"cowl" poems
.
1
death dirges
Frogs in distance sing . . .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
. . . A round of croaking.
2
love gifts
Her gift of flowers . . .
Came at night without garden,
. . . Were picked in bedroom.
3
twins demure
Full moon and she . . .
Beauties without crescent smile,
. . . Naked in starlight.
4
light music
Before even sun . . .
Gleam opens to paint each day,
. . . Beauty in birdsong.
5
iridescent
After sun showers . . .
Sparkle of rainbow colours,
. . . Busy hummingbirds
6
chilling
Hollow sound through trees,
Naked and bare branches sway,
. . . Old winter creeping.
7
flirting
She wanted a child . . .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
. . . Clock set to maybe.
8
super villain
Truth once singular . . .
Mucked all up with politics,
. . . In cowl of falsehoods.
9
casualties
Blood spills in gardens . . .
Naïve worms torn from loose grounds,
. . . Red robins, green lawns.
10
stigmata
Each spring miracle . . .
Trees blessed by caterpillars gifts,
. . . Holey hands of leaves.
11
consecrations
Ripples lead to bows . . .
After fish breaks the water,
. . . A kingfisher dives.
12
constancy
Steadfast as always . . .
Wildflower in sun and rain,
. . . Showing true colours.
13
roommates
Chaste lovers wonder . . .
How bodies weather the cold,
. . . Never knowing touch.
14
swept away
Suddenly we kissed . . .
At beach as tides rolling in,
. . . Drowning by ocean.
15
seductress
Her red hair so long . . .
Brushing my face, hiding eyes,
. . . A kind entrapment.
.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
~~~<¤>~~~
through
lichen clouds
and lace of leaves
moonlight wanders
wends and weaves
a cowl'd orb
a saintly pearl
a poem rewritten
by the world
a swooning dove
a gentle face
in loving here
there's no disgrace
brings She out
her mystery still
floating effortless
at will
how oft does She
rehearse the game
in many phases
do the same
in Her embrace
sweet dreams are free
unbound by
moonlight mystery
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/29/2015
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
An autumn moon shone overhead,
The shadowed trees filled with dread.
Out of darkness came a howl,
Fur and fang from inside cowl.
During daylight hours Morning Star shone,
When night came down she ran alone.
Shedding clothes and skin and manners within.
Shedding good and evil and all of her kin.
Morning Star! The people would wail.
Dog and horse led to a ****** trail.
Out of home, out of time,
She runs on two to find her kind.
Morning Star! Her sister spoke,
Her brothers arrows armed and broke.
Morning Star! Run to wilderness run,
On four paws away from sun.
Morning Star! The pack has claim,
And nothing will ever be the same.
Run with wolves, a Midnight Star,
Run with wolves to reaches far.
A skinwalker newly made inside out
Morning Star, Morning Star, the people shout.
But none of her was left to hear,
Black fur for hair, claws for spear.
Morning Star to Midnight Star under autumn moon.
Midnight Star, the hunters come for you soon.
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 12:16 PM UTC
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.
For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.
But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
The Discworld Death
The Discworld Death and Binky the horse, are here to stay.
The knight and his steed.
The darkest light even on the sunniest of days.
He is here now and he has always been here.
He will be here at the end;
The time you reach the end of your allotted years.
The Death of Rats fears no cat,
For he is already immortal; he always appears in black.
Even if a rat has been killed by a cat
And the cat can see The Death of Rats,
He still walks in his cowl and carries his scythe,
Because no matter how much the cat would like to attack,
It cannot **** the Death of Rats, as it is no longer alive.
You cannot **** Death, nor can you **** the Death of Rats.
You cannot escape the end,
And you cannot escape the cat,
If you are a rat;
On that you can depend.
Susan is Death’s Grand Daughter, with her hair black and white.
Albert is Death’s helper; the foolish type.
Death stands alone in the night and at his side there flies a crow.
With electric blue eyes, Death stares deep into your soul.
He can reach inside you and take your life,
Or he can let you go.
But when your time is up,
From Death there is no escaping.
He is your undertaker, have no fear of the Reaper;
He cannot tell you where you are going.
Death is an anthropomorphic personification.
Discworld is my favourite form of fiction.
It would be my preferred place,
To take a lifelong vacation.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Howling wolves,
Calling unearthly creatures
Night bound to deathly horrors
Cold icy fingered wind, bites
Whistles down stone chimneys,
Inside amber flames flickering in the hearth,
Shadows dance across the wall,
Candle sputtering in the draught
Casting an eerie glow cross the page
The book being read, strange tales
Outside the wind surges, lashing
Rain against the leaden panes
A splinter of lightening flashes eerily
Warm and cosseted against the storm
The page is turned, the story continued
A single scratch at the window,
And a rattling of the latch
Heavy door squeaks open,
On old heavy hinges
Fingers slowly slide round
Gripping the doors edge
Skin grey, taught against bones
Hooded face slowly revealing
It’s secret from beyond
The Reader’s eyes riveted
On this unfolding chapter
Spine chilling flicker of recognition
Of his own face beneath the cowl
The book drops …
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
I wander down the path
Seemingly still and quiet
No shadows in sight
But a light so bright
What could be, this Enigma?
I’m mesmerized, so transfixed
And with its grace and beauty
It rejects every stigma
my Invigoration
simple conjuration
of feeble elation
becomes condemnation
an exacerbation
of lost contemplation
falling to the floor i find myself
beyond salvation and left to starvation
I did not choose this, to feel this, or to be thrown away
My intentions are gold, no ill will in sight
but they choose to see what they want
HARK!
A figure engulfs the horizon
Shrouded and concealed from the world
It charges forth as a familiar phantom
It strikes me back as I stagger away
Its cloak blackens the sky to my dismay
as air evaporates bleeding my mind astray
but hope is in sight for I have found a knife!
again and again, Brutus would be proud
for the pool beneath the figure must end my strife
and to the figure, I remove its cowl
lo and behold, the face is my own
reality then breaks at the seams
to have this fate, I couldn’t have known
lost and diluted much like my dreams
My hands remain red
Trapped in my own head
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
She is the typesetter’s “e”
The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.
His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.
In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.
But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.
She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
A taste of the future has come to my lips,
Sickly, but then, I asked for it
The droplets forsook me and went to my eyes
But nobody living has taken the sips
Like I have drunk deep of the pit
And the water was refreshing, to my surprise
I fortold the blessing, like a hand to the brow
I carried the scars, like lines on my face,
But ones that aged me more quickly
I heaved at the thought of the then and the now
My make up was dark, but light at the place
Where I applied it more thickly
So tell me the truth, all those from beyond
Explain the shadows under your eyes
I don't understand how you sink to your knees
A cowl of cold on me has been donned
It never could bring me to rise
For me and for life, we do as we please.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
The sinking sun is now undone,
the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
for midnight lies ahead.
Above the heap, the bosses sleep
with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
at least, that's what they've said.
Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
while spinning silken thread.
But as it stands, in conquered lands
a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
on stones they call a bed.
With aching eyes they fantasize
and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
now dining with the dead.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Airs naught wholly bright as thee.
Is there a kneel for end of days—
Songs, deeds for those who prey?
Is there light breaking pied wings,
Or is heaven overlord to all things?
Sun spots feathering coated crest,
Talons top spires mountain breast,
When rivers of the wind fail all fowl,
What grace and splendour in a cowl?
Is there a psalm in the wailing winds,
A hymn that carries all innocent sins,
Or a fable, blue as stupendous skies,
A truest place where redemption lies?
The sea slides with lost ocean birds
And blue wings coast, row unheard,
Edging the skies with razors' tinge,
Seeding the immortal spark begins.
Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Naught airs wholly bright as thee.
— after William Blake
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Thou spinster of the silken night
Why slide beneath that sylphen cloud,
Why hide the blush of pallid cheek
To mask your secret smile in shroud ?
Pale crescent love of velvet void
A vivid splash of pinprick gems,
Suspended in black solitude
Such beauty midst celestial friends.
Lovers kiss beneath your spell
Hand in hand they stroll the lane
Garlanded in silver light,
Ensnared within your crescent’s reign.
Thou siren voice doth wax and wane
These very oceans sing your song,
As seabirds ply your ebbing tides
And global winds blow clear and strong.
Lunar light threads through tree boughs
Casting lurid shadows bare,
Causing wolves to crouch and howl
At living, moonbeam shards in air.
Oh sister of the silent night
Feel the haunting call of owl,
Scan the forest’s shadowed light,
Gild the snow clad mountain’s cowl.
Thou spinster of the silken night
Rest thy secrets in thy soul,
Fade as shadows blend to day,
Relenquish all to sun's control..
Marshal Gebbie
Victoria Park Tunnel
14 January 2011
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
With each reach I am further away than I hoped.
Clawing desperately at walls of mud.
Foiled by the viscosity of fools.
No matter how hard I try to escape the solitude it haunts me still.
Looming over me like a cowl adhered to my skull.
Comforting is its presence.
Complex are it’s vexes.
Is it the walls or my skin that take the brunt of my aggression?
Is it outward or all within?
Could it be that the darkness is my only friend?
The only thing that remains.
All my efforts are in vain.
All my transgressions explained.
My thoughts are all insane.
But here in the depth I can escape the pain.
So here I shall remain.
Filled with more of the same.
Questions unexplored… a bane.
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 7:55 PM UTC
I figure this to be
The sanctuary
Build from the ash and debris
Of past storms and unhealthy tendencies
A folk lore
Just short of a mystery
The list is infinite
But the bottom of the page is clear to me
I focus my point
Trying to stay on target but I miss easily
Dreaming of clouds and celestial cuisines, heavenly
Close my eyes and jump from outer space
Screaming as if it will cushion the fall from grace
Tearing apart on impact, what's left?
My complacency, complexity, impurities, the real me?
They way down is way down
How long a fall? Just way down
I'll aim for that hay pile
Like a middle era hero with a pale cowl (Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad reference)
Falling feels like sinking
The weight in my gut persist to expel itself
In my panic I'm thinking
"I wish gravity would give up
I'm 500 feet from the pavement
15 seconds till impact
If this is my dream the wings will be there
And I'll soar away just before I hit the floor
I close my eyes and begin to squeeze
Visualizing the emergence of these beautiful wings
I open my eyes
I can see the cracks on the side walk and lines on the street
10 feet from the ground ready to take off then like a dream I .............(Loud Thud!!!!!!)
Ouch!!
-Xin-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
Truth once singular . . .
Mucked all up with politics,
. . . In cowl of falsehoods.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
.
1
death dirges
Frogs in distance sing . . .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
. . . A round of croaking.
2
love gifts
Her gift of flowers . . .
Came at night without garden,
. . . Were picked in bedroom.
3
twins demure
Full moon and she . . .
Beauties without crescent smile,
. . . Naked in starlight.
4
light music
Before even sun . . .
Gleam opens to paint each day,
. . . Beauty in birdsong.
5
iridescent
After sun showers . . .
Sparkle of rainbow colours,
. . . Busy hummingbirds
6
chilling
Hollow sound through trees,
Naked and bare branches sway,
. . . Old winter creeping.
7
flirting
She wanted a child . . .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
. . . Clock set to maybe.
8
super villain
Truth once singular . . .
Mucked all up with politics,
. . . In cowl of falsehoods.
9
casualties
Blood spills in gardens . . .
Naïve worms torn from loose grounds,
. . . Red robins, green lawns.
10
stigmata
Each spring miracle . . .
Trees blessed by caterpillars gifts,
. . . Holey hands of leaves.
11
consecrations
Ripples lead to bows . . .
After fish breaks the water,
. . . A kingfisher dives.
12
constancy
Steadfast as always . . .
Wildflower in sun and rain,
. . . Showing true colours.
13
roommates
Chaste lovers wonder . . .
How bodies weather the cold,
. . . Never knowing touch.
14
swept away
Suddenly we kissed . . .
At beach as tides rolling in,
. . . Drowning by ocean.
15
seductress
Her red hair so long . . .
Brushing my face, hiding eyes,
. . . A kind entrapment.
.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC
Down in the depths of Frosty Hollow
The Dell where nobody sleeps,
The eyes are watching one another
In case some human peeps,
It sits in a time of hither and slime
Each side of a distant flood,
Where nothing is really worth the bother,
The ancient Wizard stood.
He stood by the spell of them-and-us
That he spun in a past go round,
That sought the well of the what-they-were
When the skies were close to the ground,
And nobody sought to leave the Hollow
Except in a cowl or hood,
The ways of men were hard to swallow
Outside the enchanted wood.
The stars that sparkled up in the trees
Had promised a cold come in,
But the Wizard ruled the things that matter
And various types of sin,
He ruled the currents that gave them breath,
And told of the marsh outside,
Where those who left met an evil death
In the end, so nobody tried.
And slowly, he would increase the size
Of the Dell to the world outside,
The Dell would spread on the bones of the dead
He said, in his sin of pride,
But the eyes were fed with suspicions, and
They looked to each other first,
And the first in Hell were those in the Dell
Who looked at the Wizard and cursed.
Down in the depths of Frosty Hollow
The Dell where nobody sleeps,
The eyes are watching one another
In case some human peeps,
It sits in a time of hither and slime
Each side of a distant flood,
And there you’ll find an ancient Wizard
Who lies in a pool of blood.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
a cluttered fragrant death
(stark garden
a valley billowing with apathy
sweat scented flavors richly bloom
an
aspect consumed with the tedious
graves accurately graying in verdant profusion
as riven plaited dusty erosion
beckons the touch ofINFINITE drops:
this cloudy cowl drawn taught on
everclear translucent whiskers shorn
from rough bubbling lilies
rivuleting heady green stems
onto the tender hillocks of rocky *******
jut so silently into finite
;)
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Airs naught wholly bright as thee.
Is there a kneel for end of days—
Songs, deeds for those who prey?
Is there light breaking pied wings,
Or is heaven overlord to all things?
Sun spots feathering coated crest,
Talons top spires mountain breast,
When rivers of the wind fail all fowl,
What grace and splendour in a cowl?
Is there a psalm in the wailing winds,
A hymn that carries all innocent sins,
Or a fable, blue as stupendous skies,
A truest place where redemption lies?
The sea slides with lost ocean birds
And blue wings coast, row unheard,
Edging the skies with razors' tinge,
Seeding the immortal spark begins.
Falcon rise— yellow racing eyes,
Blue wraith that rakes the skies,
Never has one fared such beauty,
Naught airs wholly bright as thee.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Sitting round a camp-fire in the middle of a wood
I spied a dozen vampires eating treacle pud
Upon their bloodless heads they shrugged a ***** cowl
While pacing werewolves at their backs let forth an eerie howl
The setting moon was empty as was their heinous bellies
Before them lay uneaten heaps of pies and sweets and jellies
‘It is no good’, said one, ‘I am sick of this malaise.
What this pudding needs is a spot of Crème anglaise.’
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:21 AM UTC
We've numbers in distress;
We've villains and scoundrels
In need of redress;
Choose any one of one thousand quests -
We're in desperate need of a Hero.
No call for a cape or cowl,
Hidden rings or magic swords;
We need action,
Not placating words -
From a righteous Hero.
Greece or Rome won't be the origin,
There may well be one in Oregon;
At this juncture we'll take anyone -
A home grown or welcome Hero.
We'll have truth without hyperbole,
Not disdain, but hearing dignity;
One to rise up, reach out, lift us
From the swamp of vanity.
We don't need Deus ex machina,
Or anything supernatural;
A woman or man,
Natural or choice,
A sister or brother,
To call us home;
To hear a voice say,
You're not alone.
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 10:44 AM UTC
All that glitters never meant much to me,
Petals fall & fade, withering along with time like its temporary immortality,
Money joining suit in its temporary fervour, but never buying love as the Beatles crooned.
So let me tell you what does:
The look on your face when I've made you happy with a surprise or two;
The sound of your laughter reverberating through the air as I cowl in my witty silly remarks;
The mental connection that pleasantly astounds me with every thought-stealing line and mirrored gestures-humour-reaction-action;
How your words has awaken the inner dormant writer/poet and inspired to put my venomous quill to paper again;
How you make me feel beautiful, appreciated and respected, just the way I am;
Your empathy and understanding that chase the dark clouds away and silence my demons;
The way we make love with the glances we exchange in public like there's no one around;
The way we make love with our bodies, explorative archaeologists tracing each other's landscapes gently-sweetly-devilishly;
How you claim my arm across, intertwining with yours, caressing it as if it's a part of you;
When your palm holds my face lovingly while we exchange sweet kisses, nibbles and all;
Blowing soft breaths onto our goosebumpy skins, whispering how much we love each other;
Cheekily stealing smooches at traffic light stops which never seem to be long enough;
Resting your head on my sturdy shoulder as I cushion mine into yours, christening it with my lips,
As we serenade that BSB song transporting me back to 14 again.
And the realization pierces me through like truth always does:
That I would not trade any moment, any era, any wish, any desire
Than the one right now with you that has headily grasped me so:
A dizzying cocktail of drugs that is you.
Shalini Nayar
31.10.14
(c) 2014
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC