"damask" poems
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Aquiver mellifluous ineffable hiraeth nefarious somnambulist epoch sonorous serendipitous limerence bombinate luminescence ethereal illicit petrichor iridescent supine aurora solitude syzygy phosphenes oblivion ephemeral incandescence denouement vellichor eloquence defenestration Sondra effervescence cromulent cellar-door debridement
Illustrator icon verdant cerulean aeneous albicant amaranthine azuline argent chartreuse damask ferruginous haematic hyacinthine ibis ochre primrose russet sanguineous virescent mystborn transcendence
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
173
A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!
Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!
All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence—
And struts in sewing silk!
Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You’d scarce recognize him!
By Men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am I,
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!
3.7k
Henceforth all ducks shall be shackled
entwined in martyrdom
half-shaven and fully aroused
baked and shaked and rattled and rolled
like bunnies, their reproduction
obviously
blantantly
even Freud would scratch his beard
too blatant the ***
obviously there must be another underlying problem
loving alcohol means you need ****
*** obsession means you need
love? Condoms?
Loch Ness Monster came over for tea
drank the imaginary brew
spat boiled liquid onto a canvas and sold it as art
"yes, yes, what does it mean?"
What does it mean?
It means that you think too much and don't feel
and don't think enough too caught up
like me
not perfect just only
and only is all one can do
can be accounted for
one, two, three
fall in-between the divisions of derivatives
damask dames like snoozing penguins
which is
black, white and dread all over
none too sure or very glassy
not too much of anything
just, just.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
When the writing is going well,
I am a prince in a desert palace,
fountains flowing in the garden.
I lean an elbow on a velvet pillow
and drink from a silver goblet,
poems like a banquet
spread before me on rugs
with rosettes the damask of blood.
But exiled
from the palace, I wander --
crawling on burning sand,
thirsting on barren dunes,
believing a heartless mirage no less true
than palms and pools of the cool oasis.
3.2k
Welcome, maids of honour!
You do bring
In the spring,
And wait upon her.
She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair;
Yet you are
More sweet than any.
You’re the maiden posies,
And so graced
To be placed
‘Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By-and-by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.
2.7k
163
Tho’ my destiny be Fustian—
Hers be damask fine—
Tho’ she wear a silver apron—
I, a less divine—
Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt *****
To her Rosier,
For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!
Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil—
And no Reapers stand!
2.5k
138
Pigmy seraphs—gone astray—
Velvet people from Vevay—
Balles from some lost summer day—
Bees exclusive Coterie—
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with Emerald—
Venice could not show a check
Of a tint so lustrous meek—
Never such an Ambuscade
As of briar and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid—
I had rather wear her grace
Than an Earl’s distinguished face—
I had rather dwell like her
Than be “Duke of Exeter”—
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the Bumblebee.
2.2k
''Y" are the maiden posies,
And so graced,
To be placed
Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By and by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.'
2.2k
My soul whispered a secret to my heart,
It spoke of spilled blood upon a rose,
Rouged lips within the garden,
Drops of crimson liquid blush.
[CHORUS]
Nature’s beloved colour is green,
So red speaks of originality,
Blood is a passion,
Scarlet bleeding from thy own,
A claret sun dawning beyond,
Sanguine stained skies.
When the little cardinal sings sweetly,
A doorway opens I never chose,
Visions of a bloodshot key,
A lock rusted with dried blood.
A glimpse through the keyhole,
A pale forest awaits on the other side,
Showers of cherry blossoms,
Falling upon the snow.
Red berries bloom under crystal snow,
Glints of sunlight touch down,
Sparks of fire captured within,
Just beyond this rubicund door.
[CHORUS]
The dreams I am allowed,
Burn and scar my will,
When the door swings open,
Of its own accord.
Damask petals on the wind.
How warm and gentle that spray of blood,
Like a hundred tender kisses,
And the golden keys to Heaven.
I glimpsed the gules of true heraldry,
A suffused spirit at the dawn of memory,
Imprisoned by a cage of vermillion frost,
Warmed by a glass of spiced wine.
[CHORUS]
A roseate palace at the end of a long walk,
Painted titian by my tear drops,
Caress a florid complexion,
Carmine not my own.
Roan stones dusted,
By the fall of Angels light,
Make-believe incarnadine carpet of,
A mirrored auburn dusk.
I settle back into the maroon night,
The darkness flushed by concealed art,
Bay canvas touched-up with unreal imagery,
Indifferent to the passing of my former life.
[CHORUS]
Rubies fall from ruddy clouds,
These gems are not for me,
Reddened glass has come to pass,
The moment of my undoing.
[PAUSE (Epilogue)]
Red is not for me,
Red was not meant to be...
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Love has given up.
It was the wrong religion.
And London did not melt into the Thames.
You teetered on the edge of a golden world,
and then fell suddenly—
accused of sortilege, ****** and treason.
And at his pleasure—
or was it mercy?—
Was it for the sake of your seven years,
or perhaps for the little daughter?—
in which flowed the royal blood, spoiled by *** and lineage.
Whatever it was, no matter.
He would spare you the pain
of being burnt at the stake.
Instead, to be executed like royalty—
dispatched by a French swordsman.
The prophecy must have been of little comfort
as your ladies helped prepare you to meet
Death, newly betrothed.
A gown of dark grey damask
floated over a blood-red petticoat.
Your mantle was trimmed with ermine.
Queenly, you stood and addressed those who had come to
watch you. And then you knelt and began to pray, and
quickly and mercifully, the blade
carried out its trajectory.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
*Lavender rose, thy petals broken,
So hap'ly crushed beneath careless feet.
Damask perfume breathes melody sweet
From thy bruised heart a weeping token.
Upon thoughts so drear my spirit dwells,
Shaken with guilt and hopeless despair;
Mourning to know harsh words and grim cares
Break cherished ones to death's angry knells.
No more able to shout defiance
Of their wild laughter or moods forlorn
When once from our grasp the rose be torn,
Instead of clamour - empty silence.*
~Hilda~
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
I held up that grand quilt in my tiny hands, thoughts rushing past my mind.
That denim piece splattered with red paint,
ah, remember when you wore that for the first time as you picked carrots with Dad?
That cotton piece filled with a vibrant orange,
how could you forget? That was the dress you wore to your first ever play recital.
That baby pink rayon piece,
you wore that on the first day of high school, you could not forget.
That grey wool piece,
that was your Christmas present, and you wore it near the fire. You spilled hot coco on it.
That rare purple leather,
that is too important to forget. Remember, it was the jacket you wore on you first date.
That blue flannel piece,
you loved that one. You wore it all the time, ever since the first time you wore it when you won “best speaker” at a school competition.
That brown cupro piece,
you wore that to your mother's birthday, the one where she got promoted to L.A.
That green polyester piece,
never can forget, could you? That was the shirt you wore when Dad and Mom divorced.
That white lyocell piece,
you wore it at your graduation party, and your whole family was there.
That barkcloth piece,
it was a day to remember, you united with you brother once again in that dress.
That calico piece,
you wore that to the hospital when Granddad got a heart attack.
That black and white damask piece,
that was so beautiful, so you kept it for your dinner. Which you hadn't realized was your engagement dinner with your boyfriend.
That red gingham piece,
wow, that was the time you met your dad's girlfriend. And Mom had not moved on.
That black lace piece,
a day never to forget. It was the funeral of your Granddad’s, and that was the dress you wore.
That grey gauze piece,
it was the shawl you wore when you visited your grandma, and found out she was ill of depression.
That amazing white gazar piece,
a memorable day. It was the dress you wore to you wedding.
That turquoise silk piece,
*too soon after your wedding. It was the part of the purse you took to your Grandma's funeral. *
That white and blue jacquard fabric,
that was the fabric you had for your curtains, when you moved into your own house.
That leopard print intarsia piece,
it was an amazing day. Your mother visited you the first time in your new home. The both of you cried with the rain pouring outside. Nothing could have ruined that beautiful moment together, united.
That satin cobalt blue piece,
that dress you wore to the dinner with your parents and husband. Only to later realize that you brother had met with an accident.
That exotic lantana piece,
you remember, don't you? You wore that dress when you met your brother days later, severely hurt.
That red lace piece,
you went to London with your husband wearing that. You were so excited.
That madras piece,
it came from that cushion out of the four your husband bought you.
That cream organdy piece,
your mother had found it in her closet, a dress from her mother's, and wanted to give it to you.
That deep purple paisley piece,
you wore that on the day your mother died.
And like that, all the thoughts came back to me. All the pieces of my past, fit in together. But it never made sense – that was how my life worked. And there were more pieces, more parts, to fit together, until my life was spread out in front of me. Like a patched quilt.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
It is hard to write in pictures, when you appear in sounds
How the damask light seeps through awning head space
When halcyon winter days end in minutes,
and you disappear everyday, without fail
Is it cruel that death and love are so mutually aligned
or is it bitter contempt of love that makes it appear so
Could you love me in death as I loved you in life
and is it on that pretense that your only answer is no?
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.
The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.
Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.
The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.
Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.
She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.
He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the ugly –
- to render them enchanting.
He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.
The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.
The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
THE true faith discovered was
When painted panel, statuary.
Glass-mosaic, window-glass,
Amended what was told awry
By some peasant gospeller;
Swept the Sawdust from the floor
Of that working-carpenter.
Miracle had its playtime where
In damask clothed and on a seat
Chryselephantine, cedar-boarded,
His majestic Mother sat
Stitching at a purple hoarded
That He might be nobly breeched
In starry towers of Babylon
Noah's freshet never reached.
King Abundance got Him on
Innocence; and Wisdom He.
That cognomen sounded best
Considering what wild infancy
Drove horror from His Mother's breast.
1.6k
Today, let me be an alien a cappella
A day among a crowd of quiet dandelions
With the soft white sun to bask
Let me sleep with the daffodil shadows
Yesterday, too much bottles were handled
Too much faces unmasked
I'm naturally a boy who wears neon shoes
And a mask of blue damask
At night I run to temples
Or a single tent with candles near my bed
Tonight, let me rest quietly
For tomorrow there will be
Jubilation and fantastic sounds which I will crave again
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Damask and Death
Velvet and Violence
Satin and Suffering
Organza and Oppression
Calico and Corpses
Paisley and Pain
Taffeta and Torture
Lace and Listlessness
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:31 PM UTC
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
*Honeysuckle carrier churning the spring-
river caladium
Easterly shear delight beyond Dresden blue visage
Windy dream mermaid sea , Brown Pelican motion
Harper Chickadees stirring Pineapple sage-
banks of thought
Tempered , smitten , physical piedmont devotion
Pisciform schooners roaming wits damask ocean*
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
~~~
*bathed by breezes of southern gentility,
sun soaped by eye-prickling,
star twinkling glints,
shampooed in delicious waves
of white sno caps,
my crazy wild hair,
conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles
dappled waters transformed into a
Van Gogh glow of
The Sower
sprinkling golden seed
upon fields of summer wheat glorious
my little yellow rubber duckies,
are now blue white snow geese alive,
down from Nova Scotia,
where August is already
emboldened colden,
so they non-stop honk
tho mere passerbys,
everybody is seeking a place in history,
the surety,
that this poem,
by their inclusion herein,
promises posterity
the grass blades wave with
endless swaying applause,
at yet another attempt of poetic tribute,
for once more,
spell bound
by the bounty of the moment,
enslaved happily to the idea
there is no satiation possible
from the earthly satisfaction of this place,
this sheltered isle
the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers,
unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans,
they offer me untold numbers of
likes and reads,
and other candied goodies,
promises endless to root for my winter dream teams,
if their presence is here
prominently included,
until they too
fall silent, grounded,
shed by their rightful owners
every time I think the well is dry,
swept under by a rip tide
of drowning overwhelming gratitude,
for here I come to a place.
a station for repair,
where poems are bandied about,
summer fruits ripe for plucking
sunroom lace, summer curtains,
will hide out here in my absence,
the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline,
by icy waters and gusts,
that will be both
untrodden and unadmired
for when the poet is clad in the
damask drapes of winter's inevitability,
will close his eyes and
will hide out here,
right here,
in this one of his never ending
prior~poem~prayers homages,
until next year's
can't-come- too-early spring arrives,
sparked by tendrils of meeting markers,
noting that
new poems have been fallow fallen,
winter seeded,
awaiting your
watering and writing,
of the appreciation
of the
simple majesty
of this small corner of the earth*
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
i.
autumn’s leaves
scattered in pools,
a cloud of fine gold.
ivy scented skies
break free.
ii.
trees conjure dreams,
flow like a night breeze.
iii.
the sun is remote,
the fires of a wild sea,
damask shores
where we sink
to the floor....
iv.
sink further,
where quiet walls and skies
pierce our yearnings,
uncover a naked flame.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
Red and white roses,
Wild and loud, spangle, sparkle,
Filling— empty lot.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
Damask robes on the severed road, as Severin sings the boot precociously
Furs and spurs are the roots of inevitable depression, the rain in the gutter
Flows like so many streams to the town of your birth
See that scar and revel in it, for the clock that tocks is dying so eloquently
And here, I shall hold your hand and convey irrelevancy
These days seem so long
Words leave a vapid hole in my soul
Are you reading this closely,
Meaningless as it seems
Each poem like a crack of the whip, my back scarred and bloodied
Each person, in a line, taking the time to abuse my mind
and today I am freed from the ties that... keep me safe
But still bound by the ******* of a million people
Each one suffers, and I lay awake in the evening damp
Listening, still listening, to the cries of the camp
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
***he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life
neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled
some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings
almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one*** divine ***a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?***
sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
**eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit**
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC