"broaches" poems
On an Archipelago
far from septic isles,
Deep in silent azure
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box, for safe keeping
And set her dreams on a bed of lichen,
fields of leafy pathway stretching
she’ll nestle woven toad flax and larkspur
to steadfast her conscience.
The Birds of the flock
thrush and dove, sensing her bridle
rejoice in her Mother lode,
precious be their plenteous dawn.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
This is the beat
for the future.
Slow.
Continuous.
Quick in paces.
Slow in the right
places.
The bassline of the future
should be love.
Let's make it as slow and continuous as our ideals have said it would be.
In the last moments
of the world
let every man kiss every man
every woman kiss every woman
every love see love.
Fuhreal,
let's take love
to a whole new level.
Let's make it so beautiful
that we stop killing cockroaches
and poaching
the god's green broaches of branches
full of howler monkeys
howling for conservation against the parasitism
that man has become accustomed to.
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 6:55 PM UTC
I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.
The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.
And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.
But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.
And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.
The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end
And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it. It is done.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Treasures layed out on a bed
On a rainy day staying indoors
Opening a lidded Formica box
Faceted stones glinted before.
From broaches now broken, undone
Sorted into colours, spectrum through
Golden backed pyramids of glass
All spread out in straight rows.
Love Mary x
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
I write like a sage, wandering to
collect visions and experiences
with pen as staff.
I move with words adorned
as if fine jewels.
Words become diamonds.
Phases, strings of pearls.
Stanzas like hand crafted broaches
And punctuation, precious stones to accentuate.
My jewelry is priceless.
My display box the vellum page.
I am my best friend.
StarBG © 2017
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
my heart thumps louder
as death appears
unspoken words hang in the trees
listen for my voice whispering in the wind
death draws nearer
unspoken sentiments in a simple glance
unattained goals and unmet dreams
death reaches out his hand
unspoken love in the things I did
a smile broaches my face
death touches me in that final moment
a world speaks of the love I gave
the love I gave with actions. not words
unspoken love, in the end,
is the most powerful of all
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
An elvish tunnel keeps us straight
The sun appears, celebrating the land ahead
Chasing roads pour through the landscape
Our shadow ripples crossing fields of stubble
Young birch trees line up in military fashion
Guardians of the soil
Snowy patches iron out the footsteps of giants of old
A red barn on sentry hill views our passing
A plane of the air competes with a dashing bird
A pausative moment, a place of waiting
Bodies cloaked in winter garb climb aboard
Norwegian speak intensifies the air
Whitish cloaking embers of a winters cold mount
Peeking through the earth, rock forms project
Ever attired in greenest of shawls
Jewelled broaches beckon the hardy
Ripples into a dark blue chasm flow past
An upturned dinghy agog on stony shore
Straddling feeding waters, metal forms bridge the gap
Lake edges repent in turning crusty white
Snow dunes blown across the frozen water
Mountain passes hewn by a river of time
Shadows shortening, eaten by the glare of the snow
Roofs laden with the weight of winter passing
Froth of earth spews from rocky slopes
Abandoned wooden house relics hang onto warmer times
Upon the arched backs of trolls amass the mighty peaks
Patchwork misty breaths gather within their ranks for story tellers to listen
Mar 24, 2022
Mar 24, 2022 at 7:14 AM UTC
The weather speaks its wintery tale
On this last day of April
Sending mayhem into bush and tree
Shaking the blossoms in their break
For bud.
The Bride drops her veil
Under Flowering Cherry wings
Red Camelia broaches
Fall as from a night at the theatre
Lost forever in a carpet of dreams.
Around the perimeter
Everything sways
And the blue cloaked conductor
Orchestrates from
The washing line .
Love Mary
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC