Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
  And Phoebus ‘gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
  On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
  To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty bin,
  My lady sweet, arise!
    Arise, arise!

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
In the still chamber of yon pyramid
Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

What is it about poetry
that so consumes you
Brings you to your knees,
cowering in a corner
of your own delusions
Reading in between the lines,
finding what is not really there
Dropping hints of absurd defiance,
collecting spoonful after spoonful
of puzzled meanings and chaliced dreams

Flowing symbolisms, metaphoric landscapes -
Where bushes are bluebirds
and sidewalks - bridges of no return

Why do you reach
into your pocket, searching for love
on white paper folded into a square,
when all along it faces you -
not in ink, but in smiles
expressing exactly what is felt
No boundaries or disguised emotions
penned in rhythmic sequence,
only true love, standing on this sidewalk -
which is only a sidewalk

What is it about poetry
that so consumes you,
when love is waiting – just outside the lines

He's only seen what once had ever happened
but the memories he has decidedly repressed
his eyes have been glued, cemented in with solemness
never again shall they open as they've been sewn shut

The stitches themselves have only ever ached
for the needles were minute and blindingly fast
the holes between each slight and delicate thread
has left aperture trails behind, a kindling to his ****** gloom

Cleaved and lacerated, his lids have splintered
**** filled blood as its only moisturizer
spasmming as it oozes along the crevices of his face
passing marred flesh like vines extending unto forest floor

"Hoc est languor meus
Ego praestolabor in aeternum nam finis"
said he with hand hovering over silver chaliced ****
soon, though he shall weep the golden tear of death upon slab

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady, sweet, arise!
Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare

We had an energetic exchange
and his energy has intertwined with my own
and his children have sunken into my skin
and his lips are imprinted on my own.
I feel as if I have to discard myself in order to discard him
from me.
We made art with our bodies
and I can't tell you how artistic it was that he curves gently to the left
and his hands felt as if they were made only to grab my throat.
I loved every inch of his body
and I have it memorized so well
I could sketch it out.
He was art to me.
In every kiss was a song;
in every goodbye, a melancholy tear.
At night, I can remember the way his chaliced hands traced my figure
and how comforted I felt when his muscular arms hugged my limbs.
I can still taste him
and it's a taste that even Burnett's can rid me of.
He was mine;
every piece and square centimeter had my name on it,
but just as quickly as we fell in love,
my name was wiped clean by
someone
else.

She felt so trivially small,
For no one cared at all,
People never paid attention to her,
They saw her in a blur,
She was tiny and not noticed,
All her brothers and sisters were chaliced.
That is why she had to let go,
For she was the little toe.

=

Chaliced of dreams in a drunken condition
Staggering phrases now leak from my pen
Courage is spilt from a bottled delusion
One hundred proof as all time does suspend

Kissing the floor in a faceless direction
Slurring each word that does tumble my page
Combing the gray, forceful discrimination
Cursing a mirror that challenges age

Lips painted fire, poetic her features
Low cut and staring, a phrase slips my tongue
Desired conclusions in walk away stanzas
Pour me another, the night is still young

Along this springtime path I tread,
as Earth awakens from its slumber.
Buttercups glint in the sun’s first light,
while dew rolls off their waxy gold.

Spring-beauty line my morning walk,
along with orchid splendor of violets.
Jack in the pulpit collects its chaliced dew,
beside shooting stars fallen to the ground.

Horsetail reeds, segmented and green,
in tawny conical hats,
and trilliums with triads of snow-white petals,
encircling golden throats.

Smells of earth and green unite,
in silence of the woods deep.
Streams filled with new life held in their *****,
awaiting birth in the warmth of spring.