"brier" poems
The lily has a smooth stalk,
Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
Is lady of the land.
There's sweetness in an apple tree,
And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
Is a rose upon a thorn.
When with moss and honey
She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
She sets the world on fire.
52.9k
Roses on a brier,
Pearls from out the bitter sea,
Such is earth's desire
However pure it be.
Neither bud nor brier,
Neither pearl nor brine for me:
Be stilled, my long desire;
There shall be no more sea.
Be stilled, my passionate heart;
Old earth shall end, new earth shall be;
Be still, and earn thy part
Where shall be no more sea.
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Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
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Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of ******
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
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Now the day is done,
Now the shepherd sun
Drives his white flocks from the sky;
Now the flowers rest
On their mother's breast,
Hushed by her low lullaby.
Now the glowworms glance,
Now the fireflies dance,
Under fern-boughs green and high;
And the western breeze
To the forest trees
Chants a tuneful lullaby.
Now 'mid shadows deep
Falls blessed sleep,
Like dew from the summer sky;
And the whole earth dreams,
In the moon's soft beams,
While night breathes a lullaby.
Now, birdlings, rest,
In your wind-rocked nest,
Unscared by the owl's shrill cry;
For with folded wings
Little Brier swings,
And singeth your lullaby.
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The cuckoo, like a hawk in flight,
With narrow pointed wings
Whews o’er our heads—soon out of sight
And as she flies she sings:
And darting down the hedgerow side
She scares the little bird
Who leaves the nest it cannot hide
While plaintive notes are heard.
I’ve watched it on an old oak tree
Sing half an hour away
Until its quick eye noticed me
And then it whewed away.
Its mouth when open shone as red
As hips upon the brier,
Like stock doves seemed its winged head
But striving to get higher
It heard me rustle and above leaves
Soon did its flight pursue,
Still waking summer’s melodies
And singing as it flew.
So quick it flies from wood to wood
’Tis miles off ‘ere you think it gone;
I’ve thought when I have listening stood
Full twenty sang—when only one.
When summer from the forest starts
Its melody with silence lies,
And, like a bird from foreign parts,
It cannot sing for all it tries.
‘Cuck cuck’ it cries and mocking boys
Crie ‘Cuck’ and then it stutters more
Till quick forgot its own sweet voice
It seems to know itself no more.
4.5k
we met like two birds landing on a wire
and chattered with our chirping sounds that sing
at distance where no flights could we conspire
though thoughts of love nests set our ******* on fire
like humans holding tight to form a ring
we met like two birds landing on a wire
that laid upon the face of earth's attire
so far that only light-boxes could bring
at distance where no flights could we conspire
yet caught by love like wings snagged in a brier
two lovebirds sought to ease loneliness's sting
we met like two birds landing on a wire
and dreamed since then of hatchlings we could sire
with eggshells cracking at the scent of Spring
at distance where no flights could we conspire
above the clouds now dreams have floated higher
and soaring past the heavens there do sing
we met like two birds landing on a wire
at distance where no flights could we conspire
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
In a building not concrete of origin
Near a forest we used to forage in
In the village we muck and wander
Towards the river over yonder
On the isle of sacred Avalon
There was new ground to tread upon
Amidst the brier, bog and heath
Among the thistle, needles and oak leaf
Round the timber fire we sang
Of lady luck’s mercy and lady love’s pain
We drank a drink of potent potables
Phrases spoken few of which notable
From the lambs leg we feasted
While the mystic death we cheated
Nights never ending and those yet experienced
We roam them on and on, ever-delirious
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 7:51 PM UTC
Press your ear close.
Sometimes you can hear the breath
rattling in my chest like a bone shrugged
its moorings and ought to be tied back down.
It’s the sound of a canyon
trying to expel a marsh:
hear the stones tumble down,
clatter and splash,
the stiff reeds scouring the walls.
Stuck bristles. Sticks.
The marsh is dauntless.
It can’t be pushed out through
the canyon’s narrow mouth.
It’s the sound of a cave-in.
Press your ear close and
listen to picks and shovels
plinking on the rock.
Soon the oxygen gives out
and all the miners go to sleep,
or they punch a hole through
to the sky and breathe,
mouths pressed to the breach,
gasping a little at a time.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
growing in your lungs.
It’s the sound of a brier patch
set on fire.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 10:26 PM UTC
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
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pile of unpleasant thoughts and words blasting through my ears
silent cries were the reason why my sky is still clear
been eating thorns through the years
from all the flowers this mouth spit
when it should be nothing but brier
i've been drowning in cold water
but i still give warm smile to others
been trying to silence the screaming pain
but being broken inside is something i couldn't really feign.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arch'd brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of ******
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
2.3k
The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.
And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.
“Gifts”.
Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.
Or unforgetful vengeance--
So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--
Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.
Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.
Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.
Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?
The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.
And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
I could have come Goose stepping through that door on eggshells
With an anchor in the old ways, and the wind of change in my sails.
the crux is; decide what you want foul demon,
I can shield you from the fire or burn bright to show you the way,
but I will never burn out and I will never blow away.
So go snare some other paradox boxer
or lay in the brier patch of tangle choice
you once forced into my sides.
I do not permit you to handcuff your heart to my wrists,
and the baggage? Can stay at indoors.
The persistent demand of my presence pushes me into the love affair with the lies I tell myself that make you bearable.
I make no apologies for my vacant smile,
you bought my body not my soul.
And the clocks and deadlines made me to fix a do not disturb sign on my mind.
With the ultimatums delivered to me ear-trumpeting the feelings that already echo in my diminishing proud walk,
The spine slump didn't take long to take hold.
These are not poses.
This is who I am,
or at least who I used to be,
Or at least who I should have been,
But for the game of Chinese whispers Played with champions of the rumour mill and the ghosts they've created.
Removed from the hiding places are the scars and the tumours, I've been curing them in the sun.
If you came to me looking for a hero stance and a place to live at the foot of a mountain called meekness, then I will let you down.
I was bowled over by the crud slides long ago,
And now like all great insects,
I've wriggled free of the muck,
Striving out from under
more like Frankenstein's Monster
thriving in the thunder.
And making an exit,
whether you like it or not.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted!
The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn,
In wonder and in scorn!
Thou weepest days of innocence departed;
Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move
The Lord to pity and love.
The greatest of thy follies is forgiven,
Even for the least of all the tears that shine
On that pale cheek of thine.
Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven,
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise
Holy, and pure, and wise.
It is not much that to the fragrant blossom
The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir
Distil Arabian myrrh!
Nor that, upon the wintry desert's *****
The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain
Bear home the abundant grain.
But come and see the bleak and barren mountains
Thick to their tops with roses: come and see
Leaves on the dry dead tree:
The perished plant, set out by living fountains,
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise,
For ever, towards the skies.
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I woke up this morning
In the middle of the night
Saying to myself
such a dandy plight
Every thorn has it's rose
Every brier patch it's hare
Every Monday has it's shame
for the weekend it bares
You can buy salvation
for a dollar a shot
During happy hour
So much redemption why stop ?
All the glasses
in a row
Why they call them shots
I already know
Every thorn has it's rose
Every brier patch it's hare
Desolation is one after another
Until you just don't care
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
Aloft a Country Hill II
If I should meet you aloft a country hill
I'll build a barn
The field you can till
If you'd care to stay
There will be a place on the porch
Next to mine
We can walk to the pond
Through the brier
Past the pines
To the west, hike the mountains with me
and enjoy the view from the peaks
I know you
You know me
Though at this point, we hardly speak
Explore with me our shared land
We can do it together
Clasping our Earth -soiled hands
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
Across the air rang like a choir,
Screaming out, "please ceasefire!"
My enemies my death conspire,
Hunting as with wolflike desire,
Each soul appears not but a liar,
Flesh torn, ripped on barbed wire,
Lust a blood like burning fire,
Swept away with ashes prior,
Kindling under darkest desire,
Shadowed street hunts supplier,
Skeletal corpses crawl to acquire,
Trading of souls given and buyer,
Needing a fix goes higher, higher,
Laced with delusions do transpire,
Beautiful psychosis of thorny brier,
Taken ahold discarded shier,
Memories faded in treaded tire,
Eyes glare don't dare to enquire,
Undoubtedly lost in death retire.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
I wish you only knew of the brier we planted
But your eyes are always on the stars
I watch you pluck every note from the air
So vibrant, and eager to pass the jug around
-
Think of me too, Artemis, Baste
As the coals twinkle and turn
These moments have always been yours to burn
And I am but a goat - veiled and masked
-
Home is far, but I have my thoughts
I have my brother of tune
My thanks for the smoke, Sylvan Queen
I only wish your eyes weren’t hidden
-
We were flea-bitten in the first burrow
And found gold in the next
Red cardinal be swift, I carry many gifts
But I just don’t want to be in the middle right now
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Quintessential,
Queen of Emotions,
Sensational,
Brings out passions
For what you never
Cared before...
Flabbergastingly
Seduces the quill
To scrawl about her...
Queen Love,
With a fiery crown
Of Blue Diamonds,
Pink Hearts,
Red Roses,
Olive Twigs...
Desire throbs
On her fingertips...
Melodies sprout
From her lips...
Queen Love,
With a proud crown,
Bringing everyone together
With a swish of her gown...
Turns the Sweet Brier
Into Roses of Love,
Her elegance,
Skill to tame...
The wild succumbs,
The cruelly powerful
Kneels down before
Queen Love...
Healed the wounds
Of a heart
Fractured by Infatuations,
Queen Love,
The Queen of Emotions...
June 15th, 2010
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 4:05 AM UTC
When was it in the heart of man to love?
Who planted that first orchid in the fire,
Then nurtured it with lifeblood from above,
Only to watch it wither into brier?
When was it that my eyes beheld your form?
A seed was planted in this fruitful soul.
It blossomed into White Delphinium,
A shared desire, a longing to feel whole.
It was my goal to keep you close to me,
As we lapped water from a passion spring.
Rejoice I did—this caged bird you set free!
But then you left before my voice could sing:
When was it in our hearts to suffer grief?
The truest form of love is, truly, brief.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
O, the month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!
O, and then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen.
Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,
The sweetest singer in all the forest quire,
Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale:
Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier.
But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo;
See where she sitteth; come away, my joy:
Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.
O, the month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green;
And then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
One toe tipped
Brink on the lip
Round that bounding tree
Wade and ascend until you see
Two rocks with crooked tops
Mend the bend and heed the avian's call
When you bound down
You will hear the river's sound
You are almost there
Follow the path etched in ground
Upon your breech
You will feel a wind in the tree's creak
Look for the pink flowers that peek
And listen for the spring that leaks
The journey takes weeks
So stop at the fruit bearing tree
When you are weak
Rest and prepare for the test
For soon you will meet Devil's Peak
MInd the ways you wInd
Once you spy the rocks that streak
Keep your eye out for the trees made of teak
Soon there is no sign
And the trail leaves no lines
You must move by the moon
And with the sun tell time
Here you find yourself all alone
The only of your kind
You must bare the brier that binds
And cure it with the tongue
Of the canine that bites
For the crane that flies
Holds the questions of night
When you stumble upon the prairie
And the sun is just right
Offer the indigo leaf
In the fire of the light
Say the three sacred words
And pronounce then with might
For this is the recipe
For your soul to take flight
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC