because I stood outside most of the time!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
The prime I’m in (cold file) grinds down
the onslaught of the surf. Wet hands
coerce her tidal politic:
a love-sick shire of common knots,
revolting, wretch assured.
Unleash the phantoms of
the wistful world at bay
from that optimal day when climbed I up
the risers, capped to fortune,
palme-d'essence, mindful hitch.
You stitched the barrier
between your absence and my glitch -
upheld the cases made for fiery rhythms
of romance, as echoes clattered in the apse
of quiet towns’ pastoral grasp.
I’m sitting shameless in
the offing of a while. Unseated:
will my offspring smile
at sunny landings on
the peaceful shores of joy?
Can such be relished by a boy?
Or will his chains hold strong
and anchor back to relapsed wrong?
Can such be relished by a song
and her soprano? played piano
for the crowd, but filling one’s forever,
wonder-loud?
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 1:17 AM UTC
Walk i in pallid weird dream
The sun was at its eclipse
Snow of ice flow in me as dead
I was confused at dream ream
Pinnacle of peak I stood in minaret apse
Everything emptying and collapsing in void pace
Many running away from self responsibility
Justice was stabbed lying dead facing impurity
Everyone seems to despise justice
On the pathway all look at injustice
Frowning at me, i was left to make a decision
The Samaritan clothe stains me with truth reason
Coming closer her countenance was a monster
Smirked of an epilepsy gushing out
I become **** dance in a wild romance Resuscitating her with my divine breathe
Giving up my breathe to bullet of injustice
For her sake as i get her clothe
I watch her resurrect and I die with smile
Horseman of life ride by rewarding me with abundant breathe that's unceaseable
by Martin Ijir
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
siz beni tanımaz
görünen yüzüme bakarsınız
ben havuçları dikim dikim diker
toprak inim inim inlerken
pembe şalvarlı şeftali soyardım
kalın ağaçlarımın gölgesinde
sulu sulu, vıcık vıcık
ne ** gelirdi
tüylerin dudak masajı
bitmesin diye
yemez
porschelen tabağa koyardım
kıymetliydik ikimiz de
unutmadan
türküler
söylediğim de olmuştur
deep purple çaldığımda
asyalı kalça
dalgalansın da, durulsun diye
söylemesi ayıp
İyi şarkı çekerdim phuket sokaklarında
sonra, sarhoşluk mitoz duvara
dayandığında kafası güzel kargalar
ve süzülürken larva kolonisi
şeftali kurt(l)anmaya başladı
yatay geçiş hakkıydı elbet
şans işte
kurtulayım paniğiyle
önce çakal
sonra puma karşıladı
flört hayattı şeftaliye
hep aynı dudak gezinecek
değil a
delilah dinlemeye başladı
escobar kılıklı buluşma noktalarında
bir süre sonra
bitmeliydi bu zül
deryaların
aman bre
yine mi
çamaşır yıkamasıyla
martı çığlıkları karşıladı
bir zamanlar damak zevkimi
narkozlu balık yendi önce
boğazın legal sularında
sahil soğuma kimlik sorunca
kalktılar arelacele
aldılar soluğu
dişçi koltuğunda
apse yoktu bereket
takıldı protez
sabahın ilk ışıklarına..
..
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 12:03 PM UTC
Morning Spider
What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of the German coffee maker?
A brusque “guten Morgan”
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
****** off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then?
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby
with two-step authentication?
Choirmaster alone in the apse,
dwarfed by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding flood water, bestowing
the random fly of mercy, deigning
to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale, perhaps,
working the tiny shuttles your batons.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
Morning Spider
What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker?
A brusque “guten Morgan”,
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
****** off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent, even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then?
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby with two-step
authentication?
But your solitude, small bare bulb
of abdomen, put me in mind
of a monks tonsure, choirmaster
alone in the apse, dwarfed
by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding the flood waters,
bestowing random flies of mercy,
deigning to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale,
working the tiny shuttles of your batons.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC