"candelabra" poems
You've read my rant from yesterday
About those Christmas Letters
But one thing just disturbs me
Those Ugly Christmas Sweaters!!!
You know the ones we love to hate
They're all so scratchy and they itch
You can barely get the **** thing on
And to remove it...it's a *****
Pictures of things Christmassy
Like a reindeer all in red
Mine looks like an emaciated cow
with a candelabra on his head
Snowflakes, trees and Norway Spruce
and colours....oh my lord
They can take them back to Norway
and throw them in the fjord!!!
My nan made one for me one year
It was silver with some blue
Turns out she used old brillo pads
Because she liked the soapy hue
They itch and scratch and don't fit right
They are a cancer to my eyes
I had one in green and red
With one sleeve down past my thighs
I thought it was a jumpsuit
The kind the paratroopers wear
The pattern pages stuck together
And that sleeve....went down to there!!!
We all have one hidden away
In a box, 'neath lock and key
In a place so nicely hidden
One we've had since we were three
We never plan to wear one more
We all know that we once did
but, if we had to wear one out
We're gonna buy one for our kids!!!
If you need to get assistance
go to uglysweaters dot o- r- g
They can help you with your wardrobe
Tell them you heard of them from me.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
There’s a scurrying sound of something, burrowing,
Down in the depths of the dungeons, hurrying,
Skittering, pittering-pattering, scattering
When there’s a footstep, hear them chattering:
‘Here come the lords, and here comes the vassal,
Tripping their way through Cockroach Castle.’
Here come the ladies, all in their finery
Tripping and sipping the wine from the winery,
Trailing their silks, their satins and bustling,
Up in the ballroom, while the rustling
Army beneath the sounds of their razzle
Is down in the depths of Cockroach Castle.
Spilling their millions up in the glooming
Out from the flagstones, terror is looming,
Up on the awnings, hung from the ceiling
Under the swish of the skirts they’re stealing,
Dropping in hair, and burrowing faster,
Cockroach Castle is set for disaster.
Suddenly all of the room is screaming
Flapping of hands, the roaches are teeming,
Myriad hordes in the Carbonara,
Candles are tipped from the candelabra,
Choking smoke from the candles guttered,
Flames leap up from the ones that stuttered.
Clothing and flags and the awnings razing
Silks and satins flare up, and blazing,
Roaches in eyes and ears, they’re rasping
Clogging their throats, to leave them gasping,
There isn’t a lady or lord, or vassal
To come out alive from Cockroach Castle!
David Lewis Paget
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
*Dancing With Chopin
By Jude Kyrie
Vienna 1896
Do you like Chopin she whispered.?
Yes Milady I love Chopin.
Then we shall dance sir.
The darkened ballroom was lit
only by the candelabra
of the moon and stars.
As they waltzed to his nocturne
The pianist delicately flowed
each beautiful note, like raindrops
falling softly in the nighttime.
She was so lovely in her gown
So much what he wanted
But in a station far beyond his.
He had promised her.
Even if they could not be as one
In this lifetime he would wait
for her in the next and they
would spend eternity together.
Vienna 2014
Each night they
met in the famous old ballroom
they would dance to Chopin
only Chopin, forever.
As the soft darkness of night
melted into
the approaching light
of dawn they faded
leaving only silence.
The old caretaker
approached the ballroom.
And said to himself
I am sure I heard Chopin again*
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
9 January 2014 02.21am
"We all have feelings for our girlfriends Bea, it doesn't mean we have to act on them.."
Silence filled the room
Two opposing forces
Love lust passion
Hate anger fear
What was once owned
Has now been taken
Walking towards her
Reaching out, hand movements
So slow and graceful
An aura so compelling, senses heightened
Bodies shifting as though
Magnetic forces were playing
A sultry dance acting out
Underneath the candelabra
Eyes locked mirroring feelings
Left unspoken, razor sharp tongue
Hips graze, music intensifies
An atmosphere fraught with
Tension, favoured to be cut by a knife
Hesitating lips part with a subtle urgency
Circulatory movements dancing feet
A lowly finger fondles an inner thigh
Ever so slightly withering, exuberant pleasure
Eyes connect, glistening from the light
A smile pacifying both women
Others gazes capture their movements
For now, they are the only ones
Whose love and light fills this room
Alone, unhinged, they kiss
At first tentatively, then feverishly
Drowning, they are both saved
The lovers bodies blend into one
Possessing one another
Nothing is lost in that moment
Desperately clinging to affection
Souls freed, emotions making miracles
Two lovers effortlessly become
One soul being.
© Sia Jane
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:17 PM UTC
I’d thrown back my head and let out
that cackle
But I didn’t realize that that candelabra
The lit one
was so close
And my head went
Bosh!
Sponto jumped up
Arms raised and ready
Ready to clobber me
And Hilary
To my left looked at me and screamed
Immobile except for her face stretched by
distress and fear
I’d watched that horrendous
De Niro version of Frankenstein that afternoon
And everyone was screaming at the monster
I remembered those scenes now
And I understood
I stamped out my burning head quickly
Before I got hit
I learned a lesson that day.
The spot of hair, you know
Never did grow back right.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
Dancing With Chopin
By Jude Kyrie
Vienna 1896
*Do you like Chopin she whispered.?
Yes Milady I love Chopin.
Then we shall dance sir.
The darkened ballroom was lit
only by the candelabra
of the moon and stars.
As they waltzed to his nocturne
The pianist delicately flowed
each beautiful note, like raindrops
falling softly in the nighttime.
She was so lovely in her gown
So much what he wanted
But in a station far beyond his.
He had promised her.
Even if they could not be as one
In this lifetime he would wait
for her in the next and they
would spend eternity together.
Vienna 2015
Each night they
met in the famous old ballroom
they would dance to Chopin
only Chopin, forever.
As the soft darkness of night
melted into
the approaching light
of dawn they faded
leaving only silence.
The old caretaker
approached the ballroom.
And said to himself
I am sure I heard Chopin again*
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
1
Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.
Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.
Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,
Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,
And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.
2
The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra
Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the
Ambulance.
Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.
Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.
Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
A mountain
A shark fin
A hang-man
A seven
Candelabra
Insects
Test tubes
Disease
Full moon
Candelabra
Umbrella
Whipping cane
Crook
Herder
Candelabra
Alpha
Elves
Pretty Alps
Hollow
Candelabra
Light bulb
Reptile
Annulus
Coil
Candelabra
A skirt
A birth
A girth
A first
Candelabra
Sunspots
Patterns
Blinded
Heaven
Candelabra
Spider
Structure
Front door
Glass fracture
Candelabra
Animals
Aliens
Threatening
Harmless
Candelabra
Money
Dead leaves
Decay
Potpourri
Candelabra
Peace
Horns
Antennas
***********
Candelabra
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC
We are children animals
singing
on the island palace
dipping our toes into the Nile River.
Birds incessantly chirp
along with the rhythm of my pen
and the echo of your voice
we share the same simulacra--
The music sways our bodies
like a candelabra--
We are dancing children,
solid ripples.
Smoke breath
under palm trees
the music cradles the shisha
into blissful oblivion
as we donate part of ourselves
to the space AUM.
We sing peach energy
surrounded by history
and vibrant banana yellow
and pink lemonade foliage.
We dance with the wind
between our bodies
pull us closer
until the sunlight disappears.
We are children animals
singing
on the island palace
dipping our toes into the Nile River.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.
*********
The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.
In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC
I should navigate
perspiring inspiration along the lonely streets
which are bottled desolation
but I stay here,
where once the candelabra shot sparks up to the chandelier
and that in turn shed tears of light which danced along the the gloomy walls
in palaces where ***** were held.
Spellbound I am shunned
outgunned by the desperate and dissolute
who eye up my shiny suit.
I've got to get away
pass my day among those who have passed away
sat beside the tombstones of yesterday
but I stay here trapped by my fears
and the years slip through my hands.
From the graves come two choices
in loud voices I'm told to take hold
and hang on
then the voices are gone
there's just the fluttering breeze as it whispers through the leaves
and the trees are silent.
I brood acquiescence
nod my head and arise
wipe the dirt from my face and my eyes behold
all that was told
and it's empty
blank space.
I've got to get out of this place
but the candles burn low and then, where is there to go?
and again I am trapped by the years that are wrapped
and draped over my shoulder.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Let the diminished light of winter
creep through the slats of the window blind.
Let it climb rung by rung
until hunger shakes off excessive sleep.
Let early morning frosts shock
the candelabra of the blackened fig
shivering in half-light.
Let it go naked.
Let the woodpecker cling to a sham tree,
tap-tapping his message in code.
Let him take to the air, cackling
at his own folly.
Let the shadowless snake coil
in venomous dreams,
as curled roots slumber
under the rain-soaked earth.
Let winter declare its secret cargo!
Let it be spring!
when the candles of the fig burst into leaf-flame,
when the speckled woodpecker discovers a thick forest,
and the green-gold snake trails the length of her belly through long grasses.
Let our passions rise like sun on the window blinds,
when the lightness of spring is upon us.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
I’m not a botanist,
or an avid gardener.
The horto I culture consists of two pots,
sits on a narrow sill
and soaks in its one-hour slit of sunshine.
This makes me unfit
to label much less
fathom the encroaching
sublime, which sprouts,
shoots, creeps, clings and endures
from far reaches beyond me.
It has spines
supple and rigid,
skins coarse, spiked, and silky,
quivering tips that are spidery,
and bunched as small dollops,
jagged teardrops and jigsaw puzzle pieces.
I’m not a botanist,
but if I were
I should still be struck dumb
by these numbing instances
a protesting tongue
insists it won’t box up
such greenery with the genial trappings
of a scientific classification,
or even the oddly
folksy catch-all ****
I can’t always tell what’s a **** what not.
l know those greedy
intruders growing at the heart
of a meticulously turned earth
to spoil the well-ordered
plots of a barely adequate vocabulary.
It gets more complicated
with the thrilling misfits
and their sturdier notions
of choking life from inhospitable beds
poured and paved
to the detriment of meeker plantings.
Yesterday I met the peeks of ten
woody red stems poking through
a patch of chunky white gravel
spread thick between two
steel rails that fled to a horizon.
I watched the breeze
shake their candelabra arms
dressed in sparse leaves
and denser seed-packed sleeves,
and they welcomed it.
I'm not a botanist
and I can’t name these plants,
but I can admit, I admired them.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
the way i want you
so ethereal
i feel lighted as
we speak
my throat catches hard
my skin crawls; is gone
snare drum noses
in a cavity populated
with sugarbugs and
lightning rods
narcoleptic lips trace
arias of sand against
collarbones
my imagistic descent
into coral lined papers
inner tongue colors the
edges of our orchestra
our ballad of temperament
our skewed talents invoked
candelabra memoirs
a love of no soul in particular
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
The glacé savor, O' e'er how I needeth her so. O' she's the candelabra inside of me, sparking fires to maketh me whole. What's mine is her's, as what's her's is mine. Colonstias courting, O' to Highway Banadero; mine feet do I find. O' she canst healeth the blind, as tis I once was, mine sight is returned, as doth God through her work, didst thou not knoweth? She's a seraph by birth. Aloft the star's, she went through Apotheosis; hostess of the holy missives, O' how I received her amour long ago, afore the times of humankind's admission.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
These halls seem somewhat hollow,
Whose walls once knelled with
Wit, charm and sorrow.
The silence erodes the keystones' arch
Subdued subjects that once did sing
Depart.
That ancient bell tied to towers steeple,
No longer speaks for the wants
And needs of it's people.
For no man, woman or child
Could be found and riled
To hold fast and grasp the rope.
Hold firm and ring the bells of hope.
The sound of truth cuts fine.
Old lies no longer aloof.
When smoke does rise
From thatched houses roof,
We may live to see the proof attached,
Foundations subsiding.
Revolutions confiding
Inside the very stone itself.
Mortar fights Mortar
Till neither has health.
Candelabra arbitrates,
Fiery death from water.
The dual will slaughter us all.
It shall last till the hall can not past the moment of the present.
All its tenants cast out to the depths of mortal unrepentant.
A more pleasant alternative to uncertain death
May stray your way in an unwanted effigy
Cunningly disguised as yourself
As you drink to good health
Comfortably delved into the
Abode of bliss.
A delusional apotheosis.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
my front porch is a broken candelabra
lights that used to form a pattern
now waypoints for sore eyes to wander
in upheaval
there’s something in the driveway
if i ask nicely it’ll take us nowhere
every friday
and i run my hand along the wall fixtures
with the wall switches on
but still in the dark
maybe watch the strange weather effect panes of glass
and i do that monday tuesday wednesday thursday saturday
and sunday
sometimes i listen to the thing in the drive tick
never turn
if i need to get out
ya know
see ****
thats what i do
see ****
lots of it
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
A lame table barely stands in a darkened room.
Upon it sits a candelabra tainted with scarlet rust,
Holding like a pedestal two forgotten candles.
One, with its cardinal design, flamboyantly lit
This room a brilliant red and gold,
And illuminated guests
While eating lamb from porcelain plates.
The other, with its pale hue, pitifully lit
Its master's chamber a dreadful orange,
And guided his sleep
To the land of Devilish dreams.
Their melting paraffin forms pools of elegant simplicity,
While the candles slowly get consumed,
No more to sit upon a lame table in a darkened room.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 12:44 PM UTC
*Courtesan rests upon satin pillows,
placed so many for weightless fare
Treasure box of lace and fragrance spilling out into her hair
Rich red velvet drapes the contours
of her silhouette
against the backdrop of an argalis mountain landscape
Thick rouge stain encircles her mouth and cheek,
now smeared askew as evidence of talking bodies friction
She wonders where he goes when he is gone~
He often wonders how good it feels when she comes into his candelabra room
Bedposts tell no lies...yes, this is true, mind you, no other girl would do the deeds he required of his staff in hand.*
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
Dusty drapes ripped to shreds
Pristine carpets now flecked with mould
Windy gusts blow through the windows
Time ticking, growing old
Pots and clocks shivering in the cold
A lone candelabra giving heat
Looming gargoyles' fixated glares
A petal falls, smelling sweet
He presides over a hollow husk
A castle once proud now disguised
Unkempt greenery peeking between cracked bricks
This new reality, he denies
Fearsome howls cut through the air
Echoing his fight so resolute
Torn canvas of family paintings
Reflecting the Beast's solitude
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
naivete has always played a funny role
shifting from blessing to curse, for the better or for the worse
existing on her own selfish terms
~
I drown here silently, not wanting to be discovered
lying in my own hellish, ominous reef
of self-loathing and self-deceit
~
the cotton curtains are always drawn in this room
no flame melts wax down the candelabra
no light spills onto the quiet dining table
~
I suffocate in the air of hedonistic love
breaking mirrors, denying reflections
I cross myself out of the equation
~
there’s nothing inside this skin that looks for escape
there’s nowhere outside to promise solace
I am fragile, trapped Nothingness
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 2:42 AM UTC
Candelabra rusting on the moth-eaten cloth
Old light splinters the fading drapes
Grey glints on the dim silverware
Dust rolls slowly through the air
The dripping tap, long since stopped
A small stalactite reaching down
Cold peace hangs above all
A silence that only time could fall
No embers in the fireplace, just age-long ash
No photos on the mantel, just empty space
The doorbell knows no longer how to chime
Even the clock has forgotten the time
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
Candelabra of chestnut
Aroma catches back
the throat
Conker on a string
Battles and innocence
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
~
Black on white
Scores in three quarter sorrow
Sharps and flats beneath heartbeats
Dust and cobweb mosaics
glistening in the key of pain
Scaled deposits wait
lonely in the corner
Replaying adagio chords of lost love,
composed in major and minor
on yellowed decaying paper
Tuning key locked away,
Forte expressions shackled
in sustain pedal nightmares
of faux concertos worn
in overture’d blistered edges
as empty fingers play on
Blood trickles on ivory,
cascading in mirrored visions
as I realize this candelabra’d composition
was written by me…in my hand, my notes
all the while knowing, the empty chorus performed
is the hurt I have staged upon your heart
Silence finds me sitting
on a wobbly bench, uninspired
attempting balance with a still metronome
living in the shadows of what I have become
decomposing your smile, ashamed at the lyrics,
cursing the music for it is the song
of your sadness that I should never have played
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC