"descants" poems
I - stricken biped
Reside
Arranged on patina of dust
Compacted from its own breadth and comingled humid vacillations
Misplaced intent resides carking upon my ribcage
Cerebral reliquary reprises
Enunciating: distaste – mediocrity – insufficiency
Clandestine exhalation configuration obliges principal
Luminous descants evade ebullition bound in stained crystal
Eupnea elapsed - foreboding
Enigma binds frame to pith
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Alveolate webbed iron cache
Contouring inset chromatic fused sand panes
Luminous descants evade entombed air and grit
Perhaps before the air was arrogated into silicated chassis
It circumnavigated the alveolate resonant lattice chamber of its creator
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
I am journeying into my Anne Boleyn moon
Through her psychic belladonna storm
Lost in the maze of her fate
Whispering intimacies
Dreading the Tower’s raven call...
Anne, Anne, don’t give it up
For a world, a crown, a seed in your womb
And a man who won’t even read your poetry
Blood on my hands, slaying dragons
I am sailing in a dream of my Anne Boleyn moon
Desirous of her belladonna attitude
Readying myself for the
Inevitable conflagration
Of mixed messages and moonbeams...
Anne, Anne don’t give up
You’re an epiphany, a universe in disguise
A gothic sugar coated dance with tragedy
Blood on my throat, saving unicorns
My ship is a lullaby to my Anne Boleyn moon
Belladonna in my night eyes, uncanny
Lost in the satin of midnight
Dressed in descants
Awaiting the mystic gallery minstrels...
Anne, Anne, don’t forget
Who you are, what you want, your happiness
Other mouths will kiss you inside your poetry
Blood on the moon...finding myself
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
"when I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be
Let it be"
Solo notes set to rest
Crimson petals fragrant
Descants and refrains
Take the light
Take the floor
This image flickers
Suspended adoration
Sister mine
Forever singing in the secret
Sacred places
Unscathed, unscarred
Wild irish locks in ringlets
at your throat
grace notes and triplets
concrete streets and desert skies
While years and tears fall around me
I keep you safe inside
Weve weathered everything
casual insincerities
jealous suppositions
vicious cycles of friends and enemies and fools
Ticking clocks mark idle time
You so often the weary warrior
While I cower naked behind these words
Pray they say enough to cover us both
Passing off my emptiness
You fill it up
Give again
Feed my monsters fragile kindness
from your hand
You bless me more than you will ever understand
My sister Treasure
the forgiveness of a friend
All my petty dreams and inclinations
gathering dust at the end of the day
I slip away to that sacred moment
and you are there
I hear you sing again to me
"whisper words of wisdom....let it be"
Take the light
and you are free
for Terry - who gave me a second chance at friendship.
012209
quote from Paul McCartney Let It Be
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
I'm scared of silence
Lately, I distrust my thoughts
Because I don't like the voices in my head that find the confidence to speak up during the lateness of nights.
I always hear them whisper misery
An uninvited company that lacks the courtesy to find its way out.
On nights like these it hits me.
The only reason I keep replaying John Mayer
Is because when he sings he sings
about a common trouble.
And opens up for me to escape.
He descants in a melody that makes me bemuse the ugliness of myself.
Leaving me with an atlas mapped out with a road trip planned to a destination far from my current state.
Mayer leaves me numbed with talks of the ocean waves and train rides in Georgia
All escaping in his
soft tenor that beautify my afflictions.
When in reality nothing painful is beautiful
Nothing beautiful should ensue from agony
Purple and black fingerprints left on a woman's face should never be mistaken for finger paintings.
I'm not one to speak
For I lack the ability to handle my own complications.
Problems arising from all corners of my life have me centered in a hallow room compiled with letters addressed to myself.
Who are you becoming?
Why should I love you?
What makes you important?
Questions I still stutter upon when answering
They should be memorized by now but the inauthenticity of it has me living life a hollow.
A vacant in my own true skin.
But seems to find a home in everyone else's business.
I tell myself it's just a distraction.
We all need distractions from ourselves.
Leaving questions unanswered and feelings bare.
But soon to be left masked once again by the
Soft strings of the fender stratocaster Mayer caress on lonely nights.
While pouring out ballads of long loves and solitude he tells me that I'm perfect lonely.
And I believe him.
Though something is missing.
I believe him.
And I take it.
Besides the greatest flaw about being a human
Is the ability for one to feel [for everything].
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Poetry is song
to the music of the mind,
to the drumbeat of the heart
and lungs.
Set firm and fast at first,
but lilting away
into distant dreaming descants,
infused with tears
and laughter of angels,
who do not know what they say,
or what it will mean.
Or chaotic
messes brought
Together
by
Lines and spaces
and pencil traces
In night coloured
leather-bound books
But not bound
to the page for longer than
a moment.
Poetry is song,
Played a thousand ways.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
For nothing this wide universe I call,
My love is as a fever, longing still
'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.'
He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.
He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
Like to a mortal butcher bent to ****
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
But her foresight could not forestall their will.
The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill:
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed;
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
That all the world besides methinks are dead.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Two Verses in the Eternal Hymn
For Cate and Jack
Christmas 2023
From the foot of the Throne
A river flows out into all that is
And with it your music across the universe
To sing the happy beginnings of all things
To celebrate the holiness of being
Past
Dragons and dreams, the Mysteries of Joy
Galaxies of stars, the Mysteries of Light
An abyss of pain, the Mysteries of Sorrow
Eternal dawn, the Mysteries of Glory
Your music spirals and spins among the spheres
Among the orbits and spheres and great mysteries
Great mysteries of beings and things never seen
Your voices join with the songs of Creation
Your music slips into our atmosphere
To sing and ring among the rocks and rills
Voices of love singing joy and truth
Your gifts of beauty to humanity
You and your sweet voices, rare gifts of love
From the Throne of God to us on earth
And back again, music as light as dreams
And deeper than thunder from Olympus
Old Vainamoinen sings at dawn with you
Euterpe, Terpsichore, and Erato are your kin
Apollo tunes his lyre to you, and Pan his pipes
And Cecelia blesses all your works:
Hymns, descants, and carols, merry marches for the road
Bubble-gum tunes for the car radio
Sea shanties for work, and nonsense rhymes for fun
You pray them, play them, craft them all into place
Your music is a sacred offering to God
You sing it out into the universe
Where every note is an ornament forever
And you are two verses in the eternal Hymn
Dec 10, 2023
Dec 10, 2023 at 8:53 PM UTC