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Ashley Chapman Nov 2018
In a playful vision sent
Your ****** homologue
Of amber shins and pale phalanges
Weaves four-leaved clovers.

In response,
***** spurs
And protean winged descent
To float into your kaleidoscopic star:
Gliding,
Freely falling,
To rest in lace extremities.

There in our bed of sensual feet,
Sunflowers breath,
Whose burnished rotating petals
Gather me in wisps,
Each spiral frond,
Gyring
Before death's voids
Is drawn in purls.

And in pleasures held,
Cossetted in latticed limbs,
A ***** lustrous rich embrace;
Denuded and alive!
And with abandon kissed:

    Bony toes
    Tendons
    Deep arches
    Shins
    Ankles,
    Sweetmeats,
    Light and delicate.

As here between pretty shins
And fleshy silken feet
Our ascent begins
Rising,
From low regions,
To scale new heights
And crown our night.

This lovers' leap into prismatic
reproduction
In the empty Cosmic wastes
     In a web is caught!
Where feet and toes inspire
Continuity for pointed stars.

As material possibilities collide
The lust for life
Is born in non-existence:
So in our nest of feet,
Mating in the game
With heads thrown back,
Of lust drink deeply we.
A friend sent a mesmerising image taken from a kaleidoscope. In that image so many ideas came together that I was able to put this down. It tells of what I know, the line between life and death, or more succinctly put, between our conscious and the great unconscious. In mind, to love is indeed sublime as it removes us from ourselves and plunges us to meet our heart's desire. Out in the wastes of time and space we also see ourselves writ large where whole galaxies collide and in so doing, the resultant chaos, new stars are born. So I take solas in such thoughts, even if my soul does at times yearn to shuffle off this mortal coil and be at peace and know Truth at last.
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
Josiah Israel Jan 2017
by— Josiah Israel

Twas oft the way in days of old,
When knight would battle brave and bold,
The damsels hand in hopes to hold,
Worth more then polished Stone, or Gold
For this is what a boy is told
When day is done and night is cold…

“One day my son, thy chance will come
Though courage oft may waver,
When lady waits, through sable gates
For thee brave lad, to save her!”

For when a dragon stole a maid,
Awaiting ransom duly paid,
Twas bravest knight, armor arrayed  
With noble steed and burnished blade
Rode swiftly to the damsels aid…

“You have not birth of high degree
Yet be thou brave and fight,
For low in rank thy birth may be
Yet heart makes noble knight!”

And after facing beast and foe
The knight with maiden free would go
Away to fields in need of ***
For seeds ere winter need to grow
And none can reap who do not sow…

“Not all you do will win a prize
Of gold or silver bent,
So reap a harvest good in size
And be thee well content.”

And when the battle horn he hears
The knight must banish all his fears
And ride to war, with battle cheers
On maidens cheek alight her tears
Fearing death, she spends the years…

“To win renown in battle
Might also be your path,
May your enemies armor rattle
As they feel your righteous wrath!”

But after kings campaign is done
The knight to home will swiftly run
From dusk through night to rising sun
Till maiden sees her hero come
Heart moving swift, a beating drum
Yes she the prize which first he won!

“Home is best at warring's end
To be with those you cherish,
A place to rest, your wounds to mend
Where love will never perish”

Though all the kingdom knows his name
And minstrels spread the brave knights fame
His love for she, remains the same
And they live happily, Knight and Dame…
I love the medieval Ballad kind of poem. Alfred Lord Tennyson was my inspiration for this style :D
By celestial shores is there burnished gold
More fair than I see in my lover's eyes,
Or seraphs whose pulchritude to behold
Nears my queen's opalescence of the skies?
For though I know days will fade into night,
And nights will evermore melt into day,
But my love, like as hues of the sun's light
That ever glows the same, so shall it stay
With constance like as tides of gushing time
That neither man nor birds of skies above
Can dare grasp, but watch 'em roll clime to clime.
So, as far as lives time, so shalt my love,

   For like as water doth abound the sea,
   So doth her love upon a heart of mine.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California. 9/1st/2019.
#Shakespearean sonnet #Unto she who will never read it.
Pagan Paul Jul 2018
.
And her arms enfold me,
I lay my cheek
against her breast.
The shaking starts,
the tears fall,
as sobs emerge unhindered.
Cries from way down deep,
and I hear her heart,
slow, steady, metronomic.
So I follow its rhythm
along a path richly bathed
in warm sunlight.
Through an archway
and across a threshold shrine,
the cemetery of the Ancients.
A hundred thousand names,
carved in marble,
adorned with statues and plinths.
Holding knowledge of old,
and the sound of silence,
like an abandoned library.

The shadow of love hovers close,
driving through midnight mists
and leading me on.
Practising narrative necromancy,
reanimating old words,
giving them life newly born,
upon the first carved marbles,
its names burnished with wisdom,
and the anonymity of obscurity.
There glows one name
in forgotten script
and I know my deepest identity,
the weight of the aeons
flows free into my mind,
histories of the millennia.
I know
my Forest Lady holds secrets
that belong to me.
And she gestates them all,
a coveted pregnancy.

A path-working, an etherical dream,
and her heart skips a beat,
as another part of me
crumbles and dies,
to mingle with the dust
of ancient knowledge.



© Pagan Paul (11/07/18)
.
Not snowy seraphs of heaven above
Nor lustrous gems by heaven's stonking wall,
Shall outshine the eternal mark of love
Thou blazoned upon the skin of my soul.
Though midst my wake and dreaming hours I know,
Heaven's meanest pier is of burnished gold,
And celestial shores chatoyant than snow,
But all not as bright as the mark I hold.
For when fickle time in layers of life
Shalt shroud me, and away I must then run
To meet the judge of souls, lest lasting grief
Were my soul's fate, I mean to burn and burn,
   The fragrance of thy love could still linger
   Freshly upon my soul's fading ember.


#Decasyllabic
#Iambic pentameter
#Quatrains
#Couplet
#Shakespearean sonnet
  

Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Jumeirah, Dubai, 14th.Jan.2018.
After reading what is arguably the loveliest poem ever written by man, Sonnet 116 "Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds" by the ancient wise, The Bard Of Avon, William Shakespeare, from such naked truth to transcend in perpetuum, there I drew the inspiration to pen one nighly akin unto his that depicts how far love canst travel hence the sonnet above.

Secondly, long hast I penned poetry unto friends, unto many others, but none unto my parents not until I penned two unto my father not so many moons ago after his death. Verily, it doth hurt knowing I canst never recite him one though from the two I penned, I'll have one engraved upon his sepulchre upon going home.

So, now that I did such a great mistake I canst never forgive of my self, the Sonnet above is wholeheartedly dedicated to the lady who gave birth to me 25 years ago. Honestly, this lady I'm proud to call MOTHER hath been a PHENOMENAL WOMAN unto me in a myriad of ways mere WORDS CAN'T DEPICT...so, upon going home I'll have this sonnet with a snap of her and me inscribed...and I'll have it well recited unto her in my local language, something I'm working upon as I've never penned one in my mother tongue, but I dost pray unto He who dwelleth atop effulgent yonder stars to render me ethereal wisdom such that I may capture the images as depicted for her to fully know how much I truly LOVE Her.

Lastly, if thou hast someone whom thou dost revere that way, the Sonnet above sails thy way as well.

Thank ye for reading, dear friends. God bless ye.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
Between paternal fascism and maternal quiescence
I had my own peaces to negotiate.
I wanted to hear the big chords, the big drums, the big horns.
Rock in a frame marked "real."
singing truth to power,
That's what everyone was going to do,
and where I wanted to go.
I was disappointed that I wasn't allowed.
bitter power trips borne of disappointment
the thoughts of death and the desire
in ways so foul, it tattooed us all.
And even still I avoided
placing those artists on a pedestal,
At the theater — the velvet place
we get glow sticks with our programs.
date night for those burnished elders.
with our Pringles and our peppermints,
The night wasn't about kitsch for me.
There's a smallish riot going on
The production is low-key. The set is too dark,
After all the years of not going, it looks like I've made it.
you cannot say I didn't live
If you're lucky, and negotiate your peaces, it all comes around.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://www.npr.org/sections/therecord/2013/02/21/172506252/after-30-years-i-finally-went-to-a-barry-manilow-concert
touka Jun 2018
weak-kneed,
heavy-eyed,
stumbling

I push through the thicket
to the patch of land
where the air is thick
with burnt pine and turmeric
to where the moon sets
spry on the water

I take my legs
and offer them to the strait
my plunge
into the euripus

what use are they
if not to walk
to the nape of hope's neck?

well, then
it is this
I am whelmed
carried off by the cold swell
of adam's ale

then, somewhere
along the river
and its rushing stupor

I hear singing
a voice that rings like clinkstone
and the ecclesiast begins to pull me
a quiet accompaniment
careful quiet, in the night –
such is thievery

subtle, without much grief
take me

for whatever gold I am
whatever glimmer that I could give
burnished of whatever sin
At last the sun decided to recede,
and dismal clouds suddenly appeared;
In grey-green puffs of swirling smoke,
while crystal rain fell down in tears.

The night seemed in an endless whirl,
of lightning bolts and blustery winds;
I closed my eyes when thunder raged,
and pulled the covers to my chin.

My room appeared as black as coal,
its shadows foretelling ageless tales;
Of great mysteries from ancient times,
while words dissolved into ghastly wails.

Soon awakened from restless slumber,
with profound relief at what I saw;
The burnished golden bloom of day,
as summer had turned into shining Fall.
Clare Coffey Oct 2018
Rich as precious rubies are
The reds of the autumn leaves
Dancing in the kindly breeze
Not yet fallen from the trees

Flaming orange bright as a flame
Burning proudly in the sun
Burnished copper and polished bronze
The new season has begun

Still I see some gorgeous green
The mantle of summer lingers
The light caresses their beauty
With the touch of a lover’s fingers

Yellow as butter fresh from churn
Warm tones of shining gold
Basking in the afternoon heat
As the year grows gently old

I will cherish all the hours
The joy of this autumn day
I will celebrate my harvest
Before the glory turns to grey
Mydriasis took stock of a reflection, an outline of a body

drawn by the dim light of an LED bulb
fading through the visible spectrum.
The outline of that body
is given false relief

in an oval mirror, positioned above a small desk.
The room's in the partial darkness, and in the half-light
a pair of eyes wander. Their saccades spill
over the figure’s torso. The darting movement
of both pupils take it in, lingering
on a pair of long but simple chains that hang from the neck.

Each chain-link is different in length,
The only distinguishing features on an otherwise plain male chest.
The longer one looks as if it was onyx
in color, but most of its coat has been worn away
to reveal burnished copper. The silver
chain is slightly shorter, and less worn, a tiny spoon
has been attached to the clasp at its end.

The shifting light of the room drifts out a half-open door
to the left of the mirror. Mydriasis’ eyes meet their reflection.
As they take stock of the impression  they began to wander.
The gravity of those  black holes in the mirror cast a moment
endless as sky. These eyes bask in the half-light, maintaining
their stance but wandering in mind, hallucinating
accent and relief unto the image
until color and texture balloon.
This game they play is but a leisurely swim
in the everflowing Lethe.
They do not shy away

from depth, emptiness. What lies beyond
at that moment implores them to be patient.
Pupils twinkle in the darkness, glittering with praise
for something even darker; yes, they bask in this.
A moment so courteously extended between
the drives of this individual. In that moment
an accord is met. Purpose, given, consciousness
extends by virtue of its immanence; it comes to be
across time, a living memory.
Aletheia.
island poet Aug 9
green island privilege

we thread our way through the Johnstone Strait,
where every landmass, largest and smallish,
all islands, so this particular three-island-man is comforted and
comfortable in his surroundings, in his skin,
in his watery rivered veins

the outlines of myriads shapes, assorted puzzle pieces of earth adrift,
fitted sheets, awaiting assembly upon the magic of water,
fitting the continuously moving puzzling frame, accepting all,
mutually funding each other for each must, by definition,
define each other

the sky allows itself to be glimpsed, “yes, I’m still blue,” it teases,
but sky is busy bathing its undersides, in gloomy whites
of a bubble bath, of a deep morning mournful fog,
we underneath, observing, bestride a double sided fir and pine forests corridor either-sided of our the cold calm watershed,
a green privilege

fog above, touching so lightly our green tree waterway enclosure,
just as a human caresses his truly beloved’s cheeks, so so softly,
the fog sitting on top of the treetops, kissing, allowing that,
but no more,as the day is now only hours young,
disallowing mature sunset romance

close enough to touch, the fallen branches that people the shoreline and I, marvel at my privilege, my history, how I came to be
witness to this moment, testifying to the luck of life, cris cross continental running from European Black Forest persecution,
Spanish inquisitors, whose auto-da-fe cris cross burnings earned them no truth, no fame,
where racism hatred made my tribe an official inferior kind,
worthy of extermination, yet, here I am surviving to be arriving
to the serenity of this goddess Columbia moment in natural embrace

but here again, at this second, still excoriated as virus-privileged,
aligned this time to the guilt of my skin colorations,
guilty genetically, in my nation of 99% immigrants,
which confuses us,
for we, our troop, victimized by quotas, ghettos, crafted laws,
once upon a time burnished, now burnt by our successes,
we asked for nothing more, fair play,
a chance to win but never by stepping on the backs of others,
are told, no, no, guilty by chance,
cause you won the oppressors color coded lottery


the sun keeps on battling, though now late afternoon,
its glare, no fair, makes me squint to see the horizon,
a thin lucent bright line, who knows how far away,
it challenges me, saying am I not the sun to everyone,
leading you to new islands, green end zones for anyone
to touch down, leading you back home to where you shelter
anyone who asks, a new horizon for anyone comes to me,
giver of words, my inspiration family history shared for anyone,
I adjudge guilty, your privilege was earned, by the exile you’ve endured and the truth of your island green privilege,
and the trees, in unison say, hallelujah selah
Michael John Sep 2018
well that was lunch which
was preoccupied with such
thoughts of the typical poet
eg why does the world want
to cheat me..

what is the point and what
is for tea..my lover´ s eyes are
burnished fields´  of wheat
i thought of love
and lily..

a small blue bowl of vague
reminded of a broken heart
and since stopping smoking
marijuana has my art
suffered unnecessarily..

or is it better some clue
must tell the difference between
the placid and uncontolable rage
the compatability of lasagne and rice
the oxymoron..

the pollution of serviettes..
with our destructive urges
laced with inexplicable
flat cola and
creation..

not unlike hunting for
searching salt to will
made in our own likeness
cold soup to chips
to explain..

what is this thing called man
chapatti and jam..
we have to have to tell
we have to work
and then stack
to clear them..

begin again
the thoughts
of a typical
poet and soooo
end..
patty m Mar 3
Fey lassies they be beautiful
the lads they be so strong
hurling bolts of lightning
though the burnished light of dawn

clouds above be luminous
like the forest fairy's wings
the day unfolds to rainbow arch
and other rapturous things

Oh how the lassies dance about
with flowers in a ring,
while an Irish tenor sings
songs about magical things
.  
How glorious it is
when leprechauns get frisky
are they really here are not
perhaps it's the Irish whiskey?
Gone be yon melted summer's day
Whilst shrouded in robes of sorrow
That never quill of a bard can portray
Nor years unborn may ever know
When a fair maiden pottered my way,
Gently as drops of descending snow.

Her eyes fairer than burnished gold
Illuminated the vast shadowy night,
Ebony hair upon her seraphic body rolled
With a diadem of reddest roses bedight
That swifter than a gallant knight so bold,
I plunged to Elysium at such a sight.

For she bore beauty of a silvery moon
In lone splendor upon heavens bay,
The pulchritude of sun beams by noon
Against the sea on a fine blazing day.
Now that love casted her novelty boon,
Timidly I gravitated towards her way

And in fables faintly whispered unto her:
"Little maiden, little maiden, little maiden,
O queen fairer than chalcedonic luster;
Are flowers of yonder golden Aidenn
More fair and redolent than thou are?"
This did gladden - I strayed in a garden;

Her garden of ethereal pulchritude
Where no mortal ever walked through
And now doth hearts gambol with glee
'Neath elm leaves bedight with stars above
That the beauty queen calls it balm of Gilead
To visit her garden - a garden of love.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA
             12th/09/2018
Balm Of Gilead:

Balm of Gilead was a rare perfume used medicinally, that was mentioned in the Bible, and named for the region of Gilead, where it was produced. The expression stems from William Tyndale's language in the King James Bible of 1611, and has come to signify a universal cure in figurative speech. The tree or shrub producing the balm is commonly identified as Commiphora gileadensis. Some botanical scholars have concluded that the actual source was a terebinth tree in the genus Pistacia.

Besides, I'll soon employ the tittle of this poem to my book - A miscellany of love-poetry.
patty m Dec 2018
Beloved your hands speak without words
taking me over the edge,
untie the knot
and let the threads of twilight fall.

Seduction is your smile
the way you lift the sheet in a beguiling way
tempting me with the warmth beside you.
Tenderness fills me with desire
narrowing the space
to your outstretched hand.

We love, could life be more beautiful
extending sunlight sparkling midair?
Words become un-played notes to touch,
its symphony welling.

Burnished heat warming heart and soul,
love translates to mouths and lips, through kisses.  
We speak in tongues of glories given
fingers of light, a teardrop of happiness
spilling into sleep and sensuous dream;
only to awake to rain and distant thunder,
the desire to speak again .

Written by
patty m  ether
Jude kyrie Jul 2018
over you at last
By
Jude Kyrie

I have stopped writing love poems for you.
And please do not think this is a love poem.
Because today
I am finally over you at long last.

I do not care to relive past moments of us anymore,
expressed in beautiful poetry.

Like when I saw you for the first time.
And the songs of angels rang in my heart.
And I knew---I knew-----I Knew.


I will never write another love poem
for you ever again.

Like when we sheltered
from the soft spring rain
Below an old maple tree
in muted misty springtime olive greens.
And I noticed the color of its leaves
were the exact color of your eyes.


I am finished with writing  
love poems for you
it's good to be over you at last.
And I will never mention again

How I still stop
and catch my breath
when I hear a laugh
exactly like yours.
Or perhaps when
I see a woman from behind
And her hair is burnished gold
just like yours.


I am now quite over you.
In fact, I hardly ever think
of you anymore.

*Except perhaps in springtime.
But then again.
I should never think of springtime.
For that would surely
break my heart in two
Bittersweet thoughts of love
Sigh
jude
Raihna's dreams were recycled from old copper plates stored in an Industrial Age stonewall Factory.
No one knew it existed except the sole occupant within it's cast iron emerald green gates; Penelope Playweather, an ancient dream maker.
Dressed in the garish blue uniform of a seamstress's ****** design, petite Penelope gazed into the dream cauldron.

Hisses, pops, well worn whistles, blistering bangs, silent jets of resigned air gurgled in the acrimonious sounds of a slurpy mixture of heady dreams.

Each night that Raihna placed her head upon a well worn pillow, she drifted into the realms of this slumber factory.

Penelope was bored with the dream men, beautiful dresses, castles, exotic location, incredible make up that Raihna had running around her thought train. It was wearing the copper plates out from misuse.
The mixture was getting weaker which meant that Raihna was coming perilously close to running out of dreams.

This night Raihna was particularly restless.She had come across her childhood photograph album in her attic. There in the pile of time gone by was a picture of a young girl of twelve. In that old black and white snap another hand held her hand. The hand of Helen Francis Finery. Her best friend in a past that had closed it's doors a long time ago. Raihna had saved Helen's life once and now she remembered the dog that brought them together.

It was such a long time ago the memories were covered in dust.
That night Raihna went to bed and placed the photo beneath her pillow. She knew if she thought hard enough that her dreams would bring her back one last time. Gently, softly, as easy as a light summer  breeze she drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Penelope stirred Raihna's thoughts and looked at the dream mixture.
It was running low and the copper plates were burnished from use.
Despite that, it had the making of possibly the very last magnificent dream.
A dream so lucid that Raihna would once again be twelve years of age. Penelope decided that this would be the Queen of all dreams and she would surpass herself in the manufacture of exquisiteness.

Helen would be waiting and this time the roles would be reversed.
Raihna's life would be saved by Helen and a beloved dog would once again fill their days with happiness. Another adventure was about to begin. One that might leave Raihna in the world of dreams if the copper plates finally wore out.

Penelope smiled to herself. If this was the last dream in the Dream Factory then it would be the greatest and most happiest of them all.
Slowly she stirred the mixture and in the haze of the cauldron a young face emerged. There in Raihna's dream stood a twelve year old girl. A smile traced her face and her hand reached out.

'I knew you would come back' said Helen.

Tears of deep happiness ran down Raihna's face as she clasped her friend's hand.

'I knew it too!' Raihna replied.

There at her feet was a beautiful dog and the sound of yapping and delighted barking rose up to her ears.

Penelope stirred and stirred and stirred. The last and greatest Dream in the Dream Factory was about to take place.
Jude kyrie Oct 2018
It was the first blossoms of  May
I think
A time of perfumes and fragrances
That dripped promises like honey.
No matter my love,
that some would fade
like the cherry blossoms

My heart was filled back then with a
room full of tomorrows.
Our children were asleep in their beds
the youngest as new as the lilacs.
And we sat closely together

Sharing the spring morn with a coffee ***.
I still remember,
The morning sunlight caught the burnished
shine of your beautiful hair.
I thought how good it would feel
Cascading onto my bare chest.

I looked at you at that tender moment.
Not as my wife
or the mother of my children.
But as the woman I could not
get enough of when we first met.

I know we were always working
back then
always tired from disturbed sleep.
Never enough money
to go around.

But even now after
a long lifetime together.
If you were to ask me
were you happy
back then my love,
I would answer
yes my love
so happy
so very happy.
Ahh the hard times
When passions raged
Jude

— The End —