"bejeweled" poems
she had flaked away her memories
and stepped up
with a ponderous heart,
held by two gentle hands;
and saying goodbye, did she,
as she slipped off her skin,
for the moment blood stains
the kumari's tender soul,
bereaved, will she become,
for a goddess never bleeds.
her feet shall never touch
the tattered, naked ground,
for it engulfs and devours
and burns off the kumari's flesh.
holding her pure spirit, and
accepting a cruel death sentence,
her quivering soul
cupped but a glimmer of hope,
as the fire would flicker
and lash and whip
as her skin flakes again,
and the kumari vanishes.
but, if she remains unscathed,
blood shall be drawn,
and the gods will tremble and
her body will collapse.
the world will consume her
once again.
a kumari's blood,
drawn, now at death,
trembling and alone,
had she sobbed tears of joy,
for no longer the weight
must she bear in her heart,
of being a kumari;
but a kumari is she,
and the world has not chose her,
but she has chosen to be.
she had withered away,
heart no longer ponderous,
she stepped up.
and her wishes from within
passed on to the fearful others,
held by two gentle hands, and
with a gentle flutter of her eyes,
next to her charcoal stained skin,
had her heart stopped;
for her bejeweled crown had been stained with blood,
and the kumari realized that
she had died long ago.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
Passages on Fatherhood
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy Michael Burch
He is my treasure,
and by his happiness I measure
my own worth.
Four years old,
with diamonds and gold
bejeweled in his soul.
His cherubic beauty
is felicity
to simplicity and passion—
for a baseball thrown
or an ice-cream cone
or eggshell-blue skies.
...
It’s hard to be “wise”
when the years
career through our lives
and bees in their hives
test faith
and belief
while Time, the great thief,
with each falling leaf
foreshadows grief.
The wisdom of the ages
and prophets and mages
and doddering sages
is useless
unless
it encompasses this:
his kiss.
Keywords/Tags: father, fatherhood, child, childhood, children, son, time, years, wisdom, kiss
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 3:36 AM UTC
Abbreviations of the Life Human
these little stories, bejeweled poeticals, long tall tales,
short-held breaths from the savings account breast,
all slow withdrawing-dawning,
all are but the abbreviations of the life human
my fav of course,
the one, the twenty six
the aleph best bet
<•>
4-16-18 10:47pm
a mondo Monday survivors prayer
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:16 PM UTC
pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by gang bang
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon
your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Soon I will be done with the ledger of my adolescence
The sun is still in his puberty, though older than me
The moon is still in her perfection, a blessed queen
I have bejeweled you with the sweat of my love
And have garlanded your beauty with rubies and pearls….
Today you are the ocean of love,
And I the sunny heat of summer.
You came that day, Expecting for your arrival
Sun poured shower of anguish on my amethyst Panjabi
Out of the blue You appeared like an expected spring
In her colorful curcuma domestica costumes.
Your locks under the veil of spring’s yellow umbrella
Still counting the days, the nights, the ongoing time,
Sometimes my heart in quest of a Time –machine….
We took the weight off our feet under a Blessed tree
I touched your hand joining my two palms
The cold current of spring was soaring there
My ill-fated heart could not Kiss your "Petals of Blood"
I drowned, I drowned in my own made ocean……..
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
Candlestick lit,
predatory form divorced
Daybreak take your feet
Assault me with rough dissonant hands
Take from me your bright request
Down in the valley curtains part
The thin plane light overflows
Without light-seeking caresses in the clear sky
Bold accommodations of the sunbursts
To Save
Appalachia
The displeased living hear of me
With Vivomantic symbols
After blackened nights begin
Fornicating on your birthday
Off his downswing that has passed...
"How the call it is unfulfilled
your mind, thoroughly healed
Terrestrial white feathers
And tame plains lament
Yet less tame after
His darkness heals you".
That summer day when the rain shaded shallow
And as dull walls divorce the Bejeweled earth.
You don the nakedness of supernatural awakendness
Painted by these symbols Aiseralam spoke...
Appalachia
The displeased living hear of me
With Vivomantic symbols
After blackened nights begin
Fornicating on your birthday
Off his downswing that has passed...
Candlestick lit,
predatory form divorced
Daybreak take your feet
Assault me with rough dissonant hands
Take from me your bright request
Down in the valley curtains part
The thin plane light overflows
Without light-seeking caresses in the clear sky
Bold accommodations of the sunbursts
To Save
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 9:02 AM UTC
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
<>
https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
in the secluded shell
of night
crimson lips unseal
cosmic stillness stirred
flower ripples tinted
with touches tender
on quivering skin
in moon’s breast
burns a fire tonight
the primeval fire of passion
in it melt
crystals of our emotions
pristine
a night-sky
bliss-soaked
bejeweled
stars hanging complicit
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air
wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind
like finding a papaya inside an oyster
battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing
around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ******
Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight
as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels
of bourbon.
Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling
and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters
with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread.
Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes
winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper
into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs.
The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl
turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
i miss the necklaces you gifted me,
the amethysts you made with your lips
that adorned my neck
and turned our shared whispers in bed
into a bold claim, "MINE."
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 12:39 AM UTC
I told my mother I wanted to be an astronaut
And she smiled and said, "My sweet child,
If you go to space, you'd miss your years:
The laughter of your children,
The embrace of your beloved husband.
Better not waste your life amongst the stars
Once you are of marriageable age."
When I was nearing graduation
In the golden era, the high of the times
I wanted to venture out and learn more
For myself; I had dreams of becoming a hero,
A revolutionary mind, a change in the world.
Alas! My darling, he looked at me with love
And uttered, "But I will provide for you
And our children, in our pretty little house.
What of education, when you are
Of marriageable age?"
One time in a playground, watching
My young boy conquer the slide like a warrior
While carrying my newborn doll in my bejeweled arms,
My neighbor proclaimed, "Oh you are
The luckiest housewife in our neighborhood!
A rich and faithful husband and such
Beautiful children! How I wish
I were as favoured by fate as you were
When you were of marriageable age!"
And just today, while visiting nan
I sipped my afternoon tea, staring at the sunset
I recalled to her the missed opportunities
Of mine own personal growth
And she, rocking in her ancient chair,
She replied to me, "But what could you have done, my dear?
You were of marriageable age."
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 2:47 PM UTC
Coming from the shadows a six armed samurai,
Followed closely by glowstick wielding neon ninji,
Grips of *** swigging pirates swing from the rafters,
Swallowed alive by blacklight monsters,
Gangs of ***** smoking gurus,
Armed to the teeth with translucent didgeridoos,
Monks parade in swirling vestments,
Whilst the shaman trip in lotus testament,
Gods transfixed by blood tear beauty,,
As humanity’s heroes slay bejeweled dragons,
The king with two faces is beheaded,
By his charlatans, harlequins, fools and jesters,
Chaotic, prophetic killers run amok,
The order of lunatics chant as the time is struck,
A battle royale then follows,
As robots and aliens envelope,
Brilliant beams and whirring mechanics,
Clash with steel, rock, bone and sticks,
Screams from the heads of the thieves,
As their brains are devoured by zombies
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Flavored hukkas are passed around,
Alcohol and paan bring the mehfil alive,
The Ustad ji sits down and flexes his fingers,
He knows he’ll be working all night.
Dha dhin dhin dha, dha dhin dhin dha
Na tin tin ta
Ta dhin dhin dha,
Move the Ustad ji’s fingers on the tabla.
While with a veil on her face,
And feet dipped in and henna-colored,
Lips in cheap red lipstick covered,
She unfalteringly, gracefully enters.
Her steps are matched by the chhan chhan
of the ghungroos tied around her ankles so slender.
Eyes set on her, feast on her youth,
Just right for the taste of all her customers.
Bejeweled hands placed on waist,
She stands at the centre of attention,
She lifts a foot, readies to dance,
And begins the nightly convention.
Skillfully, perfectly, sensuously move
Feet well-trained since childhood days,
Harmonizing with the timbre
That the Ustad ji creates.
Tin tin na dhin na dhin na
On the tabla, experienced fingers beat.
Chhan chhan chhan chhan,
She dances, repeating the rhythm with her feet.
Metal bells strike against one another
And chhan chhan chhan-a chhan she goes,
Making breaths prance and jump,
As she strikes on the ground her heels and toes.
Then suddenly she stops and gasps,
Over disgruntled, impatient groans she tries
to hear the sound that flows in, only to her ears.
Several rooms away, a baby cries.
Naach! A voice booms,
Arey naach! More join in.
A glass of wine is shattered by an irritated one.
But she stands still, clutching her chest, frozen.
One sways up to where she stands,
For the veil covering her face, his hands dive.
He uncovers her, but is blinded by the sight of her beauty
And her tears that fill her kajal-smeared eyes.
She’s shaken back to reality as she looks all around.
Her sparkling pall is off her face.
She sees all those drunk men who’ve paid to watch her dance.
She knows she has to make the sound of the cries fade away.
So she stomps her feet on the ground till it hurts.
Hair flying out of braid, bangles clanging,
Anguish replaces her innocent loveliness,
The music in the air is now shrill, jarring.
Her steps match with the tabla’s rhythm no more.
But she dances, planting her feet so hard they weep.
She silences every sound with the noise of her ghungroos,
Praying that the night will lull her wailing son to sleep.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
may the eyes of every
slithering light be blindfolded,
my love is here with me
may the night be
as quiet as a village,
my darling gently dries her wings
let no thought betray,
no stone pelt a shiver,
my dove goes visiting a dream
hush now, oh deepest
of all fathom,
the world floats on a heartbeat
all things done, undone,
things indelible, leisurely
things, now discarded
a parting feather in flight
descends...
her beguiling bejeweled body
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC
Silence. Solvent. Substituted;
subsidised
then marginalised
instituted and muted.
And, often
persecuted.
Rationanalised
by abstraction:
every minuscule
interaction dissected.
All that is left is convoluted,
misconstrued
and rejected.
The lucid bewildered.
The disillusioned bejeweled:
rooted in their state of mind.
Effortlessly self-proclaiming
restraining
and refraining
purging the imagination:
the waning of maligned mankind.
And all of his
illuminated limitations.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Wife-beater, drum player
blower of holy pan-pipes
Plumed, bejeweled in ****** plastic
Inca priest, mestizo beast
multi-kulti prophet
(who chooses to live in the USA)
where liberals kow-tow
while you show them how
to adulate indigenous
crypto misogynous
eager to pay eager to please
diversity’s devotees buy your CDs
a perfect idiot from the mythic Sierra
naming your brood after Andean peaks
pre-Columbian pachamama freaks
eat it up: your Inca schtick
(but ask the battered gringa-chick
about your unsustainable ways:
who hits who smiles who beats who pays ?)
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
Amidst the humidity and darkness of the forest floor
ants scurry in hyper-speed over invisible highways
mushrooms spread boldly beneath wise wooden giants
At night, black panthers weave through thick overgrowth,
undetected, as birds quieten their hungry young and sleep
But even in the rich darkness of the dense forest
micro flashes of silken pink and yellow cream can be seen
catching the moon's light, glowing like precious gems
By day these colours dim in their translucent chambers
atop the world's most beautiful, fearless caterpillar
This tiny being boldly ventures from one leaf to another
while all others cower underneath
Its crystal spikes hide only soft, sticky goo
and it is no bigger than a fingernail
But don't be fooled by its size and raw beauty,
this bejeweled crown easily summons its strength
to move faster than the predators awaiting
Its beauty comes not only from its form
but in its lion-hearted spirit and grace
This confident caterpillar lives
and surrenders to change
without the leaden shackles of fear and worry
and when the time comes
she embraces
and is transformed again
to something new.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
When the wars of men
Shall finally end
Will the lands still be green
Bejeweled with floral adornment
And the mighty seas spirited
In their azure echo of the skies
Or will it reek like the woeful demise
Of a fateful unfading resolve
By the mortal greed of folks
Sedated in devilish hoax
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 12:59 PM UTC
To entertain
means to be starkers
and dance with veils,
to exoticize war
and tremble in
a thousand rhythms.
Bejeweled as a spy,
nevertheless,
don't know why.
Eye of the day,
and a dozen matchlocks
had me inertly settle
upon my knees,
before bending at my waist
to take one last look
at the fiery heavens.
Jul 6, 2020
Jul 6, 2020 at 6:55 AM UTC
<•>
For A:
The Pleasure of Infection
10:53 pm
our all about
is to be the whittler of our personage,
to both hold the knife with care,
but with risky, reckless artistry,
as we shape of what raw materials we are possessed,
into our own reshaped, reformed
most prized bejeweled possession
never mind the shavings and cutaways fallen,
they are fast away, castaway choices made and cannot be retrieved,
for when we whittle, whether our shape desired
which may be prior envisioned or a vision
from the discovery of performing,
they matter no more,
let them go, in their absence too,
they are part and a whit of you,
but not of you, no longer
our commonality in this: everything,
in everything else, so little
but your honesty and crafted, almost dishonesty both ring true,
and infect us with pleasure of recalling
when we
being cut designed and preparing our statue for
an unveiling, but with no date yet set,
and the loveliness of our mistakes,
were precious do-over opportunities
seek out the infection, the infection of discovery,
the risk of pleasure exposed and
your poetry may be either
the antibiotics
when the result is red and unpleasant,
or a celebration,
an invitation to us to be a
semi-silent beholder of your artistry
infections heal after pain and discoloration
but new skin always forms,
but at a different pace for each of us
I see the faces in my carpet nodding agreement,
"always new skin"
oh boy. time to go to bed
go seek out the pleasure of infection,
sadly, happily, it is the only way
good night
from an old man who dreams and schemes of
new skin nightly
but never mind me,
my piece long ago writ
and in need of just a tweak here and there,
call it one too many close shavings,
his poem's treasure trove,
a list
of life's minor irritations
and major lifts
<•>
11:16pm
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
I wanted to be a snowflake
Laid to rest
On the roof above your head
But there were others that fell
Pushing down on my ribs
I held my breath but
I’d already lost my luster
Who can compete with
A fille of seventeen
Eyes bejeweled and
Legs long like palm trees
I wanted to be a woolen blanket
Radiate your warmth
Back over you
You had no need for my tenderness
The beams of late morning
Sent me tumbling down
A gutter pipe
Left swirling in a crack
In the pavement
Hand in hand with your enchantress
Carefully stepping over me
You mustn’t get her shoes wet.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
"my soul to keep"
this prayer
elegant, simple complexity,
comes me haunting,
every evening,
this notion,
a faint ghosting,
repeatedly reappearing
and nightly leaving,
disappointed,
from between my crumpled, sweaty bedsheets,
departing with a demanding unsatisfied, incessant,
coated with a diabolical, unfeigned challenge -
write of me,
relentlessly commanding,
right me
only,
no notions,
come realized,
no poem body, resolved solutions,
are easy offered up
your inner voices,
fettered and deterred,
begging you,
screaming,
this one,
defer, defer,
for better days,
for better poets,
who require
no assembly instructions
cannot improve upon it
my distress, sensed;
the lady of the house,
over the shoulder peering,
sees the moody poem title that
has self-selected to core this poet's core,
for endless torture,
raining down ruinous lamentation
she, ever softly spoken
*"good man,
your soul,
your poems -
both mine to take
and
mine to keep
this title,
this poetic obligation
fulfillingly, fittingly,
my responsibility
mine to write
mine to keep
mine to right
mine to mine
for its
bejeweled contemplations
render easily unto me
what I have Caesarean seized,
pried lovingly and forcibly
from thee within
though seemingly rightfully thine,
title has passed,
legally, tenderly,
into your lover's arms
banish poet thine troubled assembled,
ensemble senses,
this particular poem's journey
and the soul that bears it,
released and relieved,
for now,
mine to take,
mine to keep,
and
thy soul,
in mine to dwell,
and
mine to complete"*
~
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
I cannot restore the lakes that teemed with fish,
nor the maples cultivated by the Mohawk,
the Adirondacks now more remote than boyhood,
a lost dark conversation with jejune oblivion.
Events became the storyline of my life,
and events were always stronger than resolve.
My journey took me inward without time schedule,
dredged up expediencies as layovers.
Still, I felt drawn to the people,
who bejeweled my dreams in neuron flashes,
became therapy, billboards along the escape route.
Turned out that vital knowledge would suffice.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
cigarettes $ pysilocibin
my silhouette is like a lion
feeling high like lifted horizons
soak me in like negative ions
trust your gut, trust your instinct
life is in sync,
but change happens every instant
haters have their opinions
my styles they still mimic
im a discordian magician, ill have your mind tricked
have you question is your reality fact or fiction?
master chef still rules the kitchen
im a bad boy ladies love the villain
cross me once no forgiveness
nova fills all voids thats empty
max pizzazz raps has plenty
im living carefree like heart of a young star,,,
in elementary
but i cant be schooled, bejeweled, or lose my cool
most cannot comprehend the magnitude of nova flames
my path cannot be retraced, you'll be sent on figure eights aka familiar ways, blinded by intense ultraviolet rays aka a violent blaze
i was married to the game
cuhz i accidentally caught the bouquet on my life's wedding day
now i ride the electric wave aka majestic whales
the super nova tares the scales
now i must rebuild my crystal castle with one pail bucket
once i reach the summit
i can enjoy the fruits of my labor
at the all you can eat buffet,
and live in my abundance, never ever hungry...
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
for jul
she asks a-rat-a-tat sensible
peppering of questions;
“why do I give away my poems so easy and so fast, why me”
the answer so readily apparent,
so easy peasy lemon squeezy,
my style is who you are!
every-oft and every-then,
a leader-reader believes my words
so profound so entire so joyful wonderful!
that title passes there and then
a poem without a dedication but a-dressed-up-lovely
without a ^hat,^ missing the zing of panache
that makes its DNA complete, then someone comes along
who loves it so more than enough, placing that rakish angled love with a bejeweled hat pin just so, and that hat makes
the poem so much more, the jewel whispering confirmation
vive la différence!
so a dedication to/is
purest dedication -
exactly!
and this one
a jewel for the poem
for jul
be a
just
be cause
5:47am
<•>
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC