"coronets" poems
A road of palest lime fluttering Sycamore trees
Some almost leafless, others coronets still there
Through the golden branches colbalt blue skies
Lilac bushes, the garden daisies, flower in rows.
Thinning Robinna casts shadows of dim shade
Contrasting the red Acer’s lace leaf with green
The trunk arch of handkerchief laden Foxglove
Holds open its beautiful boughs to be admired.
For Autumn spreads my walk in glorious glitter
Though the evening pulls in the coldness of year
Making the best of these last savages of seasons
Gathering leavings, the birdtable spills its seeds.
Love Mary ***
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her
down.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four."
"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."
1.7k
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World
By Sy Roth
In the silence of my Pickwickian world,
A transcendent quiet stands vigil.
Left to its own devices it rattles around, a
lonely brown-suited courier,
Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next.
Seeks tranquility in a world where,
Fettered by golden reins
Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail
Lanced by coronets of thorns,
Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed
Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills,
A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest.
And they still come--
Tidal waves of disturbances,
Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away
Into a loathsome pile,
Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy.
A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters
Where sages once stood
Hanging like KKK castoffs
In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad.
A quiescent quiet demands quiet.
Nestles behind muffled screams
Of ages of piles of rotting flesh.
Dolorous vision of a peaceful world
Where peace packed for a long vacation
To Edens that exist only in fairy tales.
Bring with them untruths of understanding
Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes.
Leave me to my silence,
Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge
Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners
Where the highwaymen have no access.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
with
her
heart full of joy and laughter
orange light
bounced
back and forth
with
its
reflection
than
skipped across
the
melodic surface of
the
yellow bamboo river
while
the
armadillo sunset
blared her
brass coronets
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 8:42 PM UTC
It's raining again.
Wet hair almost drowning her.
Riding bicycles on empty streets.
Hair running free.
Flicks on shoulder blades.
Blades that aren't sharp.
Just soggy.
Like a smelly dog that misbehaves.
Hair that's not trained, nor restrained.
No bands of Alice.
Nor elastic.
No coronets or diamanté.
Tatty nylon hair nets.
Holding hair in place.
Makeup running down her face.
Heading back to her place.
Wants to find a towel.
Like me, she loathes umbrellas.
And her bicycle is rusting fast.
Anyway, has anybody ever ridden a bicycle while holding an umbrella.
(c)Livvi
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
As of yet, untitled.
“Hometime!”
The hue and cry is raised
and with it, I am gone, losing
my winding way down leafy lanes that
glitter cold and golden, soft and sapphire
in the crispest spring.
Down pen, down paper, down tools!
- the streets are much more tempting
with their silver promises made
in the emerald afternoon glow.
I huff and pant (cheeks
ruby-red) round the
rolling hills that hide
the treasures of this city…
*…(looking back, older - wiser? -
I realise that I
would give it all away.
All the coins and chests and
jewels and gold and crowns
and sceptres and stars and coronets
that you could care to mention -
surrender my kingdom
for just one more day:
One more afternoon of youth,
carelessly wasted
in the cold and golden streets
of yesterday)…*
…But that
comes later
and this
is now;
and I
am young
and
golden
in my promise.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
the clairvoyant
voice of
her blue eyes
make the sound of
brass coronets
present a vision
across the
kaleidoscopic sky
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
See how the others live
garnish your morning gruel with gossips
makes your cold porridge taste just a bit better
search out the tit-bits and the juicy blue parables
all from the House of Windsors can never be fake-news
when Princes bed seventeen aged maiden cold teas taste hot
gloom and doom means pep-ups, a smile and a spring to their steps
in rarefied air the stench of the ghettos and the belches from drains
should whiff in polluting and disturbing the perfumery of gentility
and why not...do they hear the cries of the motherless babies
or listen to the frustrations of the thieves having a no dice day
as Joan sells her body to pay the loan-arranger yesterday
and Jason is so bothered looking for a fix down the alley
do they know Roger took his own life cos he had no job
yes to sit and hear of the pain and sufferings high above
makes cold toasts and bacon of-cuts that much sweeter
and as the kettle whistles away they hope the vapour
clears the grimes of trodden lives and deadend roads
and rain hot molten ashes on the Semites and Giles
and madam in the big house up in the green Hills
and the Garters and Coronets all burn in Hell
with their socks on......
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 4:45 PM UTC
He’d never read him, understand,
At least not that he’d remembered;
Might have half-skimmed something in Look or Esquire,
But he certainly wasn’t much for novels,
And there were kids to raise to rise, a war to fight
(His platoon had been pinned down at Anzio,
Leaving him precious little time for dispatches from the front,
Save for a singular postcard
He’d bought in Netunno on a rainy April afternoon,
On which he’d scratched Babe, I’m still alive and kickin’,
Worth ten thousand words
To a harried, frightened seventeen-year-old,
With one in the cradle and one on the way),
But then all that was later on, or earlier
Depending on where you stood,
Time being a lazy, molasses-unhurried thing to him now,
Like the leisurely old Owasco Inlet which ran through town,
Seeming to go in no direction in particular,
Running north or south as it deemed fit at the moment.
Once, he’d worked at the typewriter plant on Spring Street,
Fashioning hammers and slugs for Standards and Silents
And, later on, the electric Coronets and Model 250s
Until he packed it in with forty-five years under his belt,
Though all that pretty much the stuff of memory as well:
The factory gone a couple years now,
Rubble carted away, leaving an angry brown patch of land,
The last generation who’d worked the plant
Having up and left, by and large,
In most cases taking his generation with it as well
(Factories tending to be family affairs,
So many of his contemporaries unwilling to be so distant
From children and grandchildren,
Such notions being unknown in company towns)
Leaving the place a touch foreign,
A bit alien to folks who stayed on,
Men without a country as it were, doing their level best
To navigate waters without landmarks, without buoys,
Trying to reach harbors of questionable refuge.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
To shake the powdered atoms
from the flaking cavern walls
That fossil horn
has summoned tribes
from different walks
alive tonight
Loose trousered hounds of pedal drums
are swilling bass for rocket fuel
All spastick in the rinks of treble,
animating vertebrae
draw talismanic creatures
rolling planets from
their shoulder blades.
Into the gathered sound
The ritual breaks a rip- tide sweat
A chance to wake the daemon
through those coronets of frequency
for stussy armoured Sufi
whirling
pneuma to humidity
A circled dharma rhythm-grasp
a knowledge passed from
Astronaut cartographers.
Acoustics of the standing stones
the hunting party hill-top chants
a triumph in the sacred groves
two hundred thousand years
of dance,
Have brought us here.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC