"cloyed" poems
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
And triply even more, my soul’s the same.
As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
Your lilting charms which, magically employs
All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
the way an
unknown part of my stomach once
vellicated on the surface, a
quick burst, single series of
three waves—(I could even
count them)—troughs, crests, passing
the point of kiss (or dream), a
peristalsis veering off course and plunging
(up or down, in this
there is no orientation) to an unexpectedly
known place (likely another one) and I,
seeming strangely uncomfortable. Or
perhaps just light, the way it rippled
just once, one time
off the glass of an opening door, skidded
across the passing wraith that was
one of my shimmering hopes—but no, it
is more the way
the universe sounds outside of
the window, as it is still
being born again and stupendously being also
dying again. The way I am
too leaden or cloyed to shuffle feet,
throw open that calico drape.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
the world, cloyed in an expanse of white,
looks to gray skies for consolation
somewhere critters
sleep, even dream,
perhaps hope
but only humans console
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
A house of cards since torn apart
And spirits broke before restarting.
A crow, whose ****** circles fast
Smells decay now from afar.
The marrow picked, and bleed, once tasted,
Fills the guts of those who've stuffed.
And fumbled in a greasy til
And still want more.
Insatiable. Craven.
Now rats who race to break the bones
Do hurry and scurry to survey these heaps,
All corners kept
quietly
questioning Questioning,
Festering, Venturing
these treacherous tendencies.
What once caused irk
now drives berserk
in shadows lurk acquiescent clerks.
Whose duteous work,
Cloyed wolves 'mongst herds,
venerate without exertion.
Can't *** the plants to break enchantment.
Now rubble strews the once green pastures,
Serpentine, exiled from gardens,
This concrete tomb, once womb of Gaea.
How barren plains once bloomed; need rain.
Her balding dusty broken frame
Now chokes with hate for beast with brain
Who slash deep wounds in soft terrain
Contempt, with only glutenous gain.
They reign.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
It is a rotten morning. The
core of hazels in the damp wood, wet
and drowned, lose identity and turn to gutless shapes. Cloyed
the muddy clay traps the dampness in its dips
and depressions, clings to the shoes and
slows the pittance of steps towards the caked
tree where the mud mutters below the uneven branch, the
bark is crusted over, and the one bird calls out once
too often, level with the woodman’s pile. Turning
aside the dropped stone splashes in the well and then he follows.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
better 'n me
get the meanings
of meditation,
or the rambling deep cloyed words
of Kerouac,
and when reading Silverstein
the rain I hope gets into your head when you
look up, I tried and I am dry,
Or Charles' interloping between violent him
and all his prose, sweetly dissolved in angst.
All the raw wildness
of E. E. cummings and Emerson, Sir walt I get
a quick glimpse at time , suppose
I understand.
Then if nadda else,
i hope you unnerstand that einstein dude
and his E=MC 2 sounds to me like a rap group/
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC