"cornice" poems
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
712
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.
We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—
Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—
Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—
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if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their *****
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
Now I'll record my secret vision, impossible sight of the face of God:
It was no dream, I lay broad waking on a fabulous couch in Harlem
having masturbated for no love, and read half naked an open book of Blake
on my lap
Lo & behold! I was thoughtless and turned a page and gazed on the living
Sun-flower
and heard a voice, it was Blake's, reciting in earthen measure:
the voice rose out of the page to my secret ear never heard before-
I lifted my eyes to the window, red walls of buildings flashed outside,
endless sky sad Eternity
sunlight gazing on the world, apartments of Harlem standing in the
universe--
each brick and cornice stained with intelligence like a vast living face--
the great brain unfolding and brooding in wilderness!--Now speaking
aloud with Blake's voice--
Love! thou patient presence & bone of the body! Father! thy careful
watching and waiting over my soul!
My son! My son! the endless ages have remembered me! My son! My son!
Time howled in anguish in my ear!
My son! My son! my father wept and held me in his dead arms.
1960
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Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
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I
Room after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her,
Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch’s perfume!
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,—
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.
II
Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door;
I try the fresh fortune—
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?
But ’tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!
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For Basil@Egmont
Old school hotelier, conservationist, mountain man.
Festooning drapes of weeping moss
Hang damply from the trees
Cascading lengths of dripping fern
Bring wetness to your knees
The clutching boughs of gnarled branch
The olive greens and damp
The winding path meanders up
This mountain's rocky ramp
Grey boulders in the river bed
The rush of torrents fast,
The song of falling waters
Plummeting into the past.
The flash of brilliant plumage
A blue kingfisher in a dive
And the tragic death of this field mouse
Means other creatures stay alive.
The mammoth mountain hangs above
The snow is clean and white
The cornice shadow aqua blue
Ridge ice is sunlight bright
The summit wind is blowing hard
The snow is curling round
To recreate a billowed crown
Atop that seaward mound.
A dancing *** is eyeing me,
Impossibly it clings
Inverted from a totara trunk
With rapid flitting wings.
Exploding from it's hiding place
A ponderous pigeon *****
And weaves it's way between the boughs
With noisy wing tip slaps
The magic of this secret place
Is the drama in the air,
The solitude of teeming life
In green-ness everywhere.
The hardness of the freezing night
The harshness of the wind,
The grandeur of it's wilderness
Paints splendor as it's sin.
Taranaki's goblin forest
Is resplendent in it's garb
Of emerald green and turquois-ness
And rugged rocks and shard,
Cascading rivers, waterfalls
In sweeping walls of trees
Where pools of still transparency
Bring you breathless to your knees.
Where Egmont's goblin forest
Will make your spirits sing
And the urge to climb another mile
Will reward you with something
You had not bargained for in visiting
This remote and splendid place,
......It will reward you with a warm,
And knowing smile upon your face.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Romantic Hotel
Mt. Taranaki
15th September 2008
Dec 10, 2009
Dec 10, 2009 at 8:28 PM UTC
Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space
With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze
Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing
With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.
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The nocturnal birds
are
singing
the lullabies
The exhausted stars
are
sleeping
in
the Stygian
skies
Nothing
is
glistening
The water of
the rill is
rippling
The light wind is
listlessly
playing
with my hair
Pearly
dew is
kissing
the pleasant petals
The sleepy
street is
being
forlorn
I'm peering
consciously
at the creamy
cornice
A photogenic countenance
in front of
my imagination
The object of
my affection
The insipid murk
and the blue
nights of
mine without you
The feelings of
mine are experiencing
torment
I'm repeatedly
whispering
"Te Amo..."
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 2:32 AM UTC
THE FINE cloth of your love might be a fabric of Egypt,
Something Sinbad, the sailor, took away from robbers,
Something a traveler with plenty of money might pick up
And bring home and stick on the walls and say:
"There's a little thing made a hit with me
When I was in Cairo-I think I must see Cairo again some day."
So there are cornice manufacturers, chewing gum kings,
Young Napoleons who corner eggs or corner cheese,
Phenoms looking for more worlds to corner,
And still other phenoms who lard themselves in
And make a killing in steel, copper, permanganese,
And they say to random friends in for a call:
"Have you had a look at my wife? Here she is.
Haven't I got her dolled up for fair?"
O-ee! the fine cloth of your love might be a fabric of Egypt.
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I saw a girl in a wheelchair on her porch
and wasps were swarming in the cornice
She had just washed her hair
taken it down and combed it
She could see
just like me
That one star under the rafter
shining like a knife in the creek
She was thin as the hereafter
and made me think
Of music singing to itself
like someone putting a violin in a case
And walking off with a stranger
to lie down and drink in the dark by the lake.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
Un vischio, fin dall'infanzia sospeso grappolo
di fede e di pruina sul tuo lavandino
e sullo specchio ovale ch'ora adombrano
i tuoi ricci bergére fra santini e ritratti
di ragazzi infilati un po' alla svelta
nella cornice, una caraffa vuota,
bicchierini di cenere e di bucce,
le luci di Mayfair, poi a un crocicchio
le anime, le bottiglie che non seppero aprirsi,
non più guerra né pace, il tardo frullo
di un piccione incapace di seguirti
sui gradini automatici che ti slittano in giù….
1.6k
FOR the second time in a year this lady with the white hands is brought to the west room second floor of a famous sanatorium.
Her husband is a cornice manufacturer in an Iowa town and the lady has often read papers on Victorian poets before the local literary club.
Yesterday she washed her hands forty seven times during her waking hours and in her sleep moaned restlessly attempting to clean imaginary soiled spots off her hands.
Now the head physician touches his chin with a crooked forefinger.
1.2k
Sono sposata con un pilota e sono sicuro al 100% che non importa quanto duramente ** pregato .che non ha potuto ottenere le foto di fidanzamento questo freddo .Queste due devono avere alcune connessioni piuttosto sorprendente per avere Josh Dookhie Fotografia sparare loro sesh impegno sulla pista .Sono totalmente geloso .
Condividi questa splendida galleria
Da sposa.Una sessione day-to -tramonto impegno esclusivo sulla pista di Winnipeg James Armstrong Richardson International Airport .con scatti del suggestivo terminale vecchio prima che fosse abbattuto .
Non solo ci piace viaggiare .ma mio marito Nevin e ** incontrato all'aeroporto quando entrambi abbiamo lavorato lì.quindi era giusto che fosse l'impostazione per la nostra sessione di fidanzamento ** usato per lavorare lì abiti da sposa 2014 in Marketing durante il tempo che il nuovo edificio terminal è stato costruito.Nevin lavora ancora lì come elettricista campo d'aviazione .Ecco come siamo arrivati accesso alla possibilità piste - un quasi nessun altro sarebbe in grado di avere!Il padre di Nevin è stato anche un controllore del traffico aereo fino al suo ritiro .quindi nel complesso l'aeroporto è un posto speciale per noi e la nostra famiglia .
Nel momento in cui abbiamo fatto il servizio fotografico .il nuovo terminal aveva appena aperto ( che ha fornito una splendida cornice ) e il vestiti da sposa vecchio
terminal .dove avevamo incontrato - era stato abbattuto in un paio di settimane .E 'stato così speciale per noi essere in vestiti da sposa grado di ottenere scatti che caratterizzano sia gli edifici - il nostro passato e il nostro futuro
fotografia: Josh Dookhie Fotografia | Aeroporto : Winnipeg James Armstrong Richardson International Airport | Coordinamento + Styling : LouLou
http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-c-1
http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=14
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Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Mammy had a cauldron of stories,
And Mammy never lied;
Strange tales about the living,
Still touched by those who've died.
She spoke of a friend who read the leafs:
When babies died, she heard banshees;
She foresaw the cornice collapse,
Saved me when I was three.
She whispered these tales
Through pressed lips,
Would pause to sip her tea.
Seers told her of her one-legged mother
Standing guard at the foot of her bed,
Long after she was dead.
One prophet spoke of an open door,
A one-way trip to a foreign shore,
And agonies she'd bend to endure.
For me, these stories rang so true,
For mothers wouldn't lie to you;
Yet Father said she was a sinner,
Spinning yarns against God's will.
That's not the story in Bethany,
Or the fairy homes beneath the hills.
Are there ghosts under our beds,
In the closets in our heads;
Hovering over marked graveyards,
Abandoned houses and Tarot Cards?
When the unknown night tore at me,
I'd been told I could pray
To the Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Now they're the ones I fear the most,
They're the stories she often chose.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC
The broken leg jackdaw
he lost his greed with his leg
now saintly dumb
it's enough if he gets a crumb
complains not when foodless
knowing by his creator's grace
*he would be given the span
this world needs his breath for
would live to run the length
in his lone leg's strength
felled by no deadly harm
till ends his term*
The broken leg jackdaw
stands on the cornice
in peace
and his jet-black eyes
are deep and wise!
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
He packed his desire to remain
His state of transforming himself
Into the man that he dreamed of
And has not achieved
He said good-bye with a grimace disguised as a smile
And supplicated to his crucified God on the mantelpiece
For the protection of his loved ones
And he broke through the border
As he could
If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?
El mojado has the desire to dry off
El mojado is wet because of the tears that nostalgia evokes
El mojado, the one without documentation
Loads the packages that the legal would not load
Not even when forced
The torment of a piece of paper has turned him into a fugitive
And he is not from here because his name does not appear in the files
Nor is he from there because he went away
If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?
El Mojado
He knows your truth through lies
He knows anxiety through sadness
Of seeing a freeway and dreaming of the path
That leads to your house
El Mojado
Wet from so much weeping
Knowing that in some place
Waits a kiss taking a break
Since the day on which you left
If the pale moon slips
Through any cornice
Without any permission
Why does el mojado need
To show with visas
That he is not of Neptune?
If the universal visa is issued
On the day that we are born
And it expires upon death
Why do they persecute you, el mojado
If the consul of the heavens
Already gave you permission?
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Hello again my cute little coy butterfly net
I know that with time you may fray and fret
Though I wonder at which it is you wake to yearn
To be re-woven by one's intricate concern
Or the display of versatile reverberant things?
I recall your temporary retention of those beautiful wings
Your cornice of vivid vitality forever vicarious
Are you- the gentle jailer, nervous ****** or simply fastidious?
Those lives that you catch into your fluttering heart,
I suppose they may change you when pinned and ripped apart
Whether that be or they are released to fly free
In what you have yet to see spins your sense of serenity
So forget them, when you remember your demure nature
For history is just a child caught in sincere nomenclature.
Shakespeare's Sonnet #9
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that ***** sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Room after room, I hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her, Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,— Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune— Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares? But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore, Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune! -
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Poco dopo si è qui come sai bene,
file d'anime lungo la cornice,
chi pronto al balzo, chi quasi in catene.
Qualcuno sulla pagina del mare
traccia un segno di vita, figge un punto.
Raramente qualche gabbiano appare.
791
oh another round slicing my pride through a mandelin
grating my heart to a ****** pulp
scraping my dignity under you nails
another shameful episode over nothing.
a time span. minutes.
the lioness reared
the roar hurt your ears and your manhood
emasculated with all the trimmings
I swear you like it.
you never seem to learn.
you should never have shunned your kitten in public.
this mangled kittens got claws
you warned me; and I counter warned you
an thus this pile of heart **** wont pick its self up
I guess its up to me to mend the breakages again
I dont have the time to wait
i have to paint the walls and put a new cornice up.
here take your ******* coffee.
I give up.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Without you spiders spin cathedral cornice in the white room
Without you the heart is merely muscle shoving blood
Without you the wolf shivers and the mountain howls
Without you all lengths return to finitude attached to nouns
Without you the albatross sinks into the cradle of the spray
Without you summer is frost under the tree bark
Without you time's arrow lies mute in the quiver
Without you a man walks the beach, he can contain nothing but himself.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Madam History sways, it swings, it plays,
It climbs so high,
Then downward strays!
Nothing stands still—it all goes on.
On steel so thin, we’ve stepped, the cornice.
At deadlock’s point, the tension grows—
To and fro,
Fro and to!
And all could end in one swift flow…
But the trumpet’s not yet blown!
There’s hope, my friend—it lies in Salvation!
It’s not so simple, dear, you’ll see.
The apocalypse’s ruination?
But not yet built is our redoubt!
Still History sways, it swings, it plays,
The skies won’t fall, they’ll hold their place.
The Beast still growls, it bites, it preys…
And builds its fiery stronghold’s base!
*redoubt – a defensive structure.
Мадам История
Мадам История качается.
Стремится вверх,
Несётся в низ!
Всё не стоит – всё продолжается.
На тонкий встали мы карниз.
У мёртвой точки напряжение –
Туда-сюда,
Сюда – туда!
И может всё в одно мгновение…
Но не трубит ещё Труба!
Надежда есть – она в спасение!
Не так всё просто, милый друг.
Апокалипсиса крушение?
Но не построен тот редут!
Ещё История качается
И небеса не упадут.
А Зверь рычит и огрызается…
И строит огненный оплот!
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 10:44 AM UTC
pickneed habs in slunder covals
hicked and snayed at fair Medusa
agitated by her beauty
and the statues in her keep
all the while a stranger climbing
sword and shield upon his back
by the entrance stood Medusa
as the pogwach sninckled closer
and the caliwhisps outgrabe
o'er the cliff she peered in wonder
at the beast's ascent towards her
gallow broamsmade in her heart
then, at last, he reached the cornice
rose and stood in briersome glaw
never facing fair Medusa
though the urge was thick and glarn
helpless there she stood in silence
motionless her angsome fra
all at once the blade ascended
snicker-snack and finished all
fair Medusa's life was ended
the wrickling beast now turned and saw
saw the pallid stoney visage
saw and wept in sloamy spow
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 6:29 AM UTC