"carvings" poems
It was golden and splendid,
That City of light;
A vision suspended
In deeps of the night;
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.
I remember the season
It dawn'd on my gaze;
The mad time of unreason,
The brain-numbing days
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.
More lovely than Zion
It shone in the sky
When the beams of Orion
Beclouded my eye,
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
Its mansions were stately,
With carvings made fair,
Each rising sedately
On terraces rare,
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
The avenues lur'd me
With vistas sublime;
Tall arches assur'd me
That once on a time
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.
On the plazas were standing
A sculptur'd array;
Long bearded, commanding,
rave men in their day—
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.
In that city effulgent
No mortal I saw,
But my fancy, indulgent
To memory's law,
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with
awe.
I fann'd the faint ember
That glow'd in my mind,
And strove to remember
The aeons behind; &
21.4k
my blood turns black in every puncture,
steel goes in just, even faster,
i do not care how they see me,
i go to church even though you don't believe me,
i may be modified and full of carvings,
but my passion and care will never vanish
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
writings on the inside of my walls
pictures and symbols of our love
deep sounds of moaning rising from within
nails digging deep and deeper into flesh
carvings of sensual sensation
creating waves and waves of passion
******* together in unison
simulating each senses, the aroma of love
written on my papyrus
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 8:58 AM UTC
Tied down to my mistakes
A worn path never re-grows it seeds
My emotions like wild flowers
Skirt along the edge in light
Gently swaying in summer breeze
I watch the clouds pass by
A moment captured, then released
I run, across green green grass
Down different roads past carvings on tress
Mend broken bridges
That led us to golden beaches and start again.
But your eyes hold me to this path
Your heart guides me through this pain
And I can only follow the trail
Of your memories for so long
And time will let me stumble on my own
To find a clearer path to travel,
To find a life without you.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
of beautiful things
willowy warbler's
wax'n wings
silvery strumming
singing sands
languid lagoons
in luxurious lands
carvings of creosote
cacti create
fulcrum of flame
thru frivolous
fate
volcanic vestibule
vestments and
vestiges
historical hypothesis
harmonious
heritage
melanin melange
mellifuous
mild
woodduck waters
wheeling and
wild
crystal caverns
creating
light
nocturnal nymphs
announcing the
night
sumptuous sunsets
scintillation's
scream
dramatic dawn
drawn
from
a
dream
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/2/2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
About a mile out of town
Past the village in the mist
Sits a tiny Country Church
Not found on any list
It's for Catholic and Baptist
It's for Protestant and Jew
It's doors are always open
This church is here for you
The town is near two hundred
The Church a few years more
There are tales about this building
That are part of local lore
The church is small in stature
But large in who it serves
It's a place to go and worship
It's a place to calm your nerves
The pews are hard and narrow
Carved by hand you see
One has crumbled through the years
So in all there's thirty three
Seventeen pews on the left side
Sixteen on the right
Hand carved with love by someone
And all are painted white
At Easter and at Christmas
The Church is full as it should be
And as one of those who enter
I say, it's something you should see
The pews seem so much whiter
When the voices sing so loud
If it could be witnessed by it's builders
I know they would be proud
There are carvings in the church pews
Left by many through out time
On the second one in on the left
Is my brothers name and mine
The pews are worn in places
They've supported many souls
Who have come in here for comfort
They have come to be made whole
The one pew that is broken
Was fixed but once more broke
It was decided then to leave it
By the elders, local folk
The minister in charge then
Stood and told those who were there
"To fix what keeps on breaking"
"Wastes time, we could better share"
"Besides, look all around you"
"The pews, there's thirty three"
"To you, it should hold meaning"
"Think hard, and you will see"
"Remember, Christ our Saviour"
"Think of his age on his last day"
"Thirty three, that is the number"
"Now, think on that next time you pray"
"The Church pew that is broken"
"Can't be fixed, so let it be"
"It's as though it was intended"
"To help give strength to you and me"
The Church out in the Country
Will stand longer than me
And will witness many Christmas'
From church pews ...all thirty three.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
I'd like to be barefoot
just me on my own
walking in this place
I'd never feel alone
I wouldn't worry if they're watching
or care who "they" are
I'd feel the history beneath my feet
when I trace every scar
Floors have memories of that I'm sure
they remember who's been there
and know the power of age
it's never enough just to stare
I crave to feel stone on skin
I see the carvings dance high above
but I want to feel these paths
filled with both hate and love
people have died where I'm standing
but I can't feel their blues
because instead of stone
I feel the souls of shoes
Some crave the feeling of skin on skin
but more seductive is stone
because no matter the age
it's memories that I can't own
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 1:06 AM UTC
Hundreds of orders behind but never
never
never
Never quite
out of business. I cut my finger often
but my carvings are cut, always
must be.
I owe the people wooden hearts
to call their own.
And I owe myself a living,
living with clocks and statues and cabinets
for some purpose
known by God.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
Fissures cut through thick mocha fur, saturating
The forest floor with stark crimson. The deer flails,
Broken, knees buckled, breath shallow and emerging
As vanishing steam in frosty November air.
He falls on a bed of sugar maple leaves, illuminated
In dappled sunlight and fulvous hues.
“Must’ve been the coyotes,” my brother whispers,
As my pocketknife meets the stag’s throat. Gentle
Auburn clouds and freezes time, the body falls still.
My father says, “Sacrifice is a form of worship, but it is only through
Mercy that we may show passion for what we believe.”
Coyote bites prevent carvings from going to Buxton’s General Store,
But what nature produces it also receives.
Ants forage along the split underbelly,
And a red-tailed hawk carries away the entrails.
History defines the antlers of deer as symbols of the Gods,
And men would wear them atop their heads.
I collect only them, still draped with threads of velvet,
Knowing that years from now, nestled inside the perimeter
Of wind-beaten fences around the family farm, beyond
Moss-covered slopes and the Wishing Rock,
Will be the bones of a solitary stag.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
I want to paint this on your skin,
what prevents your spirit from trembling.
What makes your flavor fluctuate,
Is there something special I can serve you.
I came to you on two firm legs,
smoothed the covers, and lifted you from that bed.
You came with full breaths
Palefire, and unblended acceptance.
My frown will not speak of you,
but your pride steals the covers.
With a hurricane in your chest
, and a sadness that rips me to death.
I just realized my folly, five seconds after
Touching my finger to a false heart.
Took your polished please, without giving a thank you.
Brilliant resplendence of your redolent virtue.
Arms clenched, a wool sweater, bitter.
Leisurely cassette tapes, guide down to the truth.
The airy pleasures I have grasped at the heights
Match not the singular joy, in the cup of coffee in the garden
Of shredded roses, and bone carvings.
Favoritism, lies in the past, and it won't change.
What has been done, trumps what shall be done.
You won already. All I ask, is you guide me.
My hands and wrists, like leaders,
Gently wrapped around your skull,
So I can cradle that delicately invincible brain,
Mending skin and hair with perfection.
And this? This I will carve into the table that you took away
from loving me.
My love for you mirrors your footprints, into the infinity of oblivion.
.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
Such a classic mortal blunder to lay
my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant
on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms;
such delicate carvings can never be human, look human,
feel human under my lonesome bones.
I long to see you flinch and break
into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me,
covering the walls of this room
in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward
for my kind of insanity,
you say.
It envelopes like light around my awe
and my forlorn limbs,
tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones.
I look for comfort within brittle carcasses
scraped of everything they could ever give.
The quiet persists eerily.
But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted:
the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird
the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels
all impaling my spinal bones.
Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased,
the careful carvings, long defaced,
long reduced into a Grecian ruin.
I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest
against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks.
How many for your fingers?
How many for your hair?
Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of
all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned?
Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long
to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants —
any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice
of the love goddess, that you were once turned human.
Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse
over the sea foam caught on fire.
I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up.
Here it all goes down and ends:
my bones,
and yours,
burning,
snapping.
Nothing —
nothing less glorious will last after us.
— Fray Narte
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 10:05 PM UTC
You travel between disparate realms
desperate knights, with splintered shield
and cracked helm, black rose on their white backs.
Such void, from which universes are created,
where normality is clay, and plasticity.
Granting merit to my thefts
Your ink spills in torrents,
rapidly alternating colors.
But my black and white photos
they are beautiful too!
I never have known boredom
as a man in my own home,
such is my inability to understand
how you flit and zip,
I only have two hands and two lips,
to try and transform a gift,
from the norm, while a storm sleeps
beneath every syllable.
Countless bodies, devoid of mind
until swooping in they come,
it is not enough that I possess true feelings.
It must be the purity within my tainted stanzas
that counteracts the inadequacy of the volume.
Or some subliminal, or sublingual amplifying agent
or reality distortion involved,
which brings shapeshifting angels
gliding by, leaving tokens of bone carvings,
and charcoal drawings of what I choose to hide,
but simply cannot.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
we lit the match
of ignorance
and set this world
aflame
wars
money
power
control
you think
this is a game?
children starving
tree carvings
across polluted floor
what happened to
this earth of ours
that we simply can control?
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
Have a look at this intricately fashioned globe
How it has been beautified with perfect contrast
Soothing green carpet and calm blue canopy
Compels you to admire its each and every lobe
Have you ever imagined it without these colours?
How it would appear with all its ink gone…
Dull, boring and blank is a portrait without paint
Life would surely lose all its vivid flavours
Have a look at the sky, brushed with black
How it has been studded with priceless jewels
Far beyond the reach of Kings are these colours
Dazzling for the artist is this silver round on black
Have you ever imagined it to be washed off?
How it would appear with all its glitter invisible
Surely no one would bother to look above
You and I love to live due to these colours
Have a look at whatever you swallow and chew
How it has been made mouth watering for you
The perfect blend of colours tempts you to eat
Nature has already garnished all that you need
Have you ever imagined all this to be colourless
How it would appear with its blank coat
Probably no one would relish this feast
Your sense of sight might seem to be useless
Have a look at the humble king of flowers
How it has been made a symbol of love
Those red chunks resting among green carvings
So inspiring is this beauty which nature showers
As I look towards the roof of this globe
The rays of the golden ball give me hope
Colours encourage me to move despite all obstacles
I owe my existence to these conspicuous colours
Written by: Fakiha Hassan Rizvi
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 5:57 AM UTC
My breath is barbed;
skeletal strings shift into smoke,
drifting into the shadows
as the darkness will choke.
Pearl snow stuffs my skull;
my grandmother in an earthern womb,
sleeps under it all.
A tombstone the last thing we bought--
a report card of her life:
She is with Him in Heaven, In Paradise...
With Him, Without Pain--
is speculation but turns into thought.
The icy steps do not deter me
as I sit on the crooked concrete spine;
speaking to her, hoping the snow
does not make her cold, any more,
'I can stay a while longer...
I do not have to go home, yet.'
-
Eco-friendly light spills from under the door,
forming a pool as yellow as diseased skin.
The brass doorknob is like a girl I once loved:
hard on the outside, hollow in the inside,
unable to be moved and okay with it.
Fury from a faucet fills the bathtub
and rings my ears with its intent:
to fill a void and go away when cold.
She lays in the water
the city treats better than us,
wading in a wealth of watermelon wash;
her body flushed from fading flesh,
pores swim and stretch around
cursive carvings, kissing cursed curves--
and I sit upon a bone-white curb,
stirring my finger in the soup of her day;
watching the drain **** wondering
if she'll, too, drift away.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
.
night streets and scars of light
scarves of light
moving subtle bustles of shadowed light
carvings of royal light robes of velvet light
make out expressionist doorways
strobes of light fink and fit in protest
coding behind enemy lines
captured light fires colourful snakes about
in flaring curved science tubes
flagging the bartering night flogging the
urban night
we've made apparition in honour of daylight
and out of the theatre fear
of our own bogged nature
synthetic ghosts of light
charge away ghosts
electronic noises scare away
the horrifying lull of the dead
(a dead we don't believe in)
twenty four seven behaviour
to busy away the very spirits we have hungered
and to plot against
all that unnecessary sleep business
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 9:53 AM UTC
Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
get lowered.
The jesters
cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.
I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
steam trombones
There
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
forever deceased.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 8:16 PM UTC
#
I dream of a world
where you're not raging at me
or ridiculing me to your friends
for simply
my just being me..
Where you're not throwing me
under the bus in order
to make things go your way.
There is a lodgepole pine,
a stick of wood that you fancy
as a staff in front of the crowd
But like every single one of them--
it is only a prop
to keep you from falling over..
Wordsmith-formed, your poetic
carvings
into your staff, only weaken it
And no one in your selected crowd
has the courage
or the substance
to tell you that the drawn out nature
of each creative word
only hastens the prop's break.
. . .
The weight of the brass, polished
on your ship, sinking down
will break the mast at its base..
to that place.. all the way, down--
the place where you have c a r v e d
*your most
finely
selected word.*
#
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 11:44 AM UTC
Some people are of God,
The thinning of their sole, torn shoes and worn clothes tell the tale only hearts of God hear. How blessed, for their treasure lies within, no fear of loss, no fear of pain because the glacier of faith they carry within is too magnificent to be beautified, yet too fearsome to let any fear linger around the edges.
Everyone of us is a keeper of that glacier. It's only, that the burns sometimes melt the forted edges of iceberg of faith. But the keeper knows exactly when it happens, and when it can happen. And do we not sometimes melt and do we not always gather our blistering crystals, do we not bear the burns on our palms and yet we stand strongest after the burning waves of fate pass on? It melts, it smoothes, it shapes and after all the carvings in the keeper's castle, makes him even more majestic.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
I was walking along the shoreline
On a warm afternoon in July when
I noticed a piece of polished wood
Bobbing helplessly in the shallow water,
So I pulled it from the salty sea and
Admired the intricate carvings and
Detailed line work across the face.
Just as I was running my thumb
Over the still smooth edges, I
Noticed another piece floating
Just a few feet away from me.
Within the hour, I had gathered
An entire armful of wood, and
Within the week, I had an entire
Table full of mismatched pieces.
So I began working unceasingly
At putting the pieces back together.
I started with the inside, the
Smooth heart shaped piece with
The slight cracks and divots,
Followed by a circular piece
That resembled the brain
With the deep crevices.
I then pieced together
The smooth fingertips
And the rugged feet,
And connected every
Limb and joint together
Until a boy of about
Six feet was standing
In front of me.
I snapped on the
Final piece and watched
As he came alive before me.
His eyes as deep as the mahogany
Looked into mine and smiled, as
Though thanking me.
And he turned his
Back to me and
Walked away.
It wasn't until
That moment that
I realized I had poured
Every ounce of myself into
Piecing back together that boy,
So now every ounce of myself
Was walking out my front
Door with a real boy
Who didn't need
Me anymore.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Follow the beat through.
When i learnt tennis , my point to work on was follow through ,
now
i see ..... played out in my life.
The wonderment of a follow through.
Oh what pleasure , to meet the kindred gatekeepers, with raspberry chocolate on a dream beach , with mirage water..... way out , shifting lake light blue to deep oceanic aqua.
Sand made out crystal , old glaciers roamed here , leaving in their wake ice pathway earth carvings that are now lakes.
The shield is up north , pure crystal. Unlike Bali beaches , with miniature coral atoms in the sand mix.
We sit and laugh , a hollyhawk , Rainbow deer , Earth tree mountain lion and I a Sky Albatross , humming the sound of ancient code into Dr Who time dreams.
Where we flow and merger - align each other - heal , give , beckon to ourselves to come forth , higher self crystalize!!
We all touch differently,
arriving at situations step ,
dance -reaction to the current atmosphere, we've all jumped. We've all landed. We've all felt
the other side of being human.
Careful not to time travel too much , then we get stuck in the loop of always moving to nowhere.... Land AHOY!
We , i can feel , are all in the throws of a well navigated land - the Hawk's message from 2 and a half weeks ago -
Received.
The corners are no longer so sharp , the waves no longer as fearful , we fellow beings stand at the entrances end showing the way through to eternity.
Transitions still in progress, nearing completion. 22nd of April - a date to watch. 1 year traveling. Time to reap those seeds!
Yippiee!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
Oh mother and father
The fields and the bibles
The barns and the woods
A bird cries for more
Green forever
Oh my love; my queen
The carvings and the maples
The sweet lips and gentle
Hands clasping my arm;
Moonlight quiet and sunlit smiles
For a while.
Oh brothers and sisters
Look at the fire
Look at the ash
Look at the skies
Feel my skin
Feel
A dry scale on my back
Crawl in the forests
Roll in the mud
Feast on the fallen
Birth to the given
Eyes on the sky and the sky so blue
I am alive
I am alive
I
Am Alive.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
i remember when we smiled
through the phones
and we wondered
what it'd be like
to hold each other close--
and it was such a far away dream
of a happiness
that i had never known
and when i saw you
standing
real and tall
your skin,
dark to my pale,
caressed the bracelets of scars
i wore as badges
of honor
and you held me
like i was something precious,
a feeling i'd never known
and it all just felt so real
and endless
and i closed my eyes wide
to all your faults
just to keep that feeling
for a little bit longer
and you smiled and held me
clinging to my skin and
to the thoughts
of a future
that we would never have
and now snippets pass before my eyes
of years later
like the snips upon my wrist
the same wrist that you kissed
the wrist that now
wears a bracelet of your name
etched into a scabbed memory
of screams and decay
of a once first love.
but there was still a day
where these carvings weren't real
and all that mattered was your eyes
finding mine
and for a moment
in your arms,
i was warm.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC