"bedecked" 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
Lovely dainty Spanish needle
With your yellow flower and white,
Dew bedecked and softly sleeping,
Do you think of me to-night?
Shadowed by the spreading mango,
Nodding o'er the rippling stream,
Tell me, dear plant of my childhood,
Do you of the exile dream?
Do you see me by the brook's side
Catching crayfish 'neath the stone,
As you did the day you whispered:
Leave the harmless dears alone?
Do you see me in the meadow
Coming from the woodland spring
With a bamboo on my shoulder
And a pail slung from a string?
Do you see me all expectant
Lying in an orange grove,
While the swee-swees sing above me,
Waiting for my elf-eyed love?
Lovely dainty Spanish needle,
Source to me of sweet delight,
In your far-off sunny southland
Do you dream of me to-night?
18.7k
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Snow drifts down
laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
The snow falls,
falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
all is still,
nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
dreaming,
of being kissed by the Sun.
© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
In the pursuit of happiness I walked the roads,
I stopped at milestones, leaned on posts.
I saw a flock of birds in flight,
Rings of gold.. an orb so bright.
I looked around at mountain walls,
The raging sea, white frothy falls.
I looked up at the sky serene,
The valley lush a summer green.
Banyan trees with leaves bedecked,
Gulmohars lined with blossoms red.
Faces walked engrossed in streets,
A touch, a nod when eyes would meet..
Saw hunger, anguish, weary eyes,
Sorrow, terror, shock, surprise,
I saw the tears of loss and grief,
Faith, resilience, resolve, belief.
I heard the laughter of a child,
I saw the magic of a smile.
A hug, a kiss, a warm caress,
A helping hand that love expressed
I felt the cord of love that binds,
Hearts across the world and time.
I found happiness in little things,
In nature that surprises springs..
His art, the colors that I saw,
That left me breathless, full of awe,
Happiness in that special touch,
In smiles, laughter, that gentle brush.
In kind words that wonders do,
In love that breathes life anew.
In all things that I could see,
I knew happiness begins with me,
Within me what I see or do,
The trail of thoughts I send to you.
And happiness is what I found,
When happiness was spread around.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
Spring is the awaited child,
seeds to plant, plans to explore,
conjuring promise and renewal,
That awakens our soul.
Summer inspires with long
sunny days basking in the
embrace of green crops growing,
relief from heat under leafy trees,
leisurely nights of clean skies,
bright stars on high to infinity.
Fall comes as a warning beacon,
days of long shadows,
cool nights with chill breeze,
bedecked trees
in reds and yellow.
The report of hunters guns
from the depths of the forest.
Winter's a prelude to gloom,
short days, low sun when it
appears, wind-chills that burn.
Snow to shovel, ice to befuddle.
Conjuring envy and impatience
for the return of Spring.
So the seasons flow
one into another,
while every year lived
the cycles grow shorter,
with no guarantees of
how many more may follow.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 12:00 AM UTC
In every “Poetry Place”
There is a Copycat Corner.
We know it’s a disgrace
So here’s another “Warner”.
Why they do it I’ll never know,
Those Copier and Pasters.
Their words they seem to glow,
But they’re a bunch of Wasters.
Taking all that praise,
For stuff they haven’t written,
It seems to be a craze,
And many do get bitten.
Just Google their “fine words” or use those plagiarism sites,
And you will find the original poems
Bedecked with copyrights.
I’m sure this place just isn’t free
Of people like this,
Just look and see!!!
The Admins must get their fingers out,
And give these villainous rogues a massive clout.
Me, I will show all due diligence,
But my job here,
Is to show My brilliance.
(NOT someone else’s!).
Paul Butters
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
A palpable discord keeps me
turning all through the night
until the late rays of Sun
shine by again
I want a dreamcatcher
Feathery-spider web-
To keep my hypnagogic rest
sacred to me
And then I can wish
him closer...
Without a separating sea
I reserved my sleep to calmer
nights where my dainty ribs
caressed an incense-ridden
wind
My dreams are a shade
happier than me
I found my wrists
bedecked in fine jewelery
There's no chiming of antique
clocks in my sleepy
subconscious knots.
My eyes were not
corrosed over
so when he spoke I
comprehended
with crystal orbs
I'd hoped I find him through
disheveled bedsheets under
the waxing moon...
It illuminated my skin and sent me
soundly reveling in the hazy countenance
To me he's Elvis' love child
He's a wish fulfilled to me
I discovered an idol
I write letters,
coveted, held close
I worship what I
know of him
My thoughts are almost this
tangible-thing like a rope
I could grab and
make a knoose out of
perhaps it's time to slay
the golden bull
I struck his wayward glance
by some silver spring of snow
He's travelled to the ruins
of cathedrals with
chipped limestone on
the doors arched-shape...
darkness on the otherside...
Mother Mary follows,
walking through some threshold
hallway
Crooked stem, bent leaves...
A pruned up crackled rose
for me to eat
Those eyes...
dark brown, almond-shaped
Squinty with sparrow-feet
I'm waiting in the mountains
Clouds covering my eyes
Ocean blue in the stark sunshine
blinding me and enveloping me
when the music dies
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Gauri, Kali
The fair one, the dark one
Bedecked in silks naked body bedecked with skulls
flowers and jewels taken from demons
dark hair tied in a long lovely plait her wild hair hangs all about her
Jagatmaata-Mother of the World The Fierce One-Destroyer of Evil
Feminine grace personified Feminine Power in all its glory
her kindness assures her countenance strikes fear
Calm and peace in the hearts of evil doers
She uses the primal energy
To nurture, to create To destroy, to cleanse
Some days I’m like her On other days like her
On most days I’m both
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC
Pickled on quixotic tonics
he strives for a polyglot's poise,
balancing plaster peas
at the end of his tippler's tongue.
But the rough-surfaced pearls prickle
his too-ticklish bed of pink,
and gulped down, he administers
only a lessoned indigestion.
Flipping the flop, he prevaricates
himself into the tight-fit corners
of a parallelogram traced
by unsolemn processionals
bedecked in platitudinous finery.
Their porous smirks drip sticky
reminders of a plethora
of previously pernicious exercises
and dampen his fluffy ambition,
prodding procrastinations until
his drunken promise dries out
to become a posthumous wish.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
For this is a swan song.
A final curtain call.
Never seen a dead swan lain on the river bank.
Wondering where they go to die.
A sweet song for swans written.
An exercise in eloquence.
Bedecked in full white plumage.
In elegance she glides, as they glide, a family.
With their swan lake family.
Pen floats next to cob swan with cygnets dancing alongside.
Protected creatures cosseted, for Ma'am of the realm.
These ugly ducklings grew into quilted passions.
A passion of beautiful aggression is what we will receive.
Should we stupidly disturb?
These beauteous, arrogant tranquil birds.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt
to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe
by Enheduanna (circa 2285-2250 BCE)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, house, you wild cow!
Made to conjure signs of the Divine!
You arise, beautiful to behold,
bedecked for your Mistress!
Enheduanna, the daughter of the famous King Saragon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history and the first known author of prayers and hymns. Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is also one of the first women we know by name. She was high priestess of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. Keywords/Tags: Enheduanna, translation, Sirara, Nanshe, Akkad, Sumer, Ur, Sumerian temple hymns
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 6:02 AM UTC
The wave that crashed
my soul
The seashells bedecked in gold
The mess I couldn't erase
with every trace of constellations
pulsated a face
And the day gone black
under a bedsheet
Wine spilled on a cuffling
The longing for drizzle
and rain
The levitation from the
Earth like tripping windowpane
A watchtower showing you home
You are the well I'm crawling
down
( To float in the clearlight )
The alchemy and sigils in stone
A voice that mumbles
in my sound ears when I'm alone.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
at the fete du bons vieux temps - Cahokia, Illinois
White clouds of rosin dust
Flew off Geoff's fiddle strings
As his earth dance
Soared above the pulsing
Of friends on bass and guitar.
Tuniced men bowed
To their bonneted ladies
Bedecked in colonial frocks.
In turn each pair sashayed
Down and up the line,
Whirled and laced their way
Through outstretched hands
Of family, friends and neighbors
Shaping an arch at line's end
For all the rest to pass beneath.
All across our country's timescape
Countless bridal pairs
Have sealed their sacraments
Spinning in the whirlwind
Of the Virginia Reel -
With each interclasping of arms
A blessing upon their unions.
Geoff lifted his bow from the strings,
And bowed with his band to receive
The applause rippling the air
Like the patter of ancestral rain
Nourishing the sweet soil
Of our common earthly essence.
February, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
When I write here of desire
This specific wanting; the how of now,
I am not talking about the tightrope walk of lust,
That pleasant lower belly pull;
A trembling, tugging need.
My wanting right now is for the soft warm crush
Of your hand in mine as we stroll through autumn halls
Bedecked with fallen leaves, the shedding trees
An audience to the resplendence of our love
Which deepens into the season of sleep
With the same inevitability and beauty
As the crispness of the morning
And the birds that heed the calling
Of promised warmth, in another land,
Another space and time.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Like you were a first trip to NYC,
or a perfect view of the cosmos
from that clearing on Sylvan Avenue,
I was agape and fawning while you sauntered
out from your double doors, to the end of your driveway,
to where I rocked on my heels eagerly
on Allen Dr. at 6:23
Come 7:15, we bedecked your body
with stripped and frayed Armani
in tribute to the Walkers we've seen;
cool-white fluorescence drew emphasis
on the harmony between your ivory simper
and each cobalt marble that rolled
and flicked beneath your tuckered eyelids
by some sort of beatnik artistry.
Frankly, my chest swelled with fever
when I noted the scrunch of your nose
askance to liquid-latex applications,
or the way black cherry sap wept
from the corners of your mouth
while dislodging the blood-capsule
in-between your molars
and your stately, hollow cheek at 7:50
And I noticed around 8:00,
when I had slowed you to a halt
near the crosswalk on Montauk
between Coastal and Le Soir
to fix the scar-tissue on your chin,
that if I ever knew there to be one,
you made a most stunning zombie
with my Tom & Jerry cap lining your scalp;
Which made the stain left by the makeup
worth the trade of my hat
in exchange for your company,
as we picked up a twelve-pack
at the 7-11 just down the street
before we returned to the party.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
My Leah was lovely
in her pearl bedecked dress.
as she circled the chuppah
seven times , not one less.
In the presence of friends
I gave Leah my ring.
That how we were wed,
it's the nature of things.
Our party was loud
and in truth seemed a blur.
My bride filled my vision,
such was my love of her.
At some point, the Steward,
our wine sommelier ,
grew concerned at the drinking-
Running out was a fear.
As we both have large families,
and they like to drink wine.
your supply may run dry
at inopportune times.
Cousin Jesus was there,
with Mary, his Mother,
a studious soul
and devout like few others.
When they heard our plight;
learned the shame we would face.
That's when cousin Jesus
got up from his place.
I don't know what transpired,
I'll just say what I heard-
How he made wine from water
by the strength of his word.
A superior vintage
My palate proclaimed!
The guests were all pleased
and the party was saved.
Even our wine Sommelier
was impressed
He wondered why we
saved the best wine for last.
These three years that followed
filled with sadness, not mirth.
Jesus died on a cross,
Leah died giving birth.
I sit here alone,
as the last of my line.
Now sleep only comes
with the last of the wine.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
*In sweet spring when flowers grow
and trees bedecked in living green
shall cast shade upon moss and fern.
Cedar, pine, beech, ash, and oak
amidst firs and evergreen,
dazzle with drop of morning dew
and laced in spider silk.
In spring forest come alive once more
as does all living things around
with fragrant air to breathe.*
Тадеус
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
The peace of this small neighbourhood, is shattered as the door caves in
As masked marauders seek with guns, the criminals that hide within
But they find no deadly drug baron, Nor killer, or ****** animal
But a grey-haired lady, small and frail, in terror as she beholds them all
At gunpoint then her hands are tied, and her walking stick cast to the floor
As she is marched by mighty men, to the waiting van outside her door
Her heart skips wildly and her breath is tight, as she is bundled roughly inside
Her dignity and rights of law, are swept away and cruelly denied
And across the town there sits a girl, with kindly, smiling joyful eyes
A teen who spends her youthful zest, bringing hope and joy to other lives
But little does she know this day, that her future days are to dwell
Not in delight and dancing halls, but in a dark and lonely prison cell
And elsewhere stands a local hero, a man so honoured by decree
Acclaimed by peers and politicians, as a citizen of kindly deeds
Yet on this day, he is torn away, from his family who are left in tears
As this father and devoted husband, is imprisoned now for seven years
Who are these ones snatched by the state, and treated so unjustly
Held without cause or consideration, and despised so bitterly?
They obey all laws and pay their dues, and love their neighbours when they can
And share a hope of a future bright, even though their hope is banned
They are young and old, black and white, and gathered from diversity
They wage no wars, won't steal or lie, but treat all people with dignity
For their crime is not of violence, nor abuse, or fraud or robbery
But of being Christians and trying to show, Christ-like love to you and me
And what of those who terrorize them, the land where this grim drama is set
That mighty nation, so paranoid, that it considers them a threat
This pretender to the throne, bedecked in red and white and blue
Is a jealous king who hates the ones, who, to Christ their King are ever true
But as they languish in prison cells, awaiting justice from the King
The one whose commandments they obey, is smiling down and proud of them
For their hope is not in men of law, nor international decree
But their just and loving King, Christ Jesus, and in God- Jehovah's sovereignty
Dedicated to Jehovah's Witnesses imprisoned in Russia
Jun 26, 2021
Jun 26, 2021 at 7:26 AM UTC
Elegant,wrapped up in stolen garb,
Naked mink and ermine,
Cower coldly in the gutter,
Undressed.
The rich ***** bedecked with jewels and pearls.
Stolen from the littlest girls.
Bracelet,a creation from reptilian teeth,
Neath her coat,
A chill, heart resides,
The tiger in front of the fire,
Once he was real and she was a liar.
She declared a love of animals,
The ones whose heads hung on the walls.
Nouveau riche?
Nope, a super *****
She heard the scratches at the door,
Alas alack, she was no more.
Haw haw.
(c) Livvi
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
i.
Mine Filipino rose beckoned me
Cometh up hither;
She bedecked her head
In oriental feather's.
ii.
She cut mine chain's
When once was tethered;
She entered mine brain
With sunshined weather.
iii.
Her countenance
Flew me on chariot letter's;
With romance open
Thus mine world turned better.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication-filipino rose
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
Such joy a day can bring to hearts of men,
The trees bedecked, in finest autumn hue;
A throng of merriment upon the heath,
The glistened lilac, wrought in morning dew.
The drummer boys, a-beating on their drums,
Old peddlers pushing carts, piled high with wares;
Beggars, worn and haggard, as their clothes,
And women, in their finest, catching stares.
The roaring cheers as horse parades go by,
Delivering up the bounty of the feast;
The VIPs a-riding in fine style,
Their open carriage, drawn behind the beast.
As one by one, they climb above the crowd,
Their speeches cheered, with jeers and playful boos;
Then swiftly swinging, onwards with their tour,
The crowds go jostling, chasing better views.
The butcher greets the VIPs with glee,
And demonstrates his mastery of meat;
With sharpened knives, a-gleaming in the sun,
His chopping rhythym keeps a steady beat.
As shadows lengthen, slowly crowds disperse,
With pondrous looks, a day to e'er remember;
And every year, its carnival once more,
Lest we forget, the fifth day of November.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
Would you now go spitefully hating the sun
Or go viciously plundering pretty flower beds
Or go crushing underfoot, fall leaves in contempt
Or turn gently into the fresh fold of snow?
Come, come, dear child, hold out thy hands
Let me gently embrace thy spindly frame
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.
If I told you which season you'd die in
Would you relent with ease, when the hour falls upon you?
Should you know I'm not as fearsome as most believe
Could you surrender the lent Light I must return?
You already know the answer without knowing
For it is not how you look, but how you look!
You no longer remember, it's been so long
So, I ask it plain: Would you really want to know?
You are not just a spoke on the wheel of Life
Which needs to, as the seasons, turn resolute
Yet you pass through them all, simultaneously
Save, your linear faculties confine your esoteric bridge.
Take joy in aestival airs, the apex of fruition
Springtime soil so easily squandered, bear in mind
Access introspective glimpses with hiemal hibernation
Autumnal foliage is but a screen, time to get real!
You cannot have the sunshine without the rain
Nor expect fine blossoms without fair travail
Seek thus the true bounty bedecked in full view
If you had but the seer's eyeless sight, dear guest.
As you travelled from one season to another
Did you live fully, even in between them?
Yes, the tiny labyrinth-passages you overlooked
Time to exact the price now run overdue.
Too attached you are to world and kin
For none of these, can you take with you
But beneficial acts and and good intent
Cosmic trick of genes is cecity delivered.
The one whose life you may regard so worthless
Retains a level which allows his soul to pass through
The eye of a needle, not measured in numbers
Hoist your soul on, tilt your core... I carry you home
So, come, wayworn traveller, hold out thy hands
Let me tenderly close thy brief visit here
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak, prithee
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.
Star Toucher, 24 March 2013
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
Kissed the heatwave goodbye at last,
All waving as she left,
While armies of black clouds amassed across the pinkish sky,
Manipulated by light tricks in the heavy glow,
Diminutive raindrops thickened as we danced,
Worshiping the shower of cooling joy,
We danced in celebration, in appeasment of Thor,
The world becoming more content,
The blazing fireball came and went,
Bedecked with paste of glory breeze,
Kissing all around,
The rain came dousing baking souls,
Chased heat into submission with electric fireballs,
Dots and dashes,
Nova flashes,
Thunder roared as lions purr,
Bodies relieved to breathe again,
Headache of oppressed airs' hatred,
Dissipated at last,
Sleep weighed heavily on the eyes of the sufferers,
'Til now at last with cooler skies and night wishes,
With rest they're truly blessed!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
She was
the Queen of Spring;
even her softest sighs
could sing.
Daffodils sprouted
from her lips;
Lilacs grew
around her hips.
Tulips blossomed
in her eyes;
Forsythia
bedecked her thighs.
Oh, she really was
the Queen of Spring;
even her softest sighs
did sing.
- mce
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
The rain fell, delicate as muslin
heavenly threads, coming undone
From pearly gates of paradise.
Weaving fluid intricacies underneath
The grainy sands, grooved with drops
And canopies laden with silken film
dewy, with crystal orbs suspended
a diamond mosaic radiant
Under the ashen clouds.
Crystalline drops clung
Onto ends of leaf blades
Forming a grand chandelier
Hundreds hung
On slender boughs
And the tree stood with
an embellished crown
Bedecked with clear dew
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 1:33 PM UTC