"boreal" poems
The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
I can feel the cold setting in.
Each morning is more bitter and frostbitten than the last.
The air and my thoughts are becoming stale, dry, and unpleasant.
The sun does not warm me anymore.
Like me it seems to have become weary.
The birds are gone.
All life seems to have abandoned this place.
Ice clings to my bedroom window, begging to expire in the warmth of a living room fire.
Smoke rises from the chimneys, covering this world in cold ashes and grey.
A life of color now painted banal and mundane.
I can feel the frozen air seeping in, slowly chilling me to my core.
With every passing night I grow colder and slower.
I have become eternally internally tired.
I end each dream embracing the boreal winds.
Ice evaporates into my thoughts.
I can feel the cold setting in.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
A frozen avalanche set my night aglitter,
A festive shroud descends upon the theater.
Crimson sirens cleave apart the verdant veil,
Into the darkness we stride without fail.
Beyond the jubilation lies the next chapter,
With adamant fortitude we give thee cheer.
To each their own joys; for none with least,
Lest we drown in today, few dice are cast.
Behold my picture, let the verdict be: asleepy.
I jest, I grin, yet within: smooth boreal sea.
Tis simpler to repulse that which is coveted,
A gaze that levels souls; I've gladly forfeited.
Why? I cannot answer what I do not know,
Yet reason continues to war with my soul.
Let the rain cleanse my self-aimed ire,
From whence come this burning desire?
By dulcet caitiff, I set my conundrum aside,
The crux of life remain, my Draconian hide.
Plebeian ennui paralyzes my gifted facilities,
Enough sophistry, let I bid thee turgidities.
Let mine eyes be painted blind.
How else to behold beauty so fine?
Why, my sober vision...
Scream in revulsion! :DD
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
The circumambient wings of a seraph
Obstrepously monastic within
Dereliction contemning the
Mendaciously obsequious;
The bathos of ablution grittily
Jejune fulgerating the engrossed.
The chaldean lachrymatory
The ligature of the darklings rheum,
Volently acclaimed
The paladin necromancers
Circumfluous wintry orbs
Ardently accosting the chasm
Lasping tarnation fructifying
Acedias roborant,
Heavens ignoble lassitude
The boreal scope of causality-
Hells predacious moil.
ELEETE J MUIR..
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
It felt so real.
Late, late @ night, blissful and boreal.
I thought it was a dream.
Sent from a sweet moonbeam.
I was deep in dreams at around 3.
It was a sweet sleep... just as you wished for me.
I felt a warm touch, like a soft whisper, slow across my cheek.
Not a straight line, but light, lofty, smooth and oblique.
A smile radiated to my right.
A light in my dark night.
It was you!
YOU!
Celeste!
My light on the horizon from the northwest.
It was you!
Brisk, fresh, strong with courage.
It was you!
Full of life and ready for your next voyage.
I absorbed your smile,
its radiance in the lunar cold.
I just felt
a waiting, a wanting
to behold.
I drifted back to sleep
at first into slumber.
Smiling
Breathing
Easing
Into a dream-like stupor.
I took your hand into mine
as I entered into sleep's dark fall.
I held you tight
to have your back
whenever you call.
I sought to receive you
through your celestial ray.
To be your sunshine
your warmth
your beau
on every day.
* * * * *
I reflect back on
my nights of empty dreams.
I held my thoughts,
as suspended in time,
to protect my heart,
and face my mean.
I sensed your presence and awoke to your signal
Your glow filled my dark room and tapped my soul.
Your distal touch tried its all
To awake me from my nocturnal stall.
It was your simple attention to your awakening it seemed
That simply tipped my trust
of feeling, of wanting,
for fate to create,
an existence
with a sweet moonbeam.
I now ease
into sweet sleep
and deep dreams
of my sweet moonbeam.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns --
It's the MUD,
MUD,
MUD.
It isn't the melee we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet --
It's the RAIN,
RAIN,
RAIN.
It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze --
It's the COLD,
COLD,
COLD.
Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the RAIN,
THE COLD,
AND THE MUD.
2k
Part 1:::::::::::::::::::::
Desert valley in waiting
austere walls of cloud blow
not up and away but in impending status
hanging flashes over boreal sky
birds' wings suddenly alight started
by the voice of the divine and the
aroma of ozone now
lighting on wet pavement hisses as
man and beast scramble for shelter
Part 2::::::::::::::::::::::::
Rain
in the gutter splatter
invisible matter
all penned walls are white
tears of the Hopi
cactus river
saguaro salvation
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 5:13 PM UTC
Lofted over the Cedar murky
waters the color of coffee flow implacable
immutable towards the Southeast horizon
while Pleiades and Orion hunt above tenacious
juniper fingers driven into crags
boreal bonsai stands everlasting
in time
for me to fly this roost
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
The land was a body. Aching bones of mountains limned with boreal forest
veined with iron.
Men dwelt on the body. Erecting altars, howling and dancing round fires
their patriarchal beards knotted and waving
Men killed on the body. Waving crude axes like ancient trailblazers of war
Would wave mammoth club-like femurs
Bodies slay different bodies so they may die somewhere on this body
That heaves with the rock
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
my dear fellow human,
you have been wintergreen against my heart. a sharp brilliance of blinding light captivating me within the infinite breadth of a wandering moment. my lungs frosted first freezing figures of frozen firs upon the memory of each breath. my blood ran cold like that winter river and I was a fish beneath its icy exterior and you have been wintergreen against my heart. a cold slap of circulating change penetrating each layer of protection. you have been wintergreen through them all and now you are wintergreen against my heart. a fresh perspective from the core of my being to the scales of my skin. a permeating resolution of piercing glacial coolness frosting the valves and chambers of this brumal beater. you have taken my breath from gelid gilded gills and scattered the shattered pieces of peace across this boreal landscape. from the hiemal heights of arctic aurora aura's to the lower polar valley's suspended in diamond dust--you have been wintergreen among them all and now these roots are too--cool, clear and growing--and i have never been so grateful for the cold that pierced and kissed this wintergreen heart.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
The night is breathing apartment aroma
and the drunks are tumbling
d o
w n
w a
r d
through marina side
alleys
where the
Jamaican trumpeter
sharpens the brickwork
with clamor
brass rifle bullet sounds.
I get my depression half price at the supermarket,
that man made melancholia/
dehydrating all senses/
gunpowder to a broken barrel.
Sleepless for that distant girl explosive!
She's moving to the big city,
yeah there she goes!
To live in a place where many go to die.
Mango the sky
and ashclouds-
autumnal daisy/
center sunshine/
opalescent ecstasy
reminding one of Indonesia
and Darjeeling balcony evening
on the cubist block
on Kuta
on dreams and nightmares simultaneous
(THE PARANOIA OF PARASITES)
wet air
vapor rain
February pain
in the July bone!
Celebration VOICENOISE
passing phantom
thru paisley sheet
corridor.
Life is strange..
the strangeness of days
receding via the mattress
to time
and memories and
remembering the happenings
of ceremonies
this year
past year
CAVALCADE!
SPECTACULAR STARLIGHT!
OVERVIEW THE FIELD OF TENTS
AND LOVERS!
Life is an unrecognizable chameleon
T R A N S M U T E
to some other color
iridescent
(Where do I go? where do I go?)
Say by December the
name of my Valentine
by boardwalk boreal
and I recall
the current
Summersun
pearl/red
beautiful and beating
(BEDAZZLED LIKE
THE HEART)
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
will you, old friend- follow me?
through the great lakes, and the sea?
over the desert and oasis blue-
through boreal forests, and tropic ones too?
will you bathe in natures fountain ?
or live up on the lonely mountain ?
will you see ever- honestly,
that all that you have come to be
is better than you really know
Lets meet back stage;
after the show.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 6:38 AM UTC
Quisiera guardar la aurora boreal en una pequeña caja de cristal, y colocarla en mi tina.
Para que cuando me bañe, sea la luz tenue que me ilumine mi cuerpo.
Tomar las corrientes del río y echarles burbujas, que los cuatro vientos me las ponga a volar.
Pintar el cielo de verde y el suelo de turquesa.
Por mis venas corre el tequila y en mis oídos tus cuadros me cantan la brisa de las praderas.
Miro el collar de estrellas que me hiciste, y el traje que siempre me quitaste.
La luna baja a besarme la ausencia de tus manos y me ahogo en el pensamiento de que te amo.
Dulce niño de ojitos morenos,me tienes en un embrujo.
Me revuelcas el alma con besos, y tus manos me hacen vivir el cielo.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
The Artisan tongue and Linguistic,
Likes of the melted cheese upon the mouth,
And the gift of tamoto soup in winter tundra.
Those are the gift that I seek upon,
As an indentured servant looking upon the wonders of aurora boreal,
Or a spiritless soul seeking to quench the inner fiber meld with ether.
Dream seeker with nothing to stand,
A adventurer without a quest,
Or the rebel without a cause.
Those days are but a distant past,
Forgotten murmur of mythic dreams,
As radiance dawn from each breath.
Come upon the golden kingdom,
And seek prize upon the window of glory,
While never stand in comfort of being normalized.
The suburban curse of procrastination,
The comfort of daydream,
The arrogant silence of enact.
The desire to seek greatness entwined with destiny,
Perpetual confidence grasp the very breath of existence,
And one would crawl out from nothing.
I breathe to be something,
And seek everything,
To avoid being nothing.
For seekers desire,
And desire seek every essence of breath another day to be all things.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
He travelled to Canada's west coast
To sit in fields of Mushrooms Magic.
Psychoactive effects created rooms
Filled with white cognitive static.
He returned to his hometown small
In Boreal forests of Ontario's Northland.
Beyond locked doors now unhinged
He sank deeper in grey matter quicksand.
No one quite knew Joshua anymore.
Disturbance eclipsed his passive way.
At the local pub he told Ed and me
He was being followed by the C.I.A.
In one weeks time he picked up a knife
And stabbed his father and mother.
His father lay dead on the kitchen floor
She played dead and tried not to shudder.
Joshua was found just sitting in their car
When police came to the scene of the crime.
In a hospital for over thirty years now
His room has been a static void sealed mind.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
From ice to fire
To land from sea
The deepest desire
Stands carefree
Before the endless
Rides of night and day
Two siblings happy to say
They see him, sorrowful raven, mess
Not a haven in his mind
To appease the lost divine
Yet a stirred soul lies behind
This truth bound by a whine
In chase still alive
A little they smile
No haste given
No sadness forgiven
Left now with the empty sky
Of fully woven worlds
"With our dull ****** swords
We fight to try and lose high
But what of a stray ****
In a forest of boreal trees
Funeral only awaits my plead
To forever cease"
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 6:06 PM UTC
My biggest fear
is that I will someday be 61
looking back on my life
as an imposter in a body
I don’t own
that I won’t
have stretched the skin and
scarred the cracks
or let the sun into my retina
I fear I won’t have drunk from life
as one drinks from a waterfall
part of a beautiful cosmic rushing
that only exists to **** you.
I read the numbers on headstones
and count the warning
that my life exists as a dash.
I have pocked my face with dots
so I’ll exist as morse code after
I’m gone
so that the synapses in my
alwaysthelightson brain
will sink into the soil as static
and evaporate into the sky
where I’ll live as lightning,
striking the tall boreal pines.
I read thunderstorms
to speak to the dead,
offering prayers of roots
and bloodshot eyes.
I can hear what
they’ve been telling me
all along
deep in my nerves
we’re not alone
and
we’ll be ok.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
I saw great shade-casting green built upon pines,
like statues ripped the Earth stretching up to the skies.
Never could you reach, and yet you live to try,
But the heaven and the Earth seem lovers by design.
Billowing clouds, feeding roots that build shrines
that I won't live to see completely arise.
For my own pallid self - or for beauty - heart cries?
They stand so stoic and draped, in flowers and vines.
As I'm lost in the calls of the overhead crows
rained in each fluttering fall of feather delivered.
Drop. Like my once-glossed eyes emptying this soul
and my weighty life into the likewise sobbing river.
Casting out, casting off. Isn't it the same as to sow?
The river does not pause; why then dwell on what differed?
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 6:02 PM UTC
Thrice a summer aphrodisia snickered in my face
Yesteryear the fog of boreal passion surfaced across my window frame
Omnifarious passions are surfacing
The insignificance of homosapiens stood the test of time
Life molests all of us, maul us, then sing us to sleep
Spiraling through dimensions decorated with brothels and strip clubs
Aging with the grains of pebble stones
Aphrodisia is a tourist
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
after slicing through
a few white layers of
the anthropological egg,
an erudite chef
observed a ***** in the fetal position
he was well-preserved,
a black olive in a pickle jar,
preceding the beginning of recorded time,
and the boreal age
the bells were all flat then;
curves came later
he held a golden key in his hand
and a crumpled scroll,
a map of sorts
in a series of 1 and 0
connected by dots
the chef took the key,
deciphered the scroll,
put the ***** in chains,
and stole his gold
then he prepared
a delectable feast for the world....
history!
~ P
(#Miseducation)
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
soon we'll say goodbye
to winter's boreal order
of freezing disdain
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 7:24 PM UTC
We are the Choice of the Will: God, when He gave the word
That called us into line, set in our hand a sword;
Set us a sword to wield none else could lift and draw,
And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law.
East and west and north, wherever the battle grew,
As men to a feast we fared, the work of the Will to do.
Bent upon vast beginnings, bidding anarchy cease--
(Had we hacked it to the Pit, we had left it a place of peace!)--
Marching, building, sailing, pillar of cloud or fire,
Sons of the Will, we fought the fight of the Will, our sire.
Road was never so rough that we left its purpose dark;
Stark was ever the sea, but our ships were yet more stark;
We tracked the winds of the world to the steps of their very
thrones;
The secret parts of the world were salted with our bones;
Till now the name of names, England, the name of might,
Flames from the austral fires to the bounds of the boreal night;
And the call of her morning drum goes in a girdle of sound,
Like the voice of the sun in song, the great globe round and round;
And the shadow of her flag, when it shouts to the mother-breeze,
Floats from shore to shore of the universal seas;
And the loneliest death is fair with a memory of her flowers,
And the end of the road to Hell with the sense of her dews and
showers!
Who says that we shall pass, or the fame of us fade and die,
While the living stars fulfil their round in the living sky?
For the sire lives in his sons, and they pay their father's debt,
And the Lion has left a whelp wherever his claw was set;
And the Lion in his whelps, his whelps that none shall brave,
Is but less strong than Time and the great, all-whelming Grave.
1k
MINESTRONE NIGHTS (on the summer of 2018)
Deep in the incubus of fantasy
As torrid painter makes its art
Rips a flash of an epiphany
A plaintive whisper of the heart
Hobgoblin summer full of slobber
Beget febrile reveries unkind
As dance character’s macabre
A three-ring circus in my mind
Each minestrone moldy night
When body craves boreal slumbers
Akin cat on hot tin roof I fight
Dank sog my sleep encumbers
Comes morn aft time eternal
Half charged at start of day
Abscond sodden dreams infernal
Tormenting orb is up to play
I was hot before I even knew
Never really did cool down
Too warm again, for morning dew
Vague slumber’d avec frown
Haven't slept for an age or eon
Cadaver tacky to the tepid touch
Arise, trepid to perspire, like peon
Labour in this broil is just too much
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC