"columned" poems
A hot toddy…a hot bath
Is the way she drew me home
To the steamy waters of love
All covered with foam
My Nymph of Nysa in white garments as tight as skin
Revealed piercing and protruding ******* within
With these bedazzled ******* all a glow
She led me to her fountains below
“Lay in my waters so I may bestow
Oil to your muscles from crown to toe”
Though weary from tumultuous day
Healing hands restored strength vigor to play
“Are you able Captain to fill my folds
So I may howl like the Sirens of old?”
Rising like Poseidon out of the surf
I placed her on my four columned berth
Opening wide her ivory legs she called for my girth
“Come, My Captain unload your treasures and bring forth great mirth”
A hot toddy…a hot bath
Is the way she drew me home
To the steamy waters of love
All covered with foam
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
***
Sending chills this tortured spine,
as aches precede the worded fiction
Sorted truth does rest sublime
beneath the light of benediction
Broken dreams of compass flair,
directions cast a blinded waning
Trusted roots abridge the square
of all that’s lost and is remaining
Washed along this fertile beach
of sanded hope and history
Tasting o’ thy patterned speech
as common phrases come to me
Desolate my cornered mind
of images I pray be true
Dangling the lost to find
retaliation in my view
Pray, oh be, as life does rattle
chains of only mist to turn
Laughter like some long fought battle,
in amongst we tend to learn
When the calling comes so random,
names are lost on open seas
One by one in columned tandem,
drenched of hell’s insanities
Take me to thy deepest haven,
so that I may find the end
Black as night o’ windswept raven,
come to me now once again
Razored claw and broken arrows,
filled with such, the violence
Playing through the endless narrows,
falling to my own expense
This, a life that's not worth living,
not this day, not anymore
Breaths so tethered in their giving,
pull the drapes and close the door
Take a seat your exits' waiting,
frozen hinges squeak in time
Find the map for navigating,
somehow through this wicked rhyme
Follow me, I know the heading,
down this staircase, up the hall
End those futile tears you're shedding,
she's not waiting for your call
Through this doorway stenciled broken,
toss your heart there on the floor
It is but a useless token,
you'll not need it anymore
You’re now privy to the meaning,
whether you do understand
Motioned light, this night is leaning,
let it take you by the hand
Now of time and missing portal,
through the lens of sights unknown
Nothing whispers you are mortal,
for this day you have been shown***
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
You paid more attention
To your red letters
Than to the colored words of
Jesus.
I guess accessibility is what it takes
To name our identity.
Mean words were accessible to you,
Easier to come by than scripture.
Already imprinted in your head
From childhood,
No need for memorization
Or word for word quotation,
Or chapter and verse
References.
It didn’t matter who said what.
Cruelty is easy.
Cruelty’s simplicity made it easy
To write your own red letter verses
On your body.
After all,
All you had to do to find the right tool
Was to open a drawer and find a razor blade,
Not leaf through thousands of strangely thin pages
And tiny columned sentences.
So now in this new era
Of adulthood,
I try to make love
Accessible to you,
I try to make it accessible to myself.
No more red letters in pale skin,
Just glowing love
Held in the palms of our hands
Well past midnight,
Made of pixelated letters
Typed by nail-bitten thumbs.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
I get to see the world in unbounded manners and patterns of oceans crashing down on the pages and endless endless beam of lines strolling towards nowhere leading to the path of horror and agony creating a void of dreams and memories columned against the walls of our ideas, I have achieved total enlightenment through the craft of my words, and the bending of my mind:
i am a writer of no demands.
a writer of no in betweens.
a writer of pure passion.
a writer of reckless consumption.
a writer with no roof but the trees towering on the hills beside the mountains endlessly inspiring ideas and visions of no pragmatic truth.
a writer with anything but a candle for his hope and a box for his cigarettes.
a writer with no pen but his mind and his tortured soul.
a writer who believes that religion is immoral.
I am the starving writer and I'm full of cliche.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Silver, cool, harsh rock-smooth as rolled steel on the horizon defies the cold blue-violet sky of Mars as the pinpoint dots of distant white suns circle in wonder of the scene.
Green mist hanging from the verdant leaves of the thick mountain forest permeates the humid cool air of a rain of a few minutes past above the soggy moss, gray-green rock, deep red brown trail, columned by mighty yet yielding deep-colored trunks.
Glistening snow reflects on each crystal the apparition of a cold white moon, blinding in glorious circles the eye which beholds the perimeter of sentinel black-green poines, opening the snow-hidden field to that which it mirrors.
Deep sea-salty blue-green transparency softens the pink bottom to a wavy yellow-pink-yellow-pink-banded black-white-black skittering across the deep pink-yellow-pink green blades waving in time to the yellow-pink-yellow deep sea, never leave.
On this day Cernan lands from his Gemini IX flight with Stafford conducting a two-hour space walk in that void.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
stagnate-
up the creek par se
every which way
I'd use alliteration
for this rash
but its not homogenous
instead in separate stashes-
painfully buoyant idle and robust;
ducks
Brain fried
like a thousand flies,
above the floating trash,
better identified-
the outskirts
of a vague form
than the innocuous worm
found in straw surrounded ponds
in wiggling room -more than enough;
stuck
come in short
into the common fort
to flaunt, gauge, and gauze
columned concerns-
the core and the cause
for which there was none
yet allowed slow a ripple
to echo, reverse and to dribble
to re-emerge the subtlety
of a moving hill
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
It's so "fun" trying to fit these hugemongous Roman names into iambic pentametre.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXIII)
So, read an essay on erm, Virgil, frail
As thinking THAT meant aught, and for pretense
Is't lo, Thucydides, to spose I'd sense,
Petrarca's life in um, a nutshell's scale
Of knowledge, even la, Justinian's tale--
Since haunted by those cobbled streets, and hence,
If not the air of Roman days, fr'intents
Those columned cities sages knew t'avail.
And either that, or Valentines in tour
Have ta'en my spirit from me, til I view
All we had joyed in ere as from as twere
A colder distance, seeing, yet voiceless to
Effect, life upside-down, or mine in poor
Scuse, e'en as April haunts the thought life'd woo.
21Feb19a
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:37 PM UTC
In a vast courtyard
surrounded by columned
portico ,
on one side a tall cylinder
made from the finest
Egyptian glass .
☆
There in was the sensual
dark
blue liquid essence of his
soul .
Blueprint of a challenged
path
and where one was never
as another .
☆
Ahead a towering vulture
six feet high ,
with wingspan over
thirteen feet ,
atop a high golden plinth
of light ,
one last witness of Nature
before beyond .
☆
Till finally the Alter of Fire
where
tiny lizards licked and
stripped his skin .
Numbers , lines , stars and
a red light became
blue ,
drenching him in dread
and dearth .
☆
Where the caressing velvet
blackness
met newly dead souls on
the shores of Acheron ,
Abandon all hope ye who
enter here ,
the grey gloomy path of
torment .
☆
Now frozen and outside of
Time ,
a boundless lake of violet
light ,
wherefrom a giant dolphin's
head
is birthed a new galaxy of
pure thought .
☆
The perfect sword of
surrender
in Tree of Life and mirrored
reflection ,
became The Eagle , high
above the mesa
and saw where the futures
had been sown .
☆
Then he heard her voice
" It is the Initiation of
Destiny ! "
And so fulfilling the sacred
contract
he sat down now , in
prescence of the Great Scribe .
Sep 29, 2024
Sep 29, 2024 at 5:07 PM UTC
We share a tale,
of vaulted views
and columned pews.
With dappled light
through glass bejewelled
comes solemn rays,
shining down
on kneeling few
and dusted air.
Though far between
our different times
the hallowed halls
our paths have shared
on shores we've seen,
though separately.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
The angel whose name
is Ariel ,
arrives in purple smoke ,
with access to an elixir
of limitless age ,
opens a portal over our
world .
☆
She controls all the
timelines
brings energy to Earth ,
connects spirit to the
ethereal
realm of The Monad
enthroned .
☆
Seven cups of water
on a white marble shelf ,
in a scented columned
portico
that is open to the sky .
☆
Flowing through an auric
field ,
an ocean of glowing gold
spheres ,
see all the kings and
queens of the world
bow down at the end of all
Time .
Oct 5, 2024
Oct 5, 2024 at 8:44 PM UTC
The same Madonnas,
the same pitying faces,
the same arched necks
of the same saints...
Clear it all
for a new palette.
Stone over pine blaze,
fringed gentian blot.
Broken-columned sun,
splayed in glade sand.
Drift water stroke.
Rescind
the School of Athens,
the Madonnas,
the arched necks.
What can they say
about lilies plunged
in the moon's syrup?
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC
Down in my sealed off heart
I build a fortress of many parts
With great gates and unbreachable walls
Tall towers and deep columned halls
Measure upon measure to ensure
My fragile heart might endure
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC