"clouts" poems
In numbers, and but these few,
I sing Thy birth, Oh, Jesu!
Thou pretty Baby, born here,
With sup’rabundant scorn here:
Who for Thy princely port here,
Hadst for Thy place
Of birth, a base
Out-stable for Thy court here.
Instead of neat inclosures
Of interwoven osiers,
Instead of fragrant posies,
Of daffodils and roses,
Thy cradle, kingly Stranger,
As Gospel tells,
Was nothing else,
But, here, a homely manger.
But we with silks (not cruels),
With sundry precious jewels,
And lily-work will dress Thee
Of clouts; we’ll make a chamber,
Sweet Babe, for Thee,
Of ivory,
And plastered round with amber.
The Jews they did disdain Thee,
But we will entertain Thee
With glories to await here
Upon Thy princely state here,
And more for love, than pity.
From year to year
We’ll make Thee, here,
A free-born of our city.
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Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,
Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,
Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair
In a wind that plucked a goose,
Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,
Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the *** city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old year
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted place
I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble
An upright man in the antipodes
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.
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Love is not the scrawl of notes
left on the bedside, whilst
the alarm clock suffers to clouts
and rings, awakening her.
Neither is love the aperture
between silhouettes
as they embrace so readily
against the walls. Some clinch
of absence, the antiptosis
of the you and I.
Love is not the spaces between
the ‘I miss you’s’ and the
‘here we are once more’s.’
Neither is love the separation
between our wants and needs,
to the disparities in the world.
It is not the defiance of obligation,
nor some holy rest-house
to the ills of the modern world.
Love is not some shared novel,
a story born out over a communal
conjecture of where humanity shall
rest upon the end of everything.
Neither is love the offering of a rose,
or any other bouquet of severed
life, strangled for the nourishment
of her; the justification of your
placement in her life. These are just
condescending gestures,
weak offerings to the Lord
of all you claim to be divine.
Love is not a life to be feasted upon,
nor is it the self-satisfied glance
in the mirror, as you finally decide
on your definition of ‘I’.
Neither is love this malformation
of words, this attempt of veritas,
this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled
longing, longing, longing for
some great hand to deliver life
upon my doorstep, upon our’s.
Love is simply the eternal rite
of Gaia; the motes of existence
that tumble with great devotion
and all-cause to their eventual demise,
their inevitable return
to the spiral that created them.
Love is the spaces between my breath,
between your’s.
Those pockets of meditation,
and the realisation of union
between all that was,
and ever will be.
Love is the acknowledgement
of power between us. Our previous
lives, blades of grass wilting together
under the footfalls of the now-trees,
the now-governors of our lives.
Love is in the ‘I know you’s’
and the ‘what would I do
without you’s’ that we have so struggled
to forsake in the day-to-day
tumble of our lives.
And to this, I say, that love is
these spaces that you may
no longer occupy. The barren stretches
of grey matter that no being either
mortal or otherwise,
could ever reclaim.
Love is the birth of bespoke experience,
and the knowledge
that nothing can erase us
from the archives of
everything that should ever matter.
Love is us.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Fathoms deep, are these mines of grey
impregnable, by even the brightest ray
yet light here is in plentiful found
To its insides alone, forever bound
Darkest evils, here lie awake
In every hall, pit and bottomless lake
Writhing ever to upwards surge
Singing, forever,their own dirge
Battles here ever are waged
Ambush,attack and clouts staged
For no blackness may reside alone
From cracks and crevices, are many lights shown
And the makes of the mines are just so
Always deeper,than their depths may go
for every produce that is fine or fair
Can be, twisted to cause despair.
Glittering gold, of value great
And coal, for which lies fiery fate
Fabulous, shinning, precious stones
Lie embedded, in old rotting bones
Many beings do venture here
With dreams hopes and many a fear
Each follows where the great mine leads
ever wider, are sown these seeds
And from these seeds new beings form
to join the massive egressing storm
That leaves forever those places dark
Whether to falter, our make its mark
Good,evil and all between
Are in this hallowed space seen
Neither fine nor all fey
But in truth filled with grey
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
Deliberation, restoration of a beaten nation. Beaten into the dust, rusted, cohesion gone, the gall of so many wrongs finally come to fruition like children's songs of un-suspended remission.
Cognitively oozing out of pores like sores of an otherwise un-marred beauty, and all the scoundrels come looting rudely to destroy the tapestry deliberately deployed to instill an air of utmost joy.
Money falling into the hands of moral lepers, economic pressures untoward, yet still pushing forward. The tenacity of ants, unparalleled cohesive cerebral structure, chants of a buddhist nature bleed desperation wrapped in graceful slumber to ward off the mortal structure, inevitable in its destruction which ruptures the potential reduction of essential corruption.
A gleam in the eye of every schemer, transferring blaspheme to the revelry flying high in the mind of every dreamer. Spewing out clouts of reconciliation, renewing like dust clouds of just degradation. Rejuvenation of this nations ancestry, patient in its wait, parched in the ancient vestry, waiting to sate the state of arched backs, superstitious black cats. Careful if a human crosses your path, losses run amok...invoke the acumen of wrath and bad luck.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Stutter, stifle my words and thoughts...
...I shiver.
In this endless need to fill my quiver...
... of racked up jargon
To contend to the meaning of my affection...
...I sought direction.
I found that the notion had no meaning...
...to placate your dissatisfaction
I alone hold dear to what I felt was quality...
until you bridged the gap of enmity.
Now we both trace a furlong of doubts...
...which I had ended up seeking no clouts.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:07 AM UTC
The nature’s clouts
Stabs to make us sense
Her occurrence
Again and again
Yet again
Rumbling gales, shattering typhoons,
And life intimidating seismic activity
Mark us exceptionally anxious
About our breathes and there after
Lies a plethora of secrets
Yet to come,
Will blew us black and blue
Nostalgic about the noble timeworn days
I will someday make this
Turn into imagination from reality!
But up till than
We will have to writhe
Extreme hardship
And extreme hardship.
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 1:27 PM UTC
face planted in the green
slow turn to the wispy sky
knowing peace is to dream
growing up is a gritty lie
memories dont blur like these clouds
there's no time to capture them
before the screen brightens, i dreamt
about sub conscious clouts
face planted with a smile
taking a piece of it is a slap to the head
tucking away my self conscious guile
drowning in joy until i lose my breath
- t.m
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
Rich coffee aroma consumes the room.
Coffee’s perfume and red lights relax about.
Your round face is polished exquisitely.
While your pink and turquoise dress flares and touts.
I watch you from a dank, lonely corner.
My wooden frame squeaks and moan all throughout.
Your steel basks in light making an aura.
Your beauty twinkles brilliantly and spouts.
Once I sat with you, enjoying my day.
Falling for your steel and all of your grout.
Then a rant, roar, and swish broke me in half.
After, I was discarded like a lout.
Now, I can only watch you from afar.
My love engulfs my being and shrilly shouts.
A new chair now kisses your underside.
If I am fixed one day, I’m swinging clouts.
His metal frame does shine very nicely.
But wood versus metal, would win no doubt.
I’m attractive and more comfortable.
He’s very hard and ugly in stout.
Next Thursday is trash day and I’ll be gone.
My frame will die, but not my love’s devout.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
On the TV
at the azure blue
Olympic Hockey Centre
in Deodoro,
our keeper’s
saving everything,
the Dutch careless
when faced with pressure,
the gold medal
swaying the way
of our women.
It’s the first time
I’ve paid much attention
to this stick-wielding sport
but when Webb swerves, turns,
clouts the yellow ball into the net,
I’m chuffed for us
as a cheer detonates
and there’s an ecstatic
bouncing circle of red.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
As embers of the summer quietly smoulder,
Still glowing, but a slow, less fierce heat.
Fast approaching, nearly on my shoulder
Comes the crunch of autumn's swifter feet.
Greens are turning paler, into golden,
Blue skies smudged with racing clouds of grey.
Poppies toss their clouts with gay abandon,
Their scarlet petals falling on the clay.
Yet, autumn brings her own supply of treasure
To ease us into winter's harsh embrace.
Gifts of fruits and seeds, she sends with pleasure,
showered on the earth with golden grace.
So wish farewell to summer's gentle hand,
And watch while autumn decorates the land.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
I’m feeling beautiful today.
Is it because
of this dress of velvet
like molten sapphire
against my skin
or the shimmering gold
a finest thread
lining my silhouette
in a filigree thin
Is it the mascara line
curving out
and making my lashes
flutter and sway
or the tint of pink
in a creamy blush
that on my cheeks
has come to stay
is it the curl in my lips
a contrived pout
or the click of my heels
on the floor it clouts
the bangles on my wrist
that sing as they jingle
the sparkling earlobes
as the earrings ******
is it the perfumed rose
that blooms in my scent
or the coiffured scarf
a colored accent
is it the swing in my gait
or my elusive trait
it is my voice, my gaze
or how, when i talk
my pupils dilate….
I feel beautiful today,
but i do not know why
i have thought all day
and now dark draws nigh
I feel beautiful today
so I should enjoy….
Arshia
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC