"candelabrum" poems
A dream tree, Polly's tree:
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig
ending in a thin-paned
leaf unlike any
other on it
or in a ghost flower
flat as paper and
of a color
vaporish as frost-breath,
more finical than
any silk fan
the Chinese ladies use
to stir robin's egg
air. The silver-
haired seed of the milkweed
comes to roost there, frail
as the halo
rayed round a candle flame,
a will-o'-the-wisp
nimbus, or puff
of cloud-stuff, tipping her
queer candelabrum.
Palely lit by
snuff-ruffed dandelions,
white daisy wheels and
a tiger faced
***** it glows. O it's
no family tree,
Polly's tree, nor
a tree of heaven, though
it marry quartz-flake,
feather and rose.
It sprang from her pillow
whole as a cobweb
ribbed like a hand,
a dream tree. Polly's tree
wears a valentine
arc of tear-pearled
bleeding hearts on its sleeve
and, crowning it, one
blue larkspur star.
3.5k
Day lilies and dragonflies
in Arkansas June
boy do I need a sombrero!
not a cloud in the sky
and I pray for a genteel breeze
to cool my brow
The crepe myrtle has
crept its way into
my heart
From dawn to dusk
She stands unscathed
shocking pink candelabrum
boisterous laughter of
school children on vacation and
belly flops in chlorine blue green pools
brings to mind a delightful dip
in a secluded, sylvan
mountain stream
where I can with palms folded
Love brimming
salute the Summer Solstice
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
A plastic bag without a handle
A pair of straps without a sandal
A briefcase with rusted locks
A pair of old worn out socks
A never used candelabrum
An empty jar of finished gum
A broken door iron cage
A lost book’s tattered page
A piece of cloth insect holed
An old calendar neatly rolled
A fluorescent light long dead
A clay puppet’s broken head
A fountain pen sans its cap
An old atlas dusty map
A bunch of cassette in tin box
Nails and screws unused locks
Cable tape wire and plug
Grandpa’s brolly faded rug
Can’t disown throw them out
Fond attachments without doubt!
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
it drips down,
off the ceiling,
over the candelabrum
and right into my own lap.
i'm sitting catty corner to an old lady that once told me i'd never find love.
now, she is spitting lines like,
"you found it and you let it go."
and "you'll never be so lucky again."
you think i'm not aware?
or that i cannot remember
the spit shake,
the transfer of blood?
i've drained myself emotionally,
almost done so physically.
i'm stammering,
liquifying my insides.
simply put,
i'm laying on my floor
intoxicated
as i am told that the way i handle love,
is no way to handle at all.
all the while,
i'm wish you would come over and cover my ears.
dreaming
you up
laying atop of me while i bury my face into the pillow,
running your hands through my hair and
speaking directly to my brain,
"if you feel it a crash landing, land softly."
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
The Composition of Shadows (I)
by Michael R. Burch
(for poets who write late at night / by monitor light)
We breathe and so we write; the night
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
And what we mean we write to learn:
the vowels of love, the consonants’
strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape—
curved like the heart. Here, resonant,
sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass
like singing voles curled in a maze
of blank white space. We touch a face—
long-frozen words trapped in a glaze
that insulates our hearts. Nowhere
can love be found. Just shrieking air.
Published by The Lyric, Candelabrum, Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Iambs & Trochees, Hidden Treasures, ImageNation (UK), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian. Keywords/Tags: writing, poetry, night, monitor, glass, phosphors, web, page, internet, online, social media, sound, files, white space
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC
MY body floats within effervescent veins
and blooms of fields by gold to fullest
fields of flowers;
by consciousness barely touching
the art of your essences
; i have only known a radiance of
this smile you project toward me–
it is the shimmering vision of
your lips and the softness of curves
that you are brighter than the
moon tonight; to hear the song
of your quiet tongue to taste the
tone of your beating heart dear:
and wreathed by the blossoms of
your tender *******
A LOVE SONG.
WHEN i meet you here; away from the
busy sound of life — when i vibrate
that no darkness can find it is of
one mind//ours\ that touches you
and me\
who can fathom the mystery ;?
no words no song no thoughts
just veiled eyes and unwritten
poetry is sent.
a high candelabrum held by our
hands and fingers: bent inward
in a passion of growing fields.
:: 10.11.2020 ::
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 12:24 AM UTC
I dreamed we were sailing through rice fields
(they make paper out of rice),
Along a wet brilliance, along mirrors,
Along a marshy archipelago.
In a paper boat, a pale boat,
No splashing could be heard, the oars were so light,
In the mist the boat gets wet, is sinking.
And tiny lights will appear soon.
The shoots of rice, standing out of the water,
Look askance with their Korean eyes - so that
I should understand - an object of love be thou -
They are. A candelabrum of love branches out.
With an ***** song, like a pipe inside a pipe,
(It's natural to love everyone and immediately too),
Look: memory of oneself is going away
To the bottom like a clumsy dead diver.
Look: the lights are spinning round like rain,
Not falling to the earth - these are souls
Whose inconsolable love
For the Creation and the Creator, the soul will not extinguish.
Oh, how long ago I knew all this -
When I was still a two-legged woman
And now I'm drowning, now I'm lying on the bottom
Of love, like a million-armed octopus.
On the shallow bottom, in the rice fields,
Belonging to earth, water and sky,
With a living longing - and sweet fear -
Those will fall in love with me who think 'I was not there'.
by Elena Shvarts from Contemporary Russian Poetry
translated by Gerald S. Smith
Nov 28, 2024
Nov 28, 2024 at 4:33 PM UTC
“We make midnight an autonomous time of year,
Colored lights glistening off the white frost,
Moonlights drawn by the evening clouds,
Troths offered to complete this mystical custom,
Awaiting that elfin hour anxious gods molding oar,
Each of us edacious for shining of such coruscation,
That of the candelabrum and wines of sorts to enthrall,
Audacious in thinking oblations will sojourn at a moment,
Of what is to come in New Year springtime fashions,
Synthetic faces all around as they stare of what may be,
Exuberance of the antithesis will follow coming year,
That impermanent as all the while serenity suspends,
Struggle with excitement for swaying to and thro,
Couples embracing as the ending minutes arrive,
Cessation as we wait for those last minutes to survive,
Leaving this just passed year we will hear nothing seems,
Then the clear crackle of explosions and applause all around,
Hoping to wonder that this New Year will not FROWN”
By Andrew Guzaldo © 12/31/2019 #178
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2020 my POETIC Friends
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC