Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
vircapio gale Mar 2014
the Nephelaen mediatrix sings
fating an ambrosia synchrony of tones

she volves her telic tepals ripe:
areoles ensorcelled under alate nomes

she heralds petrichoric quench
with nova womb
to subtend violet ray

in stellar bloom, noema web:
sensate fontanels
in spite of dessication's wrench
are concresced atmospheric balms
of evanescent nervure, calyces
displayed to sky-crossed home,
unpillared and ovoid







.
'the nephelai (or Nephelae)
were the Okeanid nymphs of clouds and rain who rose up from the earth-encircling river Okeanos bearing water to the heavens' ( theoi.com ).
"The Nephelean Period"
is a perhaps outdated term used in solar or geologic timescales, to mark when solar nebulae emerge distinct from Giant Molecular Clouds. it ends when a proto-sun is formed.
mediatrix : a female mediator

volve : "consider" "roll about the mind"
telic: having an end or goal
tepal: contains both sepals and petals of a flower
areoles: (on cacti) are clearly visible bumps out of which grow clusters of spines, buds and branches
ensorcell: to bring under a spell
alate: winged
nome (nomos), in Greek music, originally ‘tune’, ‘melody’; the word was applied especially to a type of melody invented, it was said, by Terpander as a setting for texts taken from epic poetry, which could be played on the flute or on the lyre.

petrichor: the scent after long awaited rain, or the oil released after a drought's end
noema: an object of consciousness
concresce: to grow together
calyx: bot. the outermost group of floral parts, the sepals; anat. zool., a cuplike part.
ovoid: egg-shaped

my apologies for the obscure words. it's a vice and a penchant i'm learning to come to terms with. any thoughts are appreciated
alwaystrying Nov 2014
To partake of a strange feast where the price claims haughty
too, bits of sanity
or decline.

Courage must be the face to the lion
in a pool of fear
and recognize the unacceptable.

The scorpion waits, a grumpy nip the heel
going round, sprain in soft sand
dessication tripled, slip in butter.

The search via crumbs to secret root
underlining hefty conditions
undermining liberty.
Internal debate.
I will not cross the river
those boundaries in my mind
I can move across the desparation
not the dessication of my time

There's the threat
of another breaking dawn
Too late to contemplate
the all night mental storm

But al least there is one beast
That has kept me
in all night company

It seems the mocking bird
hurls threats to no one
as he flies by on the run

Just to remind me
poets are just one poem
from ever being done

He makes for
such poor company
I wish I had a gun
I wish I had a gun
I wish I had a gun .
Bye by birdie . Whose feathers line your nest . Fly by shooting .
KM Ramsey Jun 2015
apparently i wear my hesitation
my measured self control
in bold streaks of watercolors
across the pulled canvas of my face
but somehow that tension
the taut bounce of my shallow panorama
slides thinly by your
probing eyes poking at my weak spots
and waiting to watch me
shatter

search me
put the hidden words in quotations marks
and hit the return key
to query the google of my mind
whose only existence to you
is a retreating shadow
running past the wind
with a sonic boom of silence

it's easier to find something
when you have an idea where to look
and my subversive games
of smoke and mirrors
throwing my voice to a
different part of my body
the elegant distraction and the
final solution to my
nebulous existence
as a paper doll girl whose
amorphous two dimensional body
wears whatever
diaphanous primary color frock
the world demands to keep
it turning without hiccup
a sacrifice to the gods i have
foresaken and blasphemed
whose names i've taken in vain
and cursed with the most excruciating
fervor and
resolution

i want peace
which does not in fact live
in placating distraction
or hand waving while i'm
hemorrhaging from the
butchered wound in
my abdomen out of which
my secret shame seeks
to excrete that pheromone that
warns approaching creatures
that i am still
a wounded animal and
could snap at any moment
see red
then nothing

you can only help
a person so much when
every time they run
to your waiting arms
bleeding and broken
begging for absolution
or perhaps simply an
intercession for their muteness
and sutures of salvation
how do you help a person
who stands from the alter
with the transcendent certainty of
a religious experience
and yet still
pulls out those black wire stitches
while passing the last of the
empty pews
and the flickering flames
sending prayers up to an
empty firmament

i am the headlights on
the cars that follow in
solemn silence behind
the police escort
and the hearse
from church to finality
and a place in this world for eternity
a hole just my own
where peace is blackness of nothing
and the endless chatter
the bile whose acid
eats away at my brain
dries up and in its dessication
flies away in the arid winds
of terminal acceptance

you say you want the truth
but you're not like me
and you can't hide the pain
when i
hiding my fear
tell you that i need you
to leave
when all i want
is to keep your body pressed
infinitely close to mine
world without end
but my words fight to hold
the front line
and my canvas face is pulled
that much tighter.
the resolve is growing thin.
Andy A Aug 2019
What's there to say
Everyday the same
With a little difference
That you and I
Cannot see

A tiny flow
A stream that runs below
In the dark cavern

Hidden from the up above
In the bustle and hum of
Now

We don't see the loss
We're just a little lighter every day
And a little more dry

Love flows away
Jamesb Dec 2023
Having caused much pain
And upset to one I love
I looked long and hard
At me to find the root
Of my failing,

I cut deep and discarded
My ego my pride
And a host of other bad
Habits that accrued
Across the years,

And deep within me
I found an eight year old
Little boy with arms
About his knees,
Head down,

His tear streaked face
Framing a mouth that
Screamed silently in pain,
Heartbreak and
Loneliness,

So I looked within
That visceral version of me,
Cutting deeper than before,
And right at his heart
I found a budded rose,

At first glance
It was perfect,
But closer view showed
Dessication discolour
And paper thin petals,

But even as I watched
Your hand appeared,
Caressed the child
Then watered his
Withered heart,

And in an instant that bud Regained its lustre
And its carmine hue,
The petals spread to glorious flower,
The silent screaming paused

In wonder then delight,
I realise now there
Was no fault in me nor
My heart or view
I just needed watering

With love

From you
Sometimes  being loved is enough to heal even  the deepest wound
Denis Barter Jun 2018
A reflection in the mirror, seen in reversible review,
gives me cause to wonder, if I’ve found someone new?
For the bleary eyed persona, a ghostly manifestation
seems but an ancient relic, in advancing dessication.

Wondering on the person, stood there before my eyes,
reluctantly I’ve concluded, once all details were apprised,
that the image there reflected; and so very plain to see,
is a bona fide rendering, of an older, careworn me.

The face therein reflected, shows skin weathered tough,
but for ample indication to those who think him gruff,
the laughter lines etched deeply, regarded as the best,
are an ever needed asset, when for life one has had a zest!

Hair that once was bushy black, has thinned, turned to grey;
whilst still bushy eyebrows, grow whiter by the day.
Blue eyes though paled, from an earlier deep azure hue,
still possess a twinkle, when they’re looking back at you.

Standing in contemplation, many thoughts run through my head,
as I recollect on places seen, as well as what I’ve done and said,
and on the people met, who helped to shape the man you see.
Often the willing help from others, made life enjoyable for me.

At the twilight of my years, there’s much that I would do,
but years are quickly passing, and to tackle something new
is not an option.  For there is much that needs my attention
if I’m to set my affairs in order, as is my avowed intention.

I hope to ensure that the poetry I wrote - a passion chose
for me, will be orderly, when my days come to their close.
Only when I face my destined fate, with a conscience clear,
will I rejoice in thoughts and memories of those I hold dear.

Though looking glass reflections, allow an introspect view,
and portray a passing likeness, that may be physically true,
life’s lessons learned, which may have left lines upon my skin
leave but few signs of the inner man, that still resides within.

Rhymer.  June 1st, 2018.
Hira malik Nov 2018
Beloved, O beloved!!
These long tiring nights
And days act over and above
A tyrant
Like an eruption , above and beyond;
Explosive,
Seddimented in pieces, many and more
Shattered
And Alas! The irony is , forgetting so impossible,
Like a dessication of pain inevitable
When a row is piereced in flesh
You cant tame it, it lays on you like a lover
A very distraught lover,
Whose agony is beyond mountains
And whose thirst can never be quinched by seas or rivers!

— The End —