"conclave" poems
Serendipities torrential deluge
Of dulcet applause reigning
In the divine dynasty of
Empiricisms arcane lore,
Heavens most high of heirachies
Beyond the veil
Drowning in altruistic
Reflexive salutations;
The regnant patent mutitioning
Of the waters Lethe from
Serpens poisened chalice of saints
Evoking the advent vigil of
Dusts chaldean dreams,
The sabbatical ordination
The fatal ravens annunciation
Heralding valediction
Convening betwixt and between
Gates of ivory and horn
Arraigning the apostolic conclave.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley...
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp...
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the *****
A people hardly marching... on the hike...
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.
5.9k
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
But I remain a believer in my ancestral religion
Whose God is wele but not the Germany world, it is a religion,
Like most of universal ancestral ones,
With appalling moral threshold,
When Elijah Masinde of dini ya Misambwa
Despised those who condemned man as notoriously religious
He meant human religious approach to life is absolute in nature
However diverse religions compete for human ears
Rich ones glorified in the luring away of modal ears
But all are devoid of spiritual impetus
Disappointing the progenitors of religious imperialism
These short-cutters in matters of sanctimony
Will not come to our heaven
They will get me sharing a cup of tea
With my sister- in-law; Mary, the mother of Jesus
And I will shun them, I will not know them
I will not invite them to a heavenly cup of tea
They will be suffocated by cadaverous appetite,
For we honor our religion with ancestral regard;
The Faith of Our Ancestors
But in ridicule they call us kaffirs, pagans, christo-pagans,
Animists, atheists, gentiles, non-believers, mediumists,
Rebellious rebels or whatsoever they call us;
The anti-muhamedan-mis-christologists,
Let them delude themselves,
If they disparage us with sick contumely
Abreast the dumbfounding development in sciences
Plus so fortuitous humanistic awareness,
Humanity in Religion has to adjust optimally
Religious masters have to help
Interpret the religious Books, bible, gita, quran
All Written or verbalistically in the glory of epical orality
In tandem with the best centered
Life extant,
Otherwise selfish religions becomes an old wine bag
With its old and stale wine,
You will persuade Russian carousers to drink
But to your chagrin, none will condone, your stale wine
Do not seek to sell your faith
Because every human community
Has an ancestral faith
Respect them all for that is gods in their accolade of
Omonipresecence,
Any man or woman without religion is dangerous
But do not advantagize yourselves
At the expense of people of other faiths
It is good you reciprocated
Planet earth is our only sure and known abode
If we lived well here, and there is another world
For those who will be good, we hope the conclave of Gods
Would all sit in judgment for their credit
And reward those who helped humble humanity
Of their religions as well as those of other religions
As for all the Gods love humanists.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
I have enough treasures from the past
to last me longer than I need, or want.
You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory
won't let go of half of them:
a modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.
Leningrad, 1960
3.5k
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
The Elders of the Elven Mists, at the Death of the Old Queen
From all around the Realm they came a Conclave to convene
The fair haired Golden Locks of young Azky they did Crown
Queen Azky Rode a Royal Beast of All Dragons he was King
The Queens Beast Yaz Kere Loved Soaring About on Wing
Yaz Kere knew it was his Royal fate to Protect Queen Azky
And Carry her aloft his Back Steadfast so Her Elf Arrows Fly
The Dragons lived in Erehwon upon the Chrysenal Trees
The Elves harvested the Leaves for Enchanted Wizardry
Much Magic came from those Potions as Magical Notions
To protect both Elf and Beast in Battle against enemy Hovens
The Mordel slipped in by night to Steal the Magic Leaves
but Yaz roared Alarm to dragons as swords Pulled from Sheaths
Queen Azky, Quiver, Elven Bow and Yaz Off to the Sky they go
Blades clashed and Arrows Flew as Dragons passed above the war
As Elven arrows hit thier Mark, hordes weakened to rearward
The Mordel tried but Only failed and thus ends the Battles Tale
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
Clouds like arctic mountains surround me
My thoughts are becoming fog;
I have been engulfed
By my own pavid being
Where my disturbances of thought
Are evil and I am pure love
Dead in a world so alive.
The fiery soul of nephilim
Acknowledging the conclave-
Heaven creating Hell;
Made by their own for their own
Heavens sacrifice
Residing peacefully alive in a dead world
Synergistically intoxicating
My paralysed mind
The eternal love of all Gods legions
For the sake of Hell
And the salvation of Heaven,
The dawn of Elysium rising
Concordantly above mortal reasoning
Forever in Pergutory.
Now remembering
Dreamt dreams dreamt i cry
As I watch my beating heart
Fall upon the ground
Like a bird of prey with broken wings,
My hearts bitter sweetness fading
Untoward Heavens hellish passion.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 10:03 AM UTC
Accidence ambience acoustics find
Tractive tactile taciturn went
Cantankerous cantilever capacity bind
Wanton wayward warranty pent
In extremis extremity exigence grind
Apriori aorist actuator glint
Futurity fatidic's fornication wind
Lecherous libido larcenies bent
Lurid livid laconic mind
Exergonic ephemeral extant spent
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:30 PM UTC
In the conclave
Of night and day
Gloaming tides
Pull and push
Over the sands
We all walk
With blistered feet
Soles worn down
Yet still we walk
And still it flows
Hot or cool
Over the sands
And the tides
Ebb or flow
Over the sands
We still walk
In the conclave
Of night and day
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
Peremptory forbearance, propounded.
Heaven promiscuously recoiling
in Secret, assoiling attainted diffidence;
Perfidiously?
Effusive wanton idolatry forcibly
motivating outwardly,
The cruelest ugliest creation that survives.
The most beautiful creature alive
inwardly putrescent- cascading
relinquishing Evil; turning
away casting, aside Hell.
Eleete j Muir
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 8:12 AM UTC
I don’t like knowing
that there’s a YouTube
channel out there for
gun-nuts called “The Warrior Poets”.
I’ve looked at some the videos.
None of them have anything to do
with poetry.
I guess that’s okay,
but,
I still don’t have to like it,
so I don’t.
It does give me a reason
to write down the fact that
I believe that I,
in fact,
am a warrior-poet.
My friends are too.
John, Hans, Larry, Kristopher,
and Josh…
We’re a gang.
We’re a conclave,
a klatch of bare-knuckle
sophists, street-wise surgeons
of verse drunk on our own power.
Beautiful bruises,
pooled blood,
split-lipped
ripped pages
broken pens
shattered lenses.
We’re the dogs of war.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
It was midday in late Spring
I walked out onto the land with a soul child
We met the others there and began the negotiations
A total of 4 progressed to the West corner
And stood as quarters on the forgotten soil
Spirit direct center as an arrow to the skies
The retrograde could not impede
Then, all was spoken without hesitation
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
We convened a conclave
Where the famiglia
Was casting sideways looks,
Keeping secrets from survivors.
Papa had passed,
His mantle drapping the remains.
And a day looms for its passing
To an unelected recipient
From the unresponsive benefactor.
Dirges were played.
Outside I lit a cigarette
And the cloud of smoke rose skyward.
The ballots have been counted.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
As I lay in my bed, raising slow,
I think of 24 hours to go.
The day has started, lazy with a drool
Has it lasted for 24 hours full
There were days I remember now,
when up I was like a spring bomb.
But today is not one of those days,
has I still dream of being calm.
I got to the place where I load the routine,
Trying to be unique, in the morning din.
I look for a familiar, with a sweet smile,
I get one back, with a morning hail.
As I reach my stage, I begin my mile,
To make it to five with at least a smile.
A dialogue a conclave with one or two,
I feel like being treated amongst worth few.
In noon it is time for slice to devour,
Imagine! Hardly any hours left to endeavor.
As the clock strikes the beloved hour,
Blessed are those who leave the tower.
I am left in the tower to boil,
Few loyal to aid my toil.
The day goes on with out crazy thoughts
As it lasts for twenty four hours
It is time to go back to my shack,
With thoughts of going back into the sack.
Evening or night I cannot tell,
As I ride partially dead,
Hunger drives me to fix a meal,
As shabby as it is for a princely being.
In night I am calm again,
For tomorrow it will all begin.
A hope, tomorrow will have some exciting quirk,
A thought of another 24 hours lurk.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
To the snark
To dark it was
To spark
To misty
To behave
To easy
To set fire
To a Vatican conclave
To easy for others
To choke on scented smoke
To easy for the Snark who was not ashamed
To shout in eager chorus another fool have they named
To wit he laughed and strode away
To Snark…Snark…Snark…Snark…Snark
To be sure this is the noise a Snark makes when he walks away
To be honest if you meet one you will know provided he walks away
To be sure he may stay and try and eat you..........
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
I often think of the swimming body,
arms unfurling the rough afternoon lake
into smooth planks while stretching
through the catch,
carving mosaic reflections into
shapes reflecting glimpses of the sun
before strewn onto the surface like
broken pearl necklaces.
It was in this practice I learned patience,
in the process of the crossing
and perfection of glide,
the conclave with the lake and flow of
language between body and water
the dialogue of the skimming, rotating torso,
forehead below surface line, chin down
consummation of movement.
The body suspended
above the muddy bottom,
stretching through the round shoulder,
the square shape of the hand
with fingers slightly apart coiffing
currents,
surging naked anatomy forward.
In Autumn, the buoy clangs louder
conversing through fog
of the changing season
to lake swimmers, row on row,
blinded at their bow
reminding them of the turn,
the edge of the precipice
before cavernous depths
pilfer reason,
those masters of rhythm
turn attention to stroke of arms
away from blackness beyond sight,
where creatures dwell.
Pivoting parallel to the lakefront,
elongated through the feet,
into the legs, along the chest,
barren ******* cutting waters
connecting one shore to the next,
before absolute zero of winter sets in
the vein splitting East-West coursing
between inlets, skirting islands
and birch skinned canoes
dancing atop foamy plumes,
It was in this practice I learned patience,
when all thoughts are flex of body,
the slight curve of torso
and abdominal reach toward shore unseen
through glistening sheets of
morning’s mosaic surface
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
I often think of the swimming body,
arms unfurling the rough afternoon lake
into smooth planks while stretching
through the catch,
carving mosaic reflections into
shapes reflecting glimpses of the sun
before strewn onto the surface like
broken pearl necklaces.
It was in this practice I learned patience,
in the process of the crossing
and perfection of glide,
the conclave with the lake and flow of
language between body and water
the dialogue of the skimming, rotating torso,
forehead below surface line, chin down
consummation of movement.
The body suspended
above the muddy bottom,
stretching through the round shoulder,
the square shape of the hand
with fingers slightly apart coiffing
currents,
surging naked anatomy forward.
In Autumn, the buoy clangs louder
conversing through fog
of the changing season
to lake swimmers, row on row,
blinded at their bow
reminding them of the turn,
the edge of the precipice
before cavernous depths
pilfer reason,
those masters of rhythm
turn attention to stroke of arms
away from blackness beyond sight,
where creatures dwell.
Pivoting parallel to the lakefront,
elongated through the feet,
into the legs, along the chest,
barren ******* cutting waters
connecting one shore to the next,
before absolute zero of winter sets in
the vein splitting East-West coursing
between inlets, skirting islands
and birch skinned canoes
dancing atop foamy plumes,
It was in this practice I learned patience,
when all thoughts are flex of body,
the slight curve of torso
and abdominal reach toward shore unseen
through glistening sheets of
morning’s mosaic surface
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Three cats,
black, white
and ginger,
at that,
a formidable
combination,
that can strike
with a power
combained,
are
in a conclave
in the dining hall floor,
entrenched in a small hole in a corner,
his head just jutting out,
desperately sniffing at the secret pact,
is a little mouse, watching the proceedings terrified.
#
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
In stately conclave met 1, each in his chair
The board of school trustees arrange their notes
And after an approved, appropriate prayer
They nod in their wisdom, then “aye” their votes
Entrusted with the dear, sweet children’s learning
With attendance down and the taxes up
The trustees feel a deep and mystical yearning
To make your child p*ss in a plastic cup
History, literature – what need of these?
(Make sure the valedictorian pees)
1 Chesterton
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
We’ve become a multi-cultured nation
Which has caused nativists to lose their patience
When it comes to things like immigration
They won’t even entertain arbitration
See all they want is their country back
As if indigenous people weren’t a true fact
It’s not as simple as white or black
Or the sound of their guns going clack clack clack
In the face of their never ending nagging fear
Their end-game has become crystal clear
But there’s no returning to that yesteryear
By polluting the planet and its atmosphere
Their ideas are clearly abstract
They’re constantly trying to make time go back
Even when they have the deck stacked
Cuz time moves forward, it doesn’t retract
Politicians are busy seeking NRA funds
While bullets take down their daughters and sons
They’ll do anything at all to keep their guns
And shear ignorance comes from the tip of their tongues
How many of ‘em have to violently die
Before they can figure out the reason why
They insist on telling themselves a lie
The Second Amendment is a mere alibi
America’s no longer is an all white conclave
Of disappearing Indians and subservient slaves
Full of wealthy rulers and low-heeled knaves
Who are indoctrinated into believing only Jesus saves
America isn’t what it once was
And it doesn’t do what it says that it does
It sells a dream that once was the buzz
Wrapped up in cobwebs and now full of fuzz
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Weariness of straining stress
In a bedchamber of thick darkness
Illumination drowned in the
darkfield of ******
Mysterious mole in the conclave
of concord
Crawler of cruelty crawling for prey
Eulogising gods of darkness for
caging light in the attic of
darkness.
Espionage goon of evil
Drenched in darkness to sell sorrow
Where are you migrating from?
Where are you swaggering to?
In bewilderment, my spirit watched
you
In astonishment, my soul monitored
you
But my body wallowed in deep-sea
of deep dreamless slumber.
Creeping like a poacher
In swarthiness of darkness
Habitant of evil you are
To sting
To ****
Denizen of death you are
To turn hubby to widow-man
Undertaker of tragedy you are
To turn wife to widow-woman
Envoy of hemlock of hell you are
Dweller of darkness
Agent of disaster
But suddenly!
And suddenly!!
Light engulfed the aura of darkness in
the cavity of Illumination
Lucidly l saw you
Clearly l heard you
Dangling proboscis of danger
Waggling poisonous *** end of death
You stuck on the wall
To sting
To ****
Helplessly you watched me
Now pray your last prayer
Clod of callousness
Vasoconstrictor of wastages
What is your real name?
Scorpion!
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 1:12 PM UTC