"cornucopias" poems - Hello Poetry

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC

martin-narrod

swimming. alone.

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

5

soft words and their way of making people sing lull me like a sweet tune in this chimney, in this place in my head, slurring over and over until lines would draw up triangles of sleepy infant "jeux", circles of faded fantasies would come to life and pray, plus rectangles and cornucopias filled with fun and livelier days. clouds of droopy golden light drip over our heads as we both lay in soft blankets made out of my personal handmade Heaven's embrace lush silk pillows under our overweight, over-bearing, strongly fastened necks 'cause they hold Atlas' weight and the answers for today. the cycle ends for another shortened day... the air seems rich with the smell of freshly-made pancakes. little troll walking down the stairs with a new spring in her step. lean into the chocolatey sweetness of a mother's oven-like haze, close your eyes and wonder if you'll ever feel the same.

0

Jan 21, 2019

Jan 21, 2019 at 1:28 PM UTC

mcvicxr

warmth in psychology

soft words and their way of making people sing lull me like a sweet tune in this chimney, in this place in my head, slurring over and over until lines would draw up triangles of sleepy infant "jeux", circles of faded fantasies would come to life and pray, plus rectangles and cornucopias filled with fun and livelier days. clouds of droopy golden light drip over our heads as we both lay in soft blankets made out of my personal handmade Heaven's embrace lush silk pillows under our overweight, over-bearing, strongly fastened necks 'cause they hold Atlas' weight and the answers for today. the cycle ends for another shortened day... the air seems rich with the smell of freshly-made pancakes. little troll walking down the stairs with a new spring in her step. lean into the chocolatey sweetness of a mother's oven-like haze, close your eyes and wonder if you'll ever feel the same.

15

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

0

Feb 12, 2014

Feb 12, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC

martin-narrod

swimming alone.

Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.

5

I walked around you seven times under that canopy and you smashed that glass our hearts flew and all around us Cheers Then moving down the line with these mixed up mashed up years Three growing precious seedlings in our shared garden fertile soil, tender new leaves blessings of fruit and flowers cornucopias of sheaves As we battled side by side when hard times demanded nourishing: Little bud born before her time now a blossom flourishing Little man struggling with his anger calmer in his essence Angel child's illness and recovery: a blessed efflorescence Yes this woman is thankful appreciative beyond words and simultaneously so weary of always struggling to be heard yes, deep inside long years remaining invisible less and less warmth of emotional and physical and now, somehow your motivation has been tossed the way to each others' spirits in raging heartwaves- lost If this sacred bond was written in fire Baby, you have left me to burn The only way to save myself is to search for all I yearn I made myself into what I thought you wanted Pushed my soul into a tiny box now it simply won't stay in and I bust open all the locks I put out the fires of the stars in my eyes to try and fit your flow in the process lost myself in the abyss ignoring my inner glow Well my darling it is time to be released from darkness if you will not take my hand if you will not run with me if you will not accept my hands of help if you will not be willing at all I will walk seven times around the fire I will smash the glass of my heart I will pick up those pieces and hold them up to the stars I will be rebuilt, taking back the constellations I will throw them back into the vastness of creation I will honor our process before I gently, firmly, take apart the sweet universe we have constructed finishing the start we will protect our flowers And you will wonder as you turn into earthen fossil stone Why on earth, why in heaven's name are you suddenly alone

0

Apr 25, 2016

Apr 25, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC

lora-lee

Ritual Reversed

I walked around you seven times under that canopy and you smashed that glass our hearts flew and all around us Cheers Then moving down the line with these mixed up mashed up years Three growing precious seedlings in our shared garden fertile soil, tender new leaves blessings of fruit and flowers cornucopias of sheaves As we battled side by side when hard times demanded nourishing: Little bud born before her time now a blossom flourishing Little man struggling with his anger calmer in his essence Angel child's illness and recovery: a blessed efflorescence Yes this woman is thankful appreciative beyond words and simultaneously so weary of always struggling to be heard yes, deep inside long years remaining invisible less and less warmth of emotional and physical and now, somehow your motivation has been tossed the way to each others' spirits in raging heartwaves- lost If this sacred bond was written in fire Baby, you have left me to burn The only way to save myself is to search for all I yearn I made myself into what I thought you wanted Pushed my soul into a tiny box now it simply won't stay in and I bust open all the locks I put out the fires of the stars in my eyes to try and fit your flow in the process lost myself in the abyss ignoring my inner glow Well my darling it is time to be released from darkness if you will not take my hand if you will not run with me if you will not accept my hands of help if you will not be willing at all I will walk seven times around the fire I will smash the glass of my heart I will pick up those pieces and hold them up to the stars I will be rebuilt, taking back the constellations I will throw them back into the vastness of creation I will honor our process before I gently, firmly, take apart the sweet universe we have constructed finishing the start we will protect our flowers And you will wonder as you turn into earthen fossil stone Why on earth, why in heaven's name are you suddenly alone

89

It ended before it began Time is of the essence I knew this wasn’t true “I’ll always be there for you.” Words from a man, a creature with cornucopias The chaser of red flags 🚩 I’m twenty now, still, I am chasing to be grown! if my concertina memory serves me right I was happier younger, when I was acting depressed and had no bills. I got therapy and love, now. Unfortunately, I must go, The clock is ticking. The end of my childhood has arrived.

0

Sep 26, 2023

Sep 26, 2023 at 12:18 AM UTC

Snaveleahcim

Boy to man (Reverse Poem)

It ended before it began Time is of the essence I knew this wasn’t true “I’ll always be there for you.” Words from a man, a creature with cornucopias The chaser of red flags 🚩 I’m twenty now, still, I am chasing to be grown! if my concertina memory serves me right I was happier younger, when I was acting depressed and had no bills. I got therapy and love, now. Unfortunately, I must go, The clock is ticking. The end of my childhood has arrived.

14

What God has put asunder, I have joined together. He chuckles at this somewhat self-consciously, His clientele comprised primarily of gentlemen of a certain age, Most of whom have stepped off to the altar Twice or thrice, some even more, Whose wives will be, at least pro tem, The mistresses of the Moorish bastardizations Being commissioned by their husbands, Vaguely Iberian grotesqueries Christened Sin Cuidado and Villa Tranquilla Festooned with cornucopias of cornices and cupolas, Featuring vaulted cathedral ceilings and open-prairie floor plans, Impossible to cool in the ninety-degree dawn of August Or heat during the all too frequent cold snaps, (Such being noted to him by a visitor From a staid Boston architectural firm, To which he replied, *Save that for the classrooms, pal. I give the people what they want, dad, And these folks are first, last, and forever All about the façade.*) It is not, however, his effort to turn Florida’s East Coast Into a giant movie set for the stories of Don Juan or El Cid Which inspires him to utter his inversion of the marital vow. He has moved beyond being a mere designer; He is a man of substance, a builder in the larger, cosmic sense, And so he is here, in this sticky, sweltering venue Which disappointed Spaniards named after a rat’s oral cavity, To make a new Venice, complete with electric gondolas, Cloisters which would put any in the Old World to shame, Gesturing, bellowing, and cajoling, A Prospero of sawhorses and steam shovels, As displaced Seminoles and colored laborers Sweat and swear and stumble As they dredge swamps and hack down stumpy mangroves In the service of his vision, the aggrandizement of his bottom line, Arm-twisting the caprices of drought and hurricane To serve the pricier whims Of a gaggle of DuPonts and Wanamakers. It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power, he will demur, I’m simply not averse to some slight enhancement of His plans.

0

Aug 20, 2021

Aug 20, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC

wk-kortas

Addison Mizener In The Swamps

What God has put asunder, I have joined together. He chuckles at this somewhat self-consciously, His clientele comprised primarily of gentlemen of a certain age, Most of whom have stepped off to the altar Twice or thrice, some even more, Whose wives will be, at least pro tem, The mistresses of the Moorish bastardizations Being commissioned by their husbands, Vaguely Iberian grotesqueries Christened Sin Cuidado and Villa Tranquilla Festooned with cornucopias of cornices and cupolas, Featuring vaulted cathedral ceilings and open-prairie floor plans, Impossible to cool in the ninety-degree dawn of August Or heat during the all too frequent cold snaps, (Such being noted to him by a visitor From a staid Boston architectural firm, To which he replied, *Save that for the classrooms, pal. I give the people what they want, dad, And these folks are first, last, and forever All about the façade.*) It is not, however, his effort to turn Florida’s East Coast Into a giant movie set for the stories of Don Juan or El Cid Which inspires him to utter his inversion of the marital vow. He has moved beyond being a mere designer; He is a man of substance, a builder in the larger, cosmic sense, And so he is here, in this sticky, sweltering venue Which disappointed Spaniards named after a rat’s oral cavity, To make a new Venice, complete with electric gondolas, Cloisters which would put any in the Old World to shame, Gesturing, bellowing, and cajoling, A Prospero of sawhorses and steam shovels, As displaced Seminoles and colored laborers Sweat and swear and stumble As they dredge swamps and hack down stumpy mangroves In the service of his vision, the aggrandizement of his bottom line, Arm-twisting the caprices of drought and hurricane To serve the pricier whims Of a gaggle of DuPonts and Wanamakers. It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power, he will demur, I’m simply not averse to some slight enhancement of His plans.

40