"cinnabar" poems
Mild day in winter, week before Christmas
Turns out the tree in your front yard has been
A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors
As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and
A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete
Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien
Synapses, your white car looks at me cross-
eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog.
The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my
Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences
And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers
Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a
Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees.
A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song,
For I am only human, stains on my sleeve,
Sleeping in when I should be producing anything.
I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel.
I cannot remember what I was supposed
To be.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds
strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites
of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze,
ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal
pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets
of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark
on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters.
Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness.
~~~
Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of
rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of
mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette.
From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows
splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow.
From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at
gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm.
Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell?
~~~
Dusk colour gorge sheathed in
emerald blankets, rising into sheer
cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all
underpinned by the fathomless
flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets
nest in pine top heights clear of dust.
On white sand shores gibbons howl
towards squawking beach gulls, squabble
over landlocked trout – debate without end.
Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze
over carpets of jade inter cut by king
fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole
song weaves in and out of mulberry branches.
In these vast and vague waters -
coves, creeks and streams all one,
a river dragon lives an undetermined
existence. Mud stirs below, merely a
catfish airing grievances.
Red tail flares in dirt,
my mulberry oar rows me back home.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.
There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.
Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.
He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.
Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.
Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.
Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.
Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.
On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.
Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
2.4k
The glowing jacinth sun was just beginning its descent,
casting long, flittering shadows on horse and rider alike.
Although the horse was young, he walked
with an air of importance,
like a racer entering the track.
As the playful breeze rustled the viridian leaves,
his muscles tensed.
He perked up like a toy soldier,
watching the purpling sky with wary eyes,
the amaranthine clouds reflected in those deep sable orbs.
As he trotted about like a fairy,
his russet coat shone vibrantly in the setting sun,
a body of twinkling rubies set in amber.
The sprite padded softly on the ground
with the delicate nature of a hummingbird,
he had a stride like a river of sweet milk and honey.
The chestnut dreamer skipped across the ground
like notes across a page,
his song light and airy.
he tiptoed and pirouetted,
his three pearly stockings dancing
like the melodious keys of a piano.
Her cinnabar savior bounded over the fences
like a prancing stag,
and his dainty ears pricked forward
as his chocolate-brown eyes fixed on the obstacle ahead.
As he jumped, he lit up with a bravery
that could have been felt all throughout the arena.
Had the two not been alone,
the entrancing sight would have been easily able to charm his way
into the hearts of even the stoniest of onlookers.
With a gleeful snort,
the sunny gelding seemed to fill the air
with good-natured laughter.
The rider reached down to give him a pat,
and he brightened at her touch,
the pet like a kiss on his glossy ginger neck.
And as the last of the daylight filtered away
into the velvety mazarine sky,
his neck stretched down and his walk slowed.
Satisfied with their ride, the two made their way back inside,
surrounding by the growing darkness.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
i was in the womb when
the chernobyll calamity happened
in 1986...
people still speak of seeing
radioactivity rainbows
in the trees: segregating streaks
where 10 metres of trees
were green and 10 metres of
trees were brown...
much of my ailments i blame
on the chernobyll calamity,
with neurotic scandinavians
spotting the radioactivity
while some of us were tattooed
with symptoms
by this great tattoo artist;
yes, chernobyll was far away from
where i was born,
but we're talking about atom among
atoms in the wind - distance doesn't
really matter when atoms are involved,
not all hurricanes are visible,
the atomic fabric is too fragile to be
as easily isolated as a tornado for the eyes
to see - remember what i told you:
10 metres of green trees, 10 metres of
brown trees, Vivaldi was turning
in his grave; the seasons are all but
forgotten, spring blossom on trees
throughout winter, and daffodils
and other flowers perpetuating colour -
and because they're around throughout
the year, they're not that beautiful
when the right temperature feeds the pores of skin
to turn ivory tinge into copper hue
(yes, anti-classical poetic technique
requires the use of tautology - it's
the new form of rhyming - tautology
is required now, not rhyme immediate e.g.
tinge & hue... that's an e.g. of tautological
rhyming - or like baby pink & pastel red,
chestnut & cinnabar, dark sienna & seal brown).
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
The sailor’s hand is guided by the star;
Fair islands rise in morning’s early gleam;
A breeze stirs, and there flow, as in a dream,
Sweet fragrances of terebinth and cinnabar.
The waves caress the strand in tides of green,
While inland light reveals the path towards
The solitude of primal upland swards
Where gorgeous nenuphars may bloom unseen
Dark shadows lie on towering mountain walls,
And dying sunlight filters through the land,
To stream on towers reared by unknown hands
Where lovers make their vow as evening falls.
The fading sun may set the stars in flight;
The stars, a woven tapestry of love perfect;
The moon an antique city resurrect,
Or turn a desert to a garden of delight.
Brief days of hope dull separation’s pain,
And glamour to the distant dream impart.
But years alone erode the constant heart
That blindly seeks its destiny in vain.
Despair can make a desert of the mind;
An outland sun torment and sear and blind;
The moon disclose a wasteland of the night
And stars a secret tragedy unbind.
The tide-surge shatters on the barren shore;
Vast clouds obliterate the dying sun;
Colossal chains of livid lightning run
And mournful winds monotonously roar
Through bleak, deserted glades; my feet now tread
Where stricken trees arch darkly overhead
And claw the sky with fingers black and dead;
The endless road lies empty as before...
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
The time of the shining of
Wind-summered grasses, has passed,
-To the lark-breast mottle-
The harvested skin of the
Senescent land
The candle-snatch gutter of
Hurrying wing sees
The last of the coin
That was minted in thatches
Of deepwood
Of latticing bramble
Of crumbling eve.
The mourn of the Moorland
Has feathered a will
With the clot of the Ash,
Where a heather of cinnabar
Freckles the splash of
a simmering tarn
As gravelling Easterlies
Peel the cling of
The verdigris fades,
Some twilight of sepia
Musters the pastel
of Wintering calm.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
4 seasons
summer
drops of salt water found their way into our crevices,
you were my best friend
and we forgot the stars,
instead counting every grain of sand on that beach strand.
when it was time for me to leave,
you sang with the waves as back up vocals,
they would bare their teeth every time you uttered the word 'love.'
it was a protest to age but you and i knew
youth had nothing to do with it.
fall
a subtle color change in the foliage appeared
and as the leaves fall,
they made the music of our matrimony.
it was all good and well
but your failures latched on to me
and god, i was 22-
carrying the burden of a 22 year old and your latest tragedies-
the leaves still turned from lush green
to cinnabar and vermillion and ochre and the more brilliant
they became the closer to death they succumbed
following a paradigm resembling our relationship.
winter
when the snow touches the ground
everything is pure- the cold woke me up.
it woke me up as you held me
pinned down
in your luxurious apartment hallway,
where two weeks before i mistook money for monogamy.
and i've never wished fatality on anyone
but i hope you freeze to death.
spring
i met you in the spring,
and here we are, two springs later.
we are watching one another bloom,
we are the honeysuckles, the poppies,
we are reconfiguring ourselves for a season
of growth and renewel,
of quiet grace and goodness.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
The silver lining in your eye
Weighed heavy
And beckoned me to study in moments passing by,
Swiftly passing through our days,
Until we found our way.
The hot springs, beneath us,
Gave birth to knowledge of the sky
I was lost, though, in your cinnabar eyes
And withdrew every part
To give it back, equally.
And
I demonstrated how the planets align,
And you loved the motion of my hands
As they described the distant
you fell before Venus.
She said, "take your time."
But you denied
If I had known those eyes would take me to hell, through quicksilver fields, to a sudden, winter season...
But we moved swiftly through our days
Until we found our way.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
what do you call that--in the morning?
between dried citrus fruits, orange and
lemon pinwheels strung on fishing wire
persimmon and crystalized cinnabar
soft bread rolls wrapped in muslin
with filtered sun refracting
through the crown glass
around her head like parhelion--
and she touches the spices
sumac, saffron, fennel, mustard seeds
and she touches the dishcloths
and she touches
and she touches
and she touches.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
A brief gander out of the window sills
The dim candlelight flickers ever so vividly and lingers through
The fire awakens and its children, embers of the future withdraw
They take off and flow with the midwinter breeze
Amongst the ample tracts of land, amongst the foggy scenery of ice and snow
The amber extract of lightwaves pierce through the nocturnal blanket
The lilac sky merging with the cinnabar, umber and indigo
The soldiers, clad as such, marching through the grassland
And thus spoke the soldiers
Embedded in the gloom, marching through the dusty carpet
Consolidating rigid blocks amass
Caressing the cold, serene scenery in all its idyll
The sparkles dwindle at dusk
A solemn encounter between life and death - the soldiers collect them all
Many sparkles accumulate and dissipate when heaven takes in their children
Flourishing in tufts that lit the charcoal sky, a glistening canvas
I found myself amidst the elation, as I gazed amongst the starry abyss
The future stared back and smiled as I found myself frozen in time
The timeless idyll is ever so frightful, but a bliss as it fills my locket
Moonlight pass, timescape halts, landscape falls, shadows conquer
Time is ever so vague when the silver arises
The mirror of the soul, the children of the dim candlelights
They flicker ever so lively into eternity
They flicker and return home.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
should i take azoth
to cure my sloth
it may well make
my mind like quicksilver
send me messages from
the mouths of gods
at round about 80wpm
or will it just make my moods mecurial
and put little beads
of silver sweat acroos
my furrowed brow
with it's inherent toxicity
if i take a dose of azoth
or liquid cinnabar.
i may live fast,
but i won't live long...
my old friend paracelsus
tells me "the dose makes
the poison" and in this he
is right.
i might skip the azoth.....
and the cinnibar liquid too
go for coffee instead....
or could just succumb
to sloth and stay in bed.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
I’d love to sail the seven seas, I’d sail them all with you
And we would have adventures and fill our lives with mirth we two
And the spray would catch our faces as we looked across the sea
And gulls and whales and dolphins, companions they would be.
I’d love to sail to Zanzibar, and to islands in the sun
And search for a tree called the Cinnabar, as we sail the seas for fun
And the spray would fill our senses, while the sky would be so blue
And the stars at night would guide us, as around the world we flew.
I’d love to sail round the southern capes, and the frozen world where penguins go
Where all the ice shines in the sun, and the land is covered in soft white snow
And the spray would strike our faces, but our hearts would be filled with hope
And with stars and a map to guide us, and the aid of our telescope.
©Joe Wilson – With the aid of a telescope…2015
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
Sickly sweet memories
play back
in a sugar coated mess
of— chocolate wonder,
and
a pile of laughing snickers.
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC
Scarlet cinnabar
wanton reds and ***** you pinks
Vermilion is a libertine
a go it alone chancer
who lives free and to hell with the consequence
condemn him if you will
for he is already ******
The devil has his own team colours
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 12:04 PM UTC
It's funny how we relate certain smells to certain things
like how when I smell suncream
I smell summer
I smell days at the lake with school friends
I smell drunk, early morning conversations on rooftops
I smell sun and sea
Perhaps, that is why Martha will stop
at the perfume shop when we pass by it
always searching the second aisle from the back
bottom right, sometimes, bottom left
to see if they still sell it
She'll walk out smiling, stinking of Cinnabar
Blushing
I'll catch her nose in her sleeve later on
walking home
in the park
at the bus stop
I'll wonder what she's really smelling
Who she's seeing
Even when it's scent has faded and can't be made out any longer
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
Cinnabar
prods the person
to sunlight, trade, and time,
The civiliz’d do celebrate
what made the empire fine.
What schoolchildren adore in school
is what to all is heir,
The knowledge of practicality
made from the bursting bone.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
R
coral cinnabar crimson carmine
cerise claret cochineal cardinal
burgundy ruby scarlet vermillion
O
apricot amber carnelian topaz
nascarat saffron jacinthe tangerine
Y
flavescent lutescent xanthic citrine
jessamy ictericious ochre meline
G
vivid viridian olivaceous teal
zinnober porraceous and eau de nil
caeisous virescent cyaneous corbeau
celeste celadon pavonated azuline
I
cobalt peacock prussian pthalo
saffirine aegean denim blue
V
amaranthine amethyst violaceous plum
heliotrope purple violet mauve
ianthine porphyrous lilac lavender too
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 7:24 AM UTC
Pedal, pedal
down the carnation rose petals.
Little, pink flowing florets blossom
brightly as the cherry tree settles.
Cinnabar curls wrestled
against her dress's white, linen lace.
A gradient of green grasses glistened
as she pursued on her spring's race.
Lavender and lilac fragrance tingled
her firm senses and her freckled nose.
Easter emblems enlightened her ride
as inhaled the Gardena of a spring rose.
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 3:39 PM UTC