"dais" poems
She watched the water slip and slop
As flurried flames climbed up to heat
And bubble boil the cooking ***
Emitting steam to rise and sweep
In splendid arcs and cloudy wisps
Of candy cotton colored plumes
That filled the cavern air with sips
Of fragrant tones and sweet perfumes
And withered bony fingers bent
To loosely grip a ladle shaft
And scooping water, swiftly went
To pour a steaming cloudy draught
Into a pretty painted cup
Upon a dais of sorcery
And gulping down a mighty sup
She gasped,
"A lovely cup of tea!"
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
5.4k
His flabbered jowls were hung aghast
Beneath his slobbered liver lips
His bulbous eyes were overcast
By burly brows of stewardship
An overbearing egotist
He stood apart from infidels
Compassion dealt with belt and fist
Disdainful with no parallels
And there upon his lofty dais
In garments fit to drape a throne
He glared with bulbous eyes ablaze
Upon a ragged danger zone
A misbegotten anarchist
Audacious with his sweet implore
To strike a flaming catalyst
Emboldened by his quest for more
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
The big day was a week away
The streets were being swept
Folding stands erected
Where homeless, last week slept
To make a good impression
The Mayor told one and all
To step up and take note
To answer his loud call
We must show the whole country
We are the best at what we do
We have to show the country
The best side of me and you
This meant weeks before this
The police were out in force
Removing the imperfections
Both on foot and out on horse
A cleansing of the city
Make it nice for all to see
It brings up bitter memories
At least it does to me
It happened back in Europe
A little corporal took command
He did his little cleansing
With his little **** band
The town had hung up bunting
Like the banners in Berlin
being homeless is a problem
It's not where a cleansing should begin
The mayor had plans for plenty
Marching bands and lots of press
He'd only answer pre-set questions
In case it all became a mess
He had to have it perfect
It was his first parade you know,
the streets were freshly steam cleaned
There was nothing he didn't want to show
The displaced folks all huddled
Down in the park, a mile back
Veterans and soldiers
Whites, Hispanics, and some black
Their town was in transition
They were the cities hidden sore
They would never be accepted
Never let inside a door
The Mayor stood on the dais
Waved and smiled as folks went by
It was a town of smoke and mirrors
He showed the world a great big lie
Like the small Austrian corporal
who refused to change and would not bend
The Mayor lied to his country
It was the beginning of his end
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
Alto Douro e Trás-os-Montes
Alto Douro e Trás – os-montes,
Terra minha bem portuguesa,
Vinhedos e frescas fontes,
Traduzem sua pureza.
Friorenta no Inverno,
Terra intolerante.
Na Primavera morna,
No verão escaldante.
Horizonte tão belo e tão teu,
Ninguém to rouba, Deus to DEU.
Pôr-do-sol que se deita com vales sonolentos,
Douro, Tua teus encantos.
Vindimadores que colhem cachos maduros,
Azeitonas que dais azeites puros.
Pescadores dos rios Douro e Tua,
Uma saudade que é nossa e sua.
Victor Marques
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
She dreams in shades of gold,
Speaking in tongues as her soul
runs naked, tumbling through the air,
Through fields of green and leaves in her hair.
She dreams in honey scented meadows,
Breathe in their nectar; rays against the window,
Twisting through the seasons like red wine,
While sunflowers raise their head to shine.
She dreams in the sunny winter breeze,
For her dreams to never cease.
Like the form of a never-ending snowfall,
And her will to live through all the odds.
She dreams in the early morning sun,
While the heat ends the blooming month,
Her fall; to burn while she crashes,
And yet to rise from renewed ashes.
She dreams in shades of gold,
As she stands on a dais of old,
Gold around her nape so bright,
Like thousands of candle lit from a single light.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
A carnivorous beast lies pitted deep inside.
It devours its prey, gorging till it subsides.
Living in the heart of man, this beast doth reside.
It stalks upon carnal thoughts yet to betide.
A reincarnate knight seeks a kingdom of glory.
To vanquish the beast: his reoccurring story.
Oft' has the beast left the field torn and gory.
Yet, the knight strives for resplendent victory.
Fanfare pierces the soul; the champion sheathes his sword.
Returning to his dais, the knight returns as lord.
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 3:14 PM UTC
My name is Rajabu Al Islam, an African Muslim
Born in Africa, Black Muslim not Arabic,
I am now in the solemn city of Mombasa,
Standing on the pinnacle of Tahir Sheikh Towers,
Looking at the land of Likoni and Motonkwe
Beyond the deep blue arm of Indian Ocean,
Behold the Muslim terrorists, lynch fierce terror
On the innocent human beings, in ramshackled church,
They are shooting women and young children,
The pastor at the dais, wielding the Bible,
Also succumbs to a bullet in his ***** capacity,
The church choir master has also dropped dead
And the rest of all humanity in the church
Have no where to take cover from terrorist,
As Moslem terrorist ********* bullets on them,
Poor humanity wail in the agony of death
From the injurious bullets, of AK 47,
Auma Otieno drops dead her son Osinya falling away,
Osinya is not dead, but a slug stuck in his skull,
In glorification of Al shabab the Islamic terror wing,
Baby osinya is young boy of six months,
Without selfish piety of Middle East in chest,
When you shoot him, is it n’t it super terrorism!
To shoot a child of six months in the head
In pursuit of your religious ecstasy?
Who said that Islam is the way of Godliness?
He was a beautiful cheat full of brawnish frivolities,
Islam is total darkness, as its overt organs are ;
Al gaeda, Al shabab and Boko Haram.
I hate Islam for its ***** reasonless ignorance
I hate it with my full passion and my entirety,
Indeed I am prepared to die in stern defense
Of my antipathy for Islam; a piety so uncouth
When I recall, the Twin towers of America,
West Gate of Kenya, American embassy in Kenya,
And the stubborn Boko Haram, that condemned human life
Foolishly in the north of Nigeria to be foul divinity.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
*** sells
and so does sadism
sold to bored housewives
and professional women
breaking through
glass ceilings.
almost mid-way through
the sixth decade of existence on terra firma
there is a lot that gnaws away like a locust
at the soft underside of consciousness.
***
everywhere.
and the trap of biology.
women illustrated like circus sideshow attractions
ride naked on horses through the grimy marketplace
of stolen and bankrupt ideas.
*** minus monosodium glutamate.
you’ll like it better if you’re
tressed with plaits of golden silk
in a turquoise dungeon.
this morning
tortured by dreams. a ********** of the mind
teasing sunlight on a blasted dais. she’s a *****
worshipped by the masses.
madison avenue
hollywood
the sound of debit cards
in the wind.
the high art
of the american landscape
is kim kardashian
naked
her ***
blotting out
the sun.
while
poets drown
silently
down in
the shadow
of that wondrous
eclipse.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
A chuva
Chove intensamente para alegria das gentes,
Para os campos e suas sementes.
No nosso peito existe secura,
Chove e vem do céu água pura.
Chuva miudinha que quase não molhais,
Dais de beber aos pardais.
Chuva calorenta de um dia de verão,
Chuva que canta linda canção.
A chuva não bate no preso em sua cela,
Nem pode ser vista de sua janela,
Escutar a chuva que bate em sintonia,
Eu me devaneio com suave melodia.
A chuva dá imenso prazer,
De noite ou ao amanhecer.
Sentir a chuva com amor e sentimento,
Estendedoiro fustigado pelo vento.
Victor Marques
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
She is the Queen of the coffee shop
Watching over her kingdom in triumph
Yet, behold, the empty dais
The star on her crown glimmers little
In the vacuous suffocation of silence
Clink and clang from the servant's quarters
Is the only sound besides the jesting
Of new wave hauntings and jazz renditions
A once vibrant kingdom depressed in
Melancholy achings
Yet the smile on her black lips,
Frozen from a time of prosperity
The coffee shop poet is beguiled
And joins the queen in her silent musing
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Born under Artemus
To the mother, Nemesis
Born to fight against
The hounds of hell
Has earned his company
In the temple of villainy
Has earned his place
Among the lore
For the lore be written
To include the villians
For the lore be not a judge
To cast shame on him
His actions have bound
His fate with the hounds
His actions will decide
Which road to chase
Which sends his soul
To a heart once his own
Which sends his mind
Into insanity
His state on the plane,
A strange domain
His state on the dais
A pawn to the fates
Who allow him to rectify
His mistakes in life
Who allow the hounds
To snap their jaws
At the gates of hell
With a familiar swell
At the gates of Hades
With a heart of hatred
With a beautiful prize
Held up with pride
With a beautiful emptiness
Caused by vengeance
The hounds snap their jaws
And click their claws
The hounds move aside
To grant his passage
Into the forever abyss
That is born from hate
Into the forever
His name, Eucledes.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
The floodgates
have opened
deluge rushing in
all the shellfish
are writhing
deep under my skin
******* out my juices
my heart bleeding
thick
my heart on the platform
in textures that tick
like time in a bomb
inside a box
in my painted ribcage
just waiting to blow
like a self-contained rage
and I can no longer hold it
as implosion ferments
my insides are bursting
in iridescent
s l o w motion
every one of my cells
a chaotic torment
As my body shudders and
shakes and splits
in the blast
I know that my mind
is free at last
my essence climbs
this final ascent
questions form into peace
as tissue is rent
I glance at the *****
on the sacrificial dais,
once inside this silken chest
It beats as it takes it,
as my soul rides the crest
It accepts the heavy,
on that stage,
stuck through on a spike
the world looking
through us
as transparency strikes
and I am no longer a body
just a traveling soul
a companion
of the timeless
going back to my fold
And suddenly, there,
peering in
through the tender
stained glass panes
an aura flashing its signals
in blood pumping veins
Its silence is fragrant
and wild
in fluorescent
screaming hues
voices that sway me
in deep strokes of blue
and as I willingly
splay myself
upon the vaults
securely fastened
to my own demise
my eyeless vision
grazing the glowing black
in swirls of
slashed ancient
language
I see now
so clearly
that the dark one arrived
the one here
to take my soul
with the ember
mystic eyes
melting what is left
of my lava tripped bones
lifting my abyss
to spheres above
yes that one over there
is actually
Love
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
I’m in a limbo. A state of equivocality. Everything hangs in the air, but I try to chart my daily course as I normally do. Times are tough. Uncertain, too. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken more than I can chew.
I’m in too deep. I’m in a dark place.
You see, I was the golden child. A beacon of light. Envy was nothing new to me. I rarely espoused it, but was the oft object of it. Little Miss Perfect – always so put together. Always has her things together. I have Midas Touch, they say. I’m on a plane higher than my peers – on a dais atop the average twenty-two year-old. I can do no wrong. Only upwards from here.
So they say.
So I thought.
Today, my days bleed into one another. Sunday? Monday? What difference does a name make? I run on two hours of sleep and three thirty-minute naps a day. I don’t wake up to my 5 AM alarm. Nor sleep through it. It throttles to life as I hurriedly read tomorrow’s later’s assigned readings. I might get some sleep in. I rarely do. Finish your readings. Finish your work. Finish your classes. Eat in between.
Objectively, I’m in a good place. Roof over my head. Food on my plate. More importantly, safe. No 40-degree thermometers and sputum litter around. This makes me feel worse. Ungrateful ***** Little Miss Drama Queen. A million would **** to be in your shoes.
I’m in a limbo – my brain encased in a cloud of humdrum trepidation. Filled to the brim with silent thumps of dread. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s not as if I did not try to do better to feel better. I do – I always do. My lists abound. #SelfCare’s always on top. Thump. Thump. Thump. They do little to quell my panic room of a mind.
Sometimes I wonder if this is how watercolor pigments feel. They are always so vivacious off of the manufacturing press. The reds are constantly vibrant and the blues are consistently resonant. But they fade when water comes into contact – even meshing into an ugly grey on the canvas when they touch the other diluted hues.
I’m in a limbo – no sense of past, present, and future. Everyday is a low frequency static hissing at my ears. Wonder child soddened by the somber. I’d build a rocket, they say. I’d own the world, they say.
All I am is tired nowadays.
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC
Blinking cursor
Nemesis
Friend with benefits
I
Spill
Pixel
And disseminate wisps
A dais for your tor
Glyph of whim
Cursor that waits
I know you
I know you all too well
You grant a world of potential
And yet I'm all knees
I bite the curb
My words spent
conferred to a
Vampiric ligerhawk Nemo
Whom eyeballs me
Into an X
New Document
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
A sultry wind surges o'er the Mediterranean.
Rosy fingered dawn wakes the world,
As I habitually walk the lonely path to labor.
A melancholy song sounds from the barley field.
Hypnotized, I follow through undulating grain,
Which lithely tosses back and forth in dance.
‘Neath a willow, amongst the barley, sits a girl,
Garbed in a white tunic, playing her angelic harp.
Her hazel hair weightlessly sways in the wind.
Her olive toned fingers pluck with mastery.
Nobility marks her solemn dark brows,
That sit atop commanding, umber eyes.
The harp's supple bends are a tribute
To the lady's long limber figure,
As she directs wind and waves by ballad.
She looks up from her earthen dais,
Eyes aglow with a playful, sultry look.
Pierced by her gaze, I awake...
With her, my wife, beside me.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 3:12 PM UTC
The outside is off limits and a doorstep becomes a dais,
To show frustration and sympathy,
To light a candle, to mourn
To stand with others when we cannot touch them.
The world is in chaos and the doorstep is a sanctuary,
To appreciate and commemorate,
To clap and laud,
Yet people are not paid in applause.
The doorstep is a safe space, but it is not a powerful one.
Isolated, a single tealight in the night,
No change is affected through a clap in the dark.
The doorstep is where the buck stops.
Another candle makes our streets no safer,
As women and flowers are trampled,
Pinned to the ground by the colleagues of a murderer.
A banging pan pays no person’s food bill,
As you judge your neighbours for their lack of civic pride,
Smug that you do your bit,
While you vote for those who have forced nurses to foodbanks.
A doorstep is as far as you go to remember loved ones,
Whose funerals you could not attend,
Whose deathbed you were absent from.
A doorstep where you miss them and ponder
Who is responsible for their death.
Is your doorstep where the buck stops?
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 6:43 AM UTC
The
world is Your garden,
The brink of the seashore where reality
Is an illusion,
Just for a moment.
It is the sand you tread through
The moon that illuminates
Your stage, Your dais,
Just for a moment.
As alluring as the Goddess
Creating magic with each step
The colors that contort into one another,
Just for a moment.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
It's always like this,
One moment I'm listening
and the next
I miss what was being said
because the voices booming in my head
and taken me to that other place.
Up on the dais I am superman.
I can do it all
enthrall the audience
with my eloquence
but near to you I am struck dumb
numbed by the words that you speak.
I am weak
this I know
and that's why I go to that other place
but I carry your face in a cup
and drink it up
when I feel lonely.
If only I was filled with the will to be strong
I could hang on longer
Assuage my hunger.
On the dais the voices remain in my head
and listen to me
and to what I have said.
Why don't you?
One day I will hear
those words in my ear
and those voices I fear will leave me alone
until then,
I'm on my own and only I can understand
the man upon the stage
who stares into the distance
with a look set on his face
of another place.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 2:31 AM UTC
She loved the place ,
She approached the dais,
Went on her knees,
the Lord to appease,
Old angels graffiti on walls,
Burning Candles ,
Sweet smelling incense,
Mama prayed,
She wanted success,
She prayed for peace,
We were such a mess,
But she lit up on her face,
Days on end,
Incantations would never end,
Hailing God,
Our lives to amend
Mama please...
How long?
'A day will come...
we will be alright'
She prayed for long,
Images staring in benevolence,
Faces with same old expressions ;
mosaic long beards
candles burning yellow
No miraculous quails
she prayed for days
"Arent you tired of this?"
But she lit up on her face...
Like she knew something i didn't
Maybe she had made a covenant
She was just exuberant
she spent each day like lent,
We didnt afford rent,
we were worth few cents,
So friends just went-
away from a lonely believer,
With a God of many followers,
None wanted borrowers,
Mysery for us,
From 9th to 1st,
None would fast,
But she loved and cared for us,
Every night she would say
'A day will come,'
Days and years went by,
Many struggles we lived by,
devil courting day by day,
Offering alot for souls to buy,
'Stick to your faith'
'Tell the truth'
'place God fast'
She taught,
Underneath the trees,
As i watched the skys,
In those drought days,
I spotted feathery clouds,
Light showers,
To storms and hails ,
Of everything she had prayed for,
Came down,
He answered,
The prayers of Mama
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
O nor'wester! sweep away sweep away just,
All my hidden pains of past,
Sobs and sighs shouldn't any more last.
Royal poinciana is smiling in red,
Why am I feeling like lying on sick bed?
Let me be stormy and dread.
Look! this nor'wester has no pretension,
He is pure burning in sun sensation,
Has no secret trap or illusion.
O nor'wester! please restore my real being,
Let me dance like wind whirling,
Let beauty dazzle like revolutionary uprising.
So long this mind is empty,
A dais there is adorned with fabulous beauty,
Please give me flowers revolutionary red mighty.
Come come brush of red deep,
O blue past! don't peep,
Come shiny dawn! I won't weep.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
¿Quién es aquel Caballero
herido por tantas partes,
que está de expirar tan cerca,
y no le socorre nadie?
«Jesús Nazareno» dice
aquel rétulo notable.
¡Ay Dios, que tan dulce nombre
no promete muerte infame!
Después del nombre y la patria,
Rey dice más adelante,
pues si es rey, ¿cuándo de espinas
han usado coronarse?
Dos cetros tiene en las manos,
mas nunca he visto que claven
a los reyes en los cetros
los vasallos desleales.
Unos dicen que si es Rey,
de la cruz descienda y baje;
y otros, que salvando a muchos,
a sí no puede salvarse.
De luto se cubre el cielo,
y el sol de sangriento esmalte,
o padece Dios, o el mundo
se disuelve y se deshace.
Al pie de la cruz, María
está en dolor constante,
mirando al Sol que se pone
entre arreboles de sangre.
Con ella su amado primo
haciendo sus ojos mares,
Cristo los pone en los dos,
más tierno porque se parte.
¡Oh lo que sienten los tres!
Juan, como primo y amante,
como madre la de Dios,
y lo que Dios, Dios lo sabe.
Alma, mirad cómo Cristo,
para partirse a su Padre,
viendo que a su Madre deja,
le dice palabras tales:
Mujer, ves ahí a tu hijo
y a Juan: Ves ahí tu Madre.
Juan queda en lugar de Cristo,
¡ay Dios, qué favor tan grande!
Viendo, pues, Jesús que todo
ya comenzaba a acabarse,
Sed tengo, dijo, que tiene
sed de que el hombre se salve.
Corrió un hombre y puso luego
a sus labios celestiales
en una caña una esponja
llena de hiel y vinagre.
¿En la boca de Jesús
pones hiel?, hombre, ¿qué haces?
Mira que por ese cielo
de Dios las palabras salen.
Advierte que en ella puso
con sus pechos virginales
una ave su blanca leche
a cuya dulzura sabe.
Alma, sus labios divinos,
cuando vamos a rogarle,
¿cómo con vinagre y hiel
**** respuesta süave?
Llegad a la Virgen bella,
y decirle con el ángel:
«Ave, quitad su amargura,
pues que de gracia sois Ave».
Sepa al vientre el fruto santo,
y a la dulce palma el dátil;
si tiene el alma a la puerta
no tengan hiel los umbrales.
Y si dais leche a Bernardo,
porque de madre os alabe,
mejor Jesús la merece,
pues Madre de Dios os hace.
Dulcísimo Cristo mío,
aunque esos labios se bañen
en hiel de mis graves culpas,
Dios sois, como Dios habladme.
Habladme, dulce Jesús,
antes que la lengua os falte,
no os desciendan de la cruz
sin hablarme y perdonarme.
991
The beryl high land smoulders….
Where skinny manes of cloven trailing, cuff
the rake of jumbled scree,
a porous crux of timbered carol
matins from the mossy shrine
to urchin on the bluff and draft
in nooks of birch and bilberry.
On that high dais, Corvid tribals
potter on the reeks of gale.
Fell boatman of the troubled storeys
quarter in some sleet cabal
to throw their onyx gauntlet down
a slating arc of fallow sky.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
Ivory empires evaporate
Iron oxidized depression
Its cold blooded calculus
All for one, one for oppression
Anarchy by Gucci, fabulous
The decision is order
The collision is reason
The choice is yours
In the mindf&%$ season
What is law? He said upon the dais
We are raw, for who dares to try us?
These sympathies for psychos
Have gotten a little contagious
They took mental Illness
Went and made it famous
I'd rather break bread with Judas
Then compromise my clarity
Because this last supper is ruthless
Where good men are murdered for sincerity.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC