"candlesmoke" poems - Hello Poetry

365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M. Deep in the distance dancing upon the horizon a deeply distinctive voice defies definition bending genres to her will clearly breaking boundaries an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Little Girl Blue lettin' it all out with a wild as the wind Sinner man just tryin' to feel good absolutely refusing to be misunderstood a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes into blazing beautiful harmony putting a revolutionary spell on you belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit Peace of Heart Nectar of Truth just in time to do what you do... an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues. Born to a preacher handyman and housemaid minister a gospel pop fusion diva emerges from the Glory of Love a strange volatile fruit blossoms into young, gifted, and Black spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold from a silky soul that scorches the earth an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Masterfully mesmerizing Black rock Blood and Candlesmoke a fiery flow of tangy, tantalizing and titillating under a fog of duality genius bears two heads vibrant and intricate a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty an empowered diva breaks down and let's it all out just energetic expressive jazz injected with well composed folklore live at Ronnie Scotts an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues From Newport to Baltimore an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit and hypnotizes the masses with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs a powerful Four Women high on Lilac Wine blush from Broadway Blues Ballads in Baltimore See-line woman goes to hell to save Little Liza Jane and shelters in Barbados Cotton-eyed Joe feeds Brown Baby controversy behind Blue Prelude Did it move you? Yeah... Hell yeah.. it moved me too! Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird in chilly winds that don't blow while willows weep something seemingly symbolic of soothing to an African mailman in Central Park and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues The High Priestess of Soul caged but still singing shivering sensations from stubborn sweetness under sweet strings that sharply spill and scatter strength to the sorrowful that daily dine and devour silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.

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Nov 11, 2013

Nov 11, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC

bronx-peach

The High Priestess of Soul

365Nectar #46 The High Priestess of Soul Fri. November 8, 2013 10:38 P.M. Deep in the distance dancing upon the horizon a deeply distinctive voice defies definition bending genres to her will clearly breaking boundaries an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Little Girl Blue lettin' it all out with a wild as the wind Sinner man just tryin' to feel good absolutely refusing to be misunderstood a strong-willed priestess turns tempermental tunes into blazing beautiful harmony putting a revolutionary spell on you belting emotional songs of freedom and spirit Peace of Heart Nectar of Truth just in time to do what you do... an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues. Born to a preacher handyman and housemaid minister a gospel pop fusion diva emerges from the Glory of Love a strange volatile fruit blossoms into young, gifted, and Black spitting storms of spiritually smoldering Black Gold from a silky soul that scorches the earth an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues Masterfully mesmerizing Black rock Blood and Candlesmoke a fiery flow of tangy, tantalizing and titillating under a fog of duality genius bears two heads vibrant and intricate a saucy songstress swings with passion and honesty an empowered diva breaks down and let's it all out just energetic expressive jazz injected with well composed folklore live at Ronnie Scotts an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues From Newport to Baltimore an exiled priestess feeds forbidden fruit and hypnotizes the masses with tantalizing love me or leave me alone torch songs a powerful Four Women high on Lilac Wine blush from Broadway Blues Ballads in Baltimore See-line woman goes to hell to save Little Liza Jane and shelters in Barbados Cotton-eyed Joe feeds Brown Baby controversy behind Blue Prelude Did it move you? Yeah... Hell yeah.. it moved me too! Mr. Bojangles wave bye bye to a Blackbird in chilly winds that don't blow while willows weep something seemingly symbolic of soothing to an African mailman in Central Park and an exiled priestess wails louder than ever silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues The High Priestess of Soul caged but still singing shivering sensations from stubborn sweetness under sweet strings that sharply spill and scatter strength to the sorrowful that daily dine and devour silky, soulful, and spicy Pastel Blues.

90

I remember when you took me corkscrewing down kaleidoscope tunnels for the last time mounting hummingbirds to fly through the crystallized sky air splashing against our skin like an intoxicating perfume, dizzying old daydreams, new friends like humans with spectrum eyes and hair that coiled around their shoulders like serpents, all donning galaxy cloaks reptilian monsters that sprouted raven feathers while chasing each other through smoke trees silhouettes with rusty-nail teeth who danced like leaves in a gale inky, spindly limbs reaching trying to catch the moon fingers entangled like a dreamcatcher We were more then the kings and queens, heroes, idols We were gods, ruling from the velvet mountains to the silken seas, everything beneath the candlesmoke clouds and the caramel sun that drips like wax everything shining beneath the stars made out of that smoldering purple dust we know so well always whispering to us in scritch-scratch voices reciting elegies and hush-hush songs of longing but then, reality ignites and burns beneath us as we soar, elysian fields crumbling, flames consuming the wonderland we’ve built that is nothing but a paper thin house of tarot cards the future written with seeping poison ink We are left keening in the ashes, tears to late to douse the inferno but maybe they will help some seedling fester beneath the scorched earth

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Mar 8, 2013

Mar 8, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC

holly-h

The Paradise addiction built

I remember when you took me corkscrewing down kaleidoscope tunnels for the last time mounting hummingbirds to fly through the crystallized sky air splashing against our skin like an intoxicating perfume, dizzying old daydreams, new friends like humans with spectrum eyes and hair that coiled around their shoulders like serpents, all donning galaxy cloaks reptilian monsters that sprouted raven feathers while chasing each other through smoke trees silhouettes with rusty-nail teeth who danced like leaves in a gale inky, spindly limbs reaching trying to catch the moon fingers entangled like a dreamcatcher We were more then the kings and queens, heroes, idols We were gods, ruling from the velvet mountains to the silken seas, everything beneath the candlesmoke clouds and the caramel sun that drips like wax everything shining beneath the stars made out of that smoldering purple dust we know so well always whispering to us in scritch-scratch voices reciting elegies and hush-hush songs of longing but then, reality ignites and burns beneath us as we soar, elysian fields crumbling, flames consuming the wonderland we’ve built that is nothing but a paper thin house of tarot cards the future written with seeping poison ink We are left keening in the ashes, tears to late to douse the inferno but maybe they will help some seedling fester beneath the scorched earth

30

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.

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Jun 20, 2019

Jun 20, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC

ChrisSaitta

The Death of Mozart

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.

18