"elisa" poems
~ Aurora Borealis
Under the arch of a starry sky
With a temperature well below zero
I touched your soul with my warm hands
Like an round aura, you reflected the universe
Of our love...
A labyrinth of roads that lead
In stardust, your thoughts whirl as
Small particles, and with pure reflection
My Aurora Borealis you're so beautiful, robust
And longing…
I take you into my warm cabin
Where we drink hot chocolate
The icicles are in your unshaven beard
I find you charming with your red hands
I'll warm you up…
The cold wind makes cracking our wooden hut
And along the windows shrilled the sound
In contrast with our warm fireplace
The crackling of the wood is divine
I look at you…
My Aurora Borealis, you are so handsome
With your thick winter coat still on,
As purple and green sparks reach our
Living room, where your dark hair glistens
I kiss you…
It will never be really dark
In days of love, where light shines
And see your reflection sparkle
Where I could rest by your presence
I am with you…
~ Elisa Laura
© 2012 E. L.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds
See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
And ermines white:
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
Bay leaves betweene,
And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete Violet.
Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face
Like Phoebe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:
Her modest eye,
Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like but there?
I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my Goddesse shines;
And after her the other Muses trace
With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
To the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.
She shal be a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
With Gelliflowres;
Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine
Worne of Paramoures:
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies:
The pretie Pawnce,
And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art
In royall aray;
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
Eche one her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:
And if you come hether
When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.
4.4k
A collaboration between SG Holter and Elisa Maria Argiro
Hesitating here, silent edge of this dark forest,
I look beyond me, warm in the white fog.
Seeing your heart, now residing deep within
the ancient wood, is to know it is blessed, loved.
*Silver tongue resting now in golden silence.
Palms of soul upon moss and brittle bark.
Animal song; scent of beasts approaching unafraid.
Fierce peace. The opposite of a machine.*
In the rising sap of silent trees around us,
our deeply beating pulses listen, dance,
smiling kisses at the shining stars, new planets.
Eyes open, anima and animus press tightly
And distance is no more.
*"What language is Yours,"
I ask the still growing giants of
Green.
"Silence and its sister tongues
Such as leaves dancing with the
Breeze," they reply within the
Gap between soft sounds and
Softer ones.
So we speak through breaths
Exchanged, of nothing.
Two souls afloat upon the stream
Of Union with All.
What is Cosmos,
But "home"?
Never a visitor.
Never a stranger.
Nowhere has anyone ever been
Lost, or
Away.*
Humming your essence into my veins,
in tune with the wordless languages
of green lives and wind, listening
among delicate flowers, sleeping here
on the forest floor, wakeful and awaiting
the next sound of your voiceless voice,
wind words blowing
through my long, curling hair,
feeling the intention of your
untouched touch,
at home, just being.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:48 PM UTC
A collaboration between Elisa Maria Argiro and SG Holter.
Dear feather. You fell on my heart.
I keep you on my person now; pocket held;
An eternal companion.
As beautiful as you, I remind my
Thoughts to be.
I wake up as Buddha every day.
Peace is the corner stone of my breathing.
Dear Last Crescent Moon,
adorning Lord Shiva's brow,
smiling toward Morning Star
enjoying her sweet presence
in clearest predawn light.
She smiles too, drifting into feathery sleep.
Birdless flight, unclenched, un-
Clung to.
With this dew drop in my palm
I need no ocean to swim in.
How can Life's castle, with its wars and
Tragedies, hide within its
Towers of
Noise such quiet chambers?
Paper sails, bamboo, emerald waters.
Single feathers rest even when
Airborne.
From your outstretched palm,
sweet taste of morning touches
my tongue, oceanic dew drop
sharing itself across floating time.
An offering holding the last shining
starlight of this new morning. Drifting
now through limitless space,
finding words in our common language
on your yellow paper sails, we gaze down
from these towers of our ancient dreams,
emerald water below us waiting to catch
the falling feather.
Dear insight.
Light as the wind itself, you
Floated; fell on my heart.
Merged with heavy memories
Like paper balloons rising;
Tsunami of kamifusen
Render my whole being
Weightless.
Third-Eye-Hindsight sees me
Remembering nothing with
Bitterness.
One or a hundred lifetimes
Wandering.
Finally now,
Even waking hours feel like
Dreaming.
Dear Wisdom, Guardian Planet,
Buddha's radiance shining.
Thousand-Petaled Lotus
is now your own effulgent mind.
Smiling, eyes closed, feeling the
glowing kamifusen of magenta,
scarlet, turquoise, and yellow
floating above us,
we swim so deeply, diving down
into these warm emerald waters,
winking at the luminous fishes
dreaming all around us.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
La mujer que tiene los pies hermosos
nunca podrá ser fea
mansa suele subirle la belleza
por totillos pantorrillas y muslos
demorarse en el *****
que siempre ha estado más allá de todo canon
rodear el ombligo como a uno de esos timbres
que si se les presiona tocan para elisa
reivindicar los lúbricos pezones a la espera
entreabir los labios sin pronunciar saliva
y dejarse querer por los ojos espejo
la mujer que tiene los pies hermosos
sabe vagabundear por la tristeza.
1.2k
he slammed his cup on the counter
not to get anyone’s attention
though his cup was empty
I couldn’t stop staring at his eyes
of course they were bloodshot
and of course he stank of nicotine
and of truth that he said could not be found
in the bottom of that coffee cup or bottle of gin
though he ****** up both like…
hell, I can’t compare it to anything
and he would think a simile was a waste of words
he told me of a lover he once had, Elisa
with hair so long she sat on it
and a thirst as ravenous as his
which led her to an alley in South Chicago
where the ***** or the H put her to sleep
for good, and how he buried her in Peoria
in a hard freeze, beside her brother
who got killed in Phu Bai, by “friendly fire”
but Bukowski laughed through his tears
when he heard that **** “friendly fire”
and he filled his glass again,
with Bourbon I guess--I wasn’t at Elisa’s
numb mother’s house that day
and when he lost another ****** lover
to a drunk driver, he didn’t say anything about irony
just said, **** it hurts to be close
and he didn’t trust this happiness ****
because it didn’t last, but pain, hell,
you can count on that ******* and if he leaves,
you can make some up on your own…
the waitress filled our cups to the top
so there was no space for the cream
I sipped slowly to make room
he took a swig that had to scald his tongue
but I could not tell, for he was already on the death
of lover number three, sitting there with me
waiting for him to stop the foul flow of truth
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
One million dollars in between her fingers,
Chipped blue nail-varnish.
A cigarette; a tired frowning mouth.
Black denim jeans.
A petrol station, expensive perfume on her neck.
A flower patterned halterneck, a bottle of liquor.
The faded sun hides behind cloud bodyguards.
The woman is alone at midday,
The breeze is cool, the alcohol is sweet, her tears are hot, the mascara runs black.
She's tired; is she lonely?
She's lost, but a lone hunter.
The girl is beautiful, mid 20's with dark rolling hair and freckles.
The girl is tragic.
She wipes her eyes and leans back against the red brick wall, half concealed in shadow.
She eats an apple.. takes of her worn leather sandals,
Sits on the hot dirt, then the rainclouds come.
Rain falls and chills her clothes and skin.
She applies pale pink lipstick and calls a taxi from the payphone.
......
White peonies, 300 or more.
Dark oak coffin.
A lady in a grey fur coat, an embroidered handkerchief.
Tears, blonde hair, the smell of hairspray.
A young couple with dark eyes and bronze skin, their hands grasped.
'True Colours', a male pianist, stained glass, high ceiling, arches.
Loneliness.
Heartache.
Loss of friendship.
Aching.
Hopeful,
Fingers crossed.
Will love enter and lightning strike some wonder into the girl-woman's life?
.......
She holds her sister's cold porcelain-white hand, stops a moment to take in the tattoo of a shallow in black ink.
Elisa,
Gone.
29 years old.
Always one year between them but there might as well have been 20.
It's been four months since they met for coffee out near
the motorway where Helen was working at the time.
A golden locket; Helen places it around her sister's slim neck.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
*My very dear friends and wonderful, international tribe of poets:
When I first joined you all last August, I was in a time of deep solitude, culturing inner silence.
It became an ideal time to make real progress with my writing.
The part I had no idea about then, and that has become such a treasured part of my life, is the growth and blossoming of new friendships with many of you!
On June 2nd, 2016, just over a month ago, I felt to open back up to the world around me.
After all that immersion in transcendental bliss consciousness, life began presenting me with beautiful new opportunities, which has in turn lead to the most fantastic job I have yet performed, in which I am able to express and employ all of my particular set of talents and abilities.
Hence, then, my long absence, and my enormous, growing admiration for those of you who have families, jobs, and also contribute excellent poems here!
May the force be always with the poets, the writers, the thinkers, the artists... all the good and sincere well-wishers of our dear world family, and of our precious Mother Earth.
Blessings and light to us each and all,
Elisa Maria Argirò
(I have just re-written this poem that speaks to my present frame of mind, and thought to offer it again in this context. ~ EMA 2016)*
Eyes of Light
Momentarily, two eye-shaped
places in these thick grey clouds
stared directly at me, and there it was:
"Always be truthful.
Always be kind."
Just that.
A reminder.
Slipping down into the place
beyond all words,
feeling knowingness
seeping
into my bones,
residing in quiet bliss,
at home
in my own authenticity.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
her parents would have nothing to do with the z,
naming her Elisa Beth
which few got right in her 65 seasons, for their habit
molded an EliZabeth every time
we presume it mattered not to Elisa, Elisa Beth, because she was
born blind and deaf
her record of birth got it right, but her social
security card did not,
the checks were cashed by caretakers, who cared not
whether the letter snaked or zagged
her parents' obits also claimed they were survived by
an only daughter, EliZabeth
when she "met her reward," some two years past
there was no legacy in print
save a death certificate, which again blasphemed
her appellation with the alphabet's final figure
but on her gravestone, curiously, she was Elisabeth once more,
though what flat, mute slab could even such a score?
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Treasure is but a wanderer's lust
seeking utopia amongst the cosmic stars
it's year 2025, humanity's golden age of technology,
and a little white spaceship sets off to colonise Mars
nicknamed Nova 2, she boasts twin light-speed thrusters
polarised windscreens and a body of pure ceramite -
with a whoosh and a deafening bang
she smashes the sound barrier and streaks through the night
[#WHAM! BAM! FLASH!#]
at twenty-two hours they pass the moon
avoid a cluster of meteorite and space debris,
venturing deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness
their minds awestruck, their weary souls free
faced with a darkness that was un-shiftable, heavy
the danger of this mission increasingly daunting,
the longer they ignored their fears
the more the alien wilderness became haunting
what if they suddenly stopped dead
hit a snag or ran out of power?
They only had limited supplies
and the absent sun grew hotter and hotter by the hour
with the silence incessant
the sound of their own voices was obtrusive, grating,
food disgustingly vile, water going warm,
pressure steadily rising, there were concerns of the pilot fainting
--// "CALLING ELISA STARR TO THE CABIN PLEASE." //--
Elisa Starr was the cabin's dutiful cleaner
she'd clear away the astronauts ******* and occasionally mop up their sick -
for most of the crew had adapted to the lack of gravity
alas a few individuals hadn't been as quick
only 3 months in and the air had already grown stale
smelling of faint excretion and sweat,
aching and tired, she was always wiping down the interior windows
as the condensation steamed them up wet
what was the point in coming to space to slave away
when she could just do it on Earth;
once a valued member of society, a highly respectable mother of three,
surely this gruelling slavery she didn't deserve?
-//-----//-
The glowing red sphere of Mars approaches,
their destination finally (finally!) in range -
Earth was dying and this is a chance for us to start again
but isn't it already clear that we'll never change?
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
“**Poetry seems to perform hypnosis, the found rhymes and assonance and anaphora enacting an enchantment, a bewitchery; it seems to be giving subconscious advice. Get ready! You must change your life.”
Elisa Gabbert is the author of five collections of poetry, essays and criticism, most recently “The Unreality of Memory & Other Essays.**”
~~~
Tue Jan 2024, 2023 8:33am
<>
*Or it may not,
but know, core know, say it out loud,
write down by hand in pen,
this poetry thing
is addicting
and dangerous*
*Sadly,
I am an addict,
Not a recovering one,
for the infection
has no cure,
no vaccine,
and amputation
does not help*
*Sometimes, for a time,
it goes deep,
it is living while you believing,
and disbelieving
sometimes, for a time,
it got bored and travelled on*
Not how it works
*almost every sub surfaces,
the innocuous are not innocent,
a quick retort, an unfocused hazed memory
trips you up
and down on the sidewalk
a familiplace,
you return/go*
and back on Boogie Street,
no need to find a dealer,
they find you
and the new curse word of modern times,
“use your words!”
fates but does not sate,
and you think to yourself,
the quieter time was fine,
but this pleasuring release,
the bewilderment
the urging and the purging
of poem after poem after poem
is the hell you love.*
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 10:37 PM UTC
the missing accents (in a poem composed in French)
~for Elisa Maria Agiro~
are neither missed nor lost,
are neither essential nor essences,
for the heart of the poem dazzles!
for the life well dreamed, dazzles!
the simplest truth needs no spices,
life, it is glorious, the glorious spark
of god, living and breathing within us,
no matter the language, no matter
the accent, that is our mission!
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 4:32 PM UTC
An uncanny 60 degree afternoon.
Light generously pours itself in through the bathroom window.
Smoke dances around her, as everything should. She takes a drag.
"I haven't done this in ages," she says, in a serene voice we haven't heard in ages.
"the smoke is prettier."
What was prettier was the Victorian structure that once stood by the window. She glances sentimentally at the sacred remains.
But now she has more room to breathe, now she has light.
An illuminated limb brings itself to a pair of carnation pink lips.
She takes another drag.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
The older I get the more I question whether I have ever truly loved someone.
A year ago, I would have said I did. I stumbled upon this intoxicating feeling of being found. Seen even. ACCEPTED. I saw him as my savior, rescuing me from my demons lurking in the shadows.
It was beautiful the way he looked at me, all knowing. It threw me to my knees. He knelt with me, kissing every indiscretion and ugliness. Praying this would never go away, I willingly surrendered my soul as he sensually sang his love for me.
With each refrain, I found myself converted. Obliviously, giving away my pearls to swine.
Like with every mere mortal, deception is too hard to keep hidden. Shattered with the reality of his facade, all that surrounded me were the demons I was running from.
My fears of his sins confirmed I had been rejected in my most vulnerable state, leaving me with nothing but shame.
A year later, I sometimes think of him and his silver tongue. I think of the flowery lyrics he lured me with and one line. This one line that led me like a lamb to the slaughter, "I would watch grass grow with you, Elisa."
I no longer question why I followed him, because I know.
His soul was broken like mine, just in different places. And as we held each other for redemption, his jagged edges left me bleeding.
Did I ever really love him?
That's the thing with false gods and reckless believers; you love what you think you know: deliverance.
Did I ever really love any of them? Or, did I love the promise of Heaven?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
For some designers, fabric is the starting point of their collections. For others, it’s their initial sketches. But for Edda Gimnes, it’s neither. Or actually both.
The Norwegian born, London College of Fashion graduate begins by creating graphic drawings executed with her left hand though she is right-handed, and which possibly adds to their naïve charm. Blown up across canvas or reworked in fur, these drawings, inspired by an eclectic collection of found vintage photographs and objects, animate her living fashion cutouts. While this approach earned her more trouble than praise as a student, it has now paid off, earning her the 2016 Designer for Tomorrow title, sponsored by German specialty store chain Peek & Cloppenburg and its online shop Fashion ID, and this year under the patronship of Alber Elbaz.
Although Elbaz, who is recuperating from pneumonia, was not allowed by his doctors to fly to Berlin for the June 30 DFT show held during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week Berlin, he was nonetheless most perceptibly present. Jury members all remarked how his hand — and his eye — could be felt in the cull of the first 15 finalists. Filmed the night before the show in Paris, his video welcome to the five finalists and the audience couldn’t have been more personal.
Watching the live-stream of the show, and together with the eight member jury board choosing the winner, Elbaz said he saw a lot of potential in Gimnes. “She captured my imagination and I’m keen to find out how her talent will evolve,” he said. The young creative will soon be meeting Elbaz in person, a trip to Paris to meet the designer the next step in the one-year sponsorship program.
Design competitions, like wine, have their good years and bad years, and this year’s DFT crop was especially strong. The other finalists included David Kälble, whose cross-cultural South African-inspired collection mixed fur trims and cable tie fringes; Elisa Kley’s ultra linear compositions; Marc Morris Mok’s geometry in motion (and Sponge Bob footwear) ideas, and Ancuta Sarca’s plasticized fashion wardrobe.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
.*mmm... yeah... that time when i was paranoid about my neighbour killing my cat, and when i went into a cemetery and hacked off a slab of a grave? that time? ugly? mmm... matti... my my... which part? dating? is that like... an english "thing"? can we just bypass the whole fiasco and dive right into the *** no? good... well... with so many freedoms allowed to govern women, who subsequently tend to want to tame governing man... how about... you tell me what to do, once you hand-cuff me? oh... right... well... here's to the guillotine... anti-immigration... the rights of bulgarian prostitutes... or... whatever you feel like: making up your mind about.*
masochism... not listening to the radio...
and turning on
the youtube socio-political commentary...
when...
Ashley Elisa
could have met Economic Invincibility.
me?
fold, poker, down,
and a sing-along...
with a fiddler on the roof staged
take on being amused...
from the petty jew...
to akin a king solomon...
well: neither of the two could
be held in equally high esteem...
could they?
but's that's my variant of
masochism...
turning off the radio brimming
with song,
and instead...
(jerking off doesn't seem
as bad)...
listening to "advice"
on the youtube.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 10:53 PM UTC