"aubades" poems
*Glorious wanderers on Death's celadon globe
Stride- in sombre ceilidh- the arsenic haar,
Mantle of Dis' harrowing of derelicts.
Feral shadows stroking the hollow strath
With crimson paces aloft Acheron's shores,
The Erinyes, in macabre cavalcades
Walk the land, bereft, forever of aubades*
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
On harried days when our world seems unkind,
There lies a place my senses crave to be,
Within the shady woodland wild and free,
To ease the burdens of my troubled mind.
I soak much joyous sounds the Wood bestows,
Absorbing dawn aubades each songbird sings,
While zephyrs murmur notes like chello strings,
Beneath a harsh cacophony of crows.
Infectious woodland scents I fondly yearn,
A wily pungent fox peers with unease,
The sweetness of the wildflower on the breeze,
Against the bitter of the trodden fern.
A rotted branch falls crashing to the floor,
As Nature shows its sudden crushing powers,
Two butterflies then kissed some purple flowers,
Such gentle grace that startled me much more.
A speckled thrush begins her fledgling wean,
In search of ration squabble in a fume,
A worm to share with raised and ruffled plume,
She watches proudly o'er in perfect preen.
The sparkling sunlight dapples through the shade,
As if it dripped from sun drenched foliage,
A scene where light and shadows both engage,
Unleashing dazzling splendour on the glade.
These wilds intoxicate me as I stroll,
The need for drugs or liquor I decry,
Near Nature I am naturally high,
As Gaia lulls me to her leafy soul.
Dusk slowly looms, as daylight moments wane,
Return I must to cruel society,
The healing woods restored much piety,
This ailing mind refreshed and freed of pain.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
The haunted room was his. The haunted room was always his.
“A haunted room, fit for a haunted man,” they said, and the key hung untouched for months upon the hook, gathering dust and rust, and waiting for the day Topher Weiher would come down into town.
He liked this room, despite its sinister history. The disgruntled spirit of the strange Mountain Man was said to stalk this room, pacing its length with restless strides, unable to sleep, shrieking soundlessly into the gathering darkness like a banshee drunk on the thigh-meat of innocent barmaids.
The window where he stood was far enough from the cold of the river but close enough to hear the roar and roll of its waters. High enough to hear the beautiful aubades of dusk as the sun plummeted from the rumbling skies.
Standing at the window looking up at the red clouds, Weiher missed the days when songs were still sad.
“Some days you can still see him standing there, at the room window,” the town children would say in hushed voices. “The strange man, from the mountains,” they said, and Weiher could never really tell if they were talking about him or the ghost.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
they say a broken heart
is a void
that needs to be refilled
in order to be repaired.
but darling ,
my broken heart isn't the void.
the void
is the space you occupied
our yellow mornings , aubades strung in the rising light.
our crystal cerulean afternoons , the sky clearer than our minds.
our byzantine evenings , we can smell the rain from inside.
our pure black nights , drowning in the heaving weight of our day.
now they are all seconds
seconds to minutes
minutes to hours
hours to days
days that drag me through and through
because i dont have
a reason to wake up
and be sanguine
for what the day
has in store for me
like i used to.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
I see everything absolutely breathtaking.
How can you not think your gorgeous yet,
Sparkling hazel nut colored eyes,
Aren't the most intriguing possessions?
They are breath taking and powerful,
Enough to give me nervous butterflies.
Do you see the way the clouds capture the aubade,
Making if only for a second,
The perfect luscious scene.
The aubades final adieu,
Makes a masterpiece that is,
Unimaginable to create.
Exposed to fluorescent damp smell of the rainy Earth,
Or the enchanting pin perforation of snowflakes,
Laying,
Reposing,
Relaxed,
On your fare skin.
Your time,
Seized,
To get close as you can to the galaxies,
That construct the roof above you to explore.
They are ludicrous at midnight,
When each aubade becomes,
Luminous against the obsidian of vigorousness.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
I've always been a fan of distress.
Maybe it's the broken words that get woven into melodies,
that I would relate to in the past, but remember in the present.
The heart breaks in hall ways and idling cars.
The bitter bedrooms, queen sized quilts of cluelessness,
Pessimism encompassing optimism as the day surrenders to night
and no aubades are sung.
I've also always been a fan of love,
A beautiful mind I wouldn't mind exploring.
Searching for love can wear a person out,
so I became my other half, and I learned to love who I am.
I fell in love with the idea of being in love with life.
And when you came into my life, etherial and honest
something out of a book I've never read.
The poems in every chapter that appear as we evolve are beautiful.
I still have a soft spot for the melancholy.
I'm still in love with the fine, light rain that falls in the evening hours,
the serenity of silence and aubades as the sun expires.
But I'm also in love with you and your undying ability to love me.
I've gotten to know your mind, your body, your countless strengths and the imperfections you see in yourself but I can't.
The way your words convey confidence and belief.
I don't know if the universe fights for souls to be together,
but I think some things are just too strange and strong to be coincidences.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC
I wish I could hate you
The same way you hate me
I wish I could possess your same inner peace
You can't stand that I can't speak when I am
Stressed
Or sad
Or feeling heavy with you
I'm sorry I can be so hard to talk to
We are fireside breathing with your hand on my thigh
I'd smother the sorrows from our sonnets
But the smoke is in my eyes
I'm wrapping twine around my pinky, turning it purple just for fun
Next time you claim you miss me,
know you're not the only one
Because now I don't know how I feel about January nights or sunset views
Or long stares or aubades I wrote for you
I miss me too
And I'm sorry I'm so hard to talk to
I'll break the lines of the smile in your eyes that weep
Now lay your head down
Forget me
Go to sleep
Oh, my muse
My playmate
You silly past time of mine
Oct 25, 2022
Oct 25, 2022 at 9:37 PM UTC
I used to picture you
with a voice oscillating like ocean water, casting words
as nets on a surface shimmering effervescent green.
And even the handful of stars outside dawdled just
a while longer to see the fish rise up and wink
out in the morning sun, scales slipping together
the way clay lips slot against coral white heart-cages
and curved, ivory xylophones patterned like shadows
and gold strips of sun. Everything quivers; we are only a
cosmic moment singing aubades, horsehair and rosin falling
like shooting stars against mahogany and warm steel, origami
folded bed, redefined by sharp angles and all the ways I am not afraid.
When we rise to sleep, pressed sable will drip down
and the air will be rimmed with the sea salt tang of dried coffee.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
IV. dawning at the sanctum
We were arms and legs,
ruffled pillows and
twisted blankets
bare writhing bodies
reflected in a warped carnival mirror
glowing embers of a fallen star
Your strokes
tentative and wavering
in an unsteady tremolo
find me where the shy dawn
dare caress the black crystal waters
that sparkled so green
amidst cold oceans of metaphor
and warm, streaky peach jam skies
gift me, make me, break me, grant me
may i find nourishment and sustenance
in suckling the dripping honey
from your velvet rose-tinted lips
slake Your thirst
sate Your hunger
drink from these fountains
and eat from these briars
revel in my sanctum
but let no blessed water
pass my parched lips
i will etch soliloquies into the nape of your neck
i, the calligrapher, you my masterpiece
monet's soleil levant and water lilies
botticelli's map of hell and rorshach blots
i will find god in your twinkling sepia eyes
and repose in the contours of your body
chiseled with conviction bold
i will trace lines traced long ago
and discover you anew
lilting auroras behind these tired eyelids
sweet aubades of clotted maple cream
embroidered into the
buttery cashmere shearling
of Your lush being
knotted, blistering lilac and rose
in this churning ****** sea
of flames and sculpted ice
bold sensual soft
caress but never kiss
it's five a.m.
and i still can't sleep
we're out of time
there's no stopping what's to come
but the taste of jasmine white tea
still lingers on my tongue
i'm still shouting to the void
and playing piano in the brazen dark
Jan 25, 2021
Jan 25, 2021 at 11:56 PM UTC
Il eut des temps quelques argents
Et régla ses camarades
D'un sexe ou deux, intelligents
Ou charmants, ou bien les deux grades,
Si que dans les esprits malades
Sa bonne réputation
Subit que de dégringolades !
Lucullus ? Non. Trimalcion.
Sous ses lambris, c'étaient des chants
Et des paroles point trop fades.
Éros et Bacchos indulgents
Présidaient à ces sérénades
Qu'accompagnaient des embrassades.
Puis chœurs et conversation
Cessaient pour des fins peu maussades.
Lucullus ? Non. Trimalcion.
L'aube pointait et ces méchants
La saluaient par cent aubades
Qui réveillaient au **** les gens
De bien, et par mille rasades.
Cependant de vagues brigades
- Zèle ou dénonciation ? -
Verbalisaient chez des alcades.
Lucullus ? Non. Trimalcion.
Envoi
Prince, ô très haut marquis de Sade,
Un souris pour votre scion
Fier derrière sa palissade.
Lucullus ? Non. Trimalcion.
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