"emblems" poems
The diamonds shone like broken glass
Upon the midnight street
And all atop the walls were wet
Their white eyes glint & sleek
Then from afar a gnome appeared
An angel flashed on furry feet
The boulevard became a river
While waiting crowds began to quiver
I was in a motel watching
Whiskey in my hand
Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was born
~~~
Accomplishments:
To make works in the face
of the void
To gain form, identity
To rise from the herd-crowd
Public favor
Public fervor
even the bitter Poet-Madman is
a clown
Treading the boards
~~~
Cold electric music
Damage me
Rend my mind
w/your dark slumber
Cold temple of steel
Cold minds alive
on the strangled shore
Veterans of foreign wars
We are the soldiers of
Rock & Roll Wars
~~~
Whether to be a
great cagey perfumed
beast
dying under the
sweet patronage
of Kings
& exist like luxuriant
flowers beneath the
emblems of their
Strange empire
or by mere insouciant
faith
slap them, call their cards
spit on fate & cast hell
to flames in usury
by dying, nobly
we could exist like
innocent trolls
propogate our revels
& give the finger to the
gods in our private
bedrooms
let’s rather, maybe,
perhaps,
get ******* out in
the open, & by
swelling, jubilantly
Magnificently, end them.
12k
Trees in dark tunics
leaves reflect the pale moonlight.
The silver fur of the moon
extended claws gripping the dark
veins are stretched to a chilled red wine.
Its taste tingles on the tip of my tongue
to lick the white stains of the ambushed sky
to pluck the emblems with my teeth
and howl silently with the moon
nudging the dark space to a blushing white.
©Malintha Perera 2015
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
I will follow you
Down the alleyways of your mind
Lying under your sun
Meling into dreams
Left behind by a shadow
We are loves words
Floating in time
The adventurers of space
Touches emblems, enshrined
Never let it be said
We didn't care
For every fraction of day
Held together
This man and this woman
Looped by a golden bow.
Love Mary
For her Roger ***
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
130
These are the days when Birds come back—
A very few—a Bird or two—
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old—old sophistries of June—
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee—
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear—
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze—
Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake—
They consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!
5.3k
Rugged body hunches,
Impression of a humpback,
Spit blood more than saliva,
Straighten posture to reveal
Ghastly mold of ribcage,
Bones poke at the dermis,
Gasp, prickling oxygen,
Pierces respiratory system,
Flinch to agonizing pain
An hour of spasms at the most,
Wounds deemed trivial,
Famed hers walk around
To stitch the prized emblems
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
*blondes, brunettes and redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,
the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill
in my anguished mind
now hiding,
sing a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a fall winters-wind precursor
"once we green,
once we were renewal,
life everlasting emblems
once,
you were wee,
green uncaring and free,
presuming that you too,
were in possession of
life everlasting
your colors have changed as well,
endless is the process,
only slower than
a tree's scheduled maintenance,
moreover,
returning you to your first
crayon drawing youth
unlike us, an impossibility
we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you
never will
new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed and love our
cast shade cast
yet special are you the man,
poet who was chosen
to see and tell,
witness to our resurrection,
during our overlapping,
parallel continuum in time
when to the shade of hades
you physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves,
our perennial lives,
for-as-long-as-they-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came
and the colors
of your words
will be the colors
of a free life everlasting"*
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Inadequate to the task
Humbled by the enormity of our love,
The perfection of our joining,
Where are the words kept that sufficient
Honor and portray what we have achieved?
You seated, beside me by the bay, finally,
Two old adirondack trees side by side,
By the sheltered place you bequeathed me,
Where poems are raindrops, so numerous,
And you, if not the subject, the source.
The waves rolling in, mirror the
Fluidity of thy dancing,
Fluidity of the adaptation,
Two lives, now one bay blue colored,
The merging, the unification,
Many waves, but one bay,
The Bay of Us.
Yet so different.
We are cloud worshippers,
Does not the Skye's Tableau inconstancy,
Mirror our ever changing form, individuality,
Yet, one sky,
The Sky of Us.
So many times have I lain be-sided
Even as we this afternoon sit now a-sided,
Tears welling up, above and beyond control,
This man's steady nerves, constant on patrol,
Our secret open, visible, un-hided,
Your are my Magi
My Yogi,
i.am, your, obedient devotee, shaped to you please.
This is the birthday present my words present.
Words, unremarkable,
Except for the contentment
That lies within them.
Let me love you more,
Recklessly abandon norms,
Kiss you at the supermarket, at the opera,
Unashamedly, take you in my arms
Wherever wonderment and wandering lead us.
T'is so very hard to compose
When tears flow upon my writing tablet,
To wipe, blot them away, I refuse,
For tears are joyous emblems,
Salty badges of love,
All compliments of our complementary beings,
The Tears of Us.
The soaring music we gather in.
The shimmering sparkles upon the bay,
My gift of natural diamonds better, this day,
Than jeweled glitterati I hide in the refrigerator.
All this treasure, part and sparkle of
The Treasure of Us.
T'is truth,
I know not, forgot, your age nor care,
The day the time the year,
What matter they to me these artifice markers,
I weep carelessly, undone, overcome,
Every day, but this day, most, united joy.
Need-No reminder,
I am a survivor,
From a concentration camp
That slow programmed to destroy,
Perhaps the kindness you claim
As the hallmark of my fame,
An inadvertent gift, from the devil?
You shook my hand on our first meet,
Don't think, have I ever let go?
Let me be your driver, entertainer, your only poet,
Let me be whatever you need,
Even as now, I laugh-cry, your tissue carrier.
For t'is I who weeps and keeps
These tissues as part of our history.
You are the first,
Who has ever read
The Words of Us.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Defender
Fiesta
Focus
Zaphira
Vectra
Leon
Astra
Ibiza
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Trinkets
little collected emblems
voodoo figurines
gypsy gold
Blankets
small symbolic weapons
ancient memories
stories untold
Gather
find myself naked
caressing unforgiving ground
but the moonlight warms me
even in the rain
as I lay
Imperfect center to my holy ring
my treasures guarding
but passive
Crawling
crooked radius
Finger space my soldiers
to align with the stars
now gone from your forest green jewels
Zodiac calendar
Perception overruled outcome
The wind blows
I start again
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Whispers the heart, insisting and so soft,
"Life goes on. Death is not dying."
Faith, that is the message. Let His
will be done, however it works out.
Fears are there. Yes, they can consume.
They can strangle and inhibit the
very will to walk on. Ease them away,
He walks with you, soothing and firm.
We rumble through our eggshells,
rushing through buildings of steel.
Pushing, shoving, important in
our unimportance. Unbalanced.
We eat too much and love far
too little. Strain ours ears to
hear gossip and slander. Be
the image we pretend to be.
These are of such insignificance.
They are bottles of nothing, with
shaded glass. Emblems of issues
that are manufactured. Unfeeling.
The truth is in Him. When we
face trials of aggravations, tears
of lost hope, that is when we
need His care the most. Forgiven.
He has always been. He will
always be. He will glide the
care of the body if you give
Him the word. Yes, He answers.
So to Jesus, I appeal. I put my
trust and my fate. Though
blocked in fear, still I marvel,
that He is there for me. Amen.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
and just like that, she became invisible
like how humans are oblivious to the
beauty of flowers
yet we are so crazy over roses
her eyes are alluring like the daisies
white petals emblems her
pellucid heart
yet they bat an eye on her
and just like that, she wilted clumsily
as she was only a daisy in the field
of roses
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
disney films made me look for my own prince charming;
romantic how's and where's of our meeting,
clouded my little mind, even when i'm dreaming
though each day, chances are sinking
the stars had declined all my wishes upon them
perhaps i'm not destined to have golden emblems
but the heavens have given me a whole gem
not covered with silk and not found in a whimsical castle
waiting to be discovered, living with the gravel
too far from perfection, opposite of a man from a novel
was you.
you're no disney prince charming,
you didn't have the carpet to get me to the right direction,
either the thousand lanterns to guide me home,
the magical kiss to bring my soul back to its own,
for you are hope to fly my own carpet,
light my own lanterns,
kiss my soulless being,
a prince who inspires, and believes i can,
rather than change me because he ought to.
this is not disney,
this is my journey, and about you, supporting me from afar,
the same way as i do.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
Rising before instinct completes my sleep, rousing common sense out of bed,
I pack the car. It's so dark the moon is still drowsing.
Soon I am in the cool ocean, arms propelling me and a surfboard,
stomach submerged and chest free through white water splashes,
then crests breaking, then up and over their shoulders
to arrive at the very place where waves emerge from calm water.
At this hour there are only a handful of other dawn-patrol surfers, all Hawaiians.
Greeting with a smile of bright grace learned from the sun, and a cheerful How'z It?
brown glowing skin tattooed with small triangle patterns on strong arms, chests, backs,
emblems of kama'aina heritage and Aloha's honor.
A little talk story, sharing a laugh, and I sit up to take sentinal,
beginning the quiet meditation
searching the horizon for the sea's ever-changing intention.
Morning wakes color, with sleepy palms rubs away the world's hushed gray veil
revealing sky blue on royal aquamarine and palm-tree green silhouetting tropical canyon jade.
The mountain's gold-rimmed halo of mist is announcing dawn's imminent arrival.
She bursts over the ridge, arms showering the water with tiny pebbles of light
gold jewels skipping across the sparkling surface and turning silver.
It must be so beautifully curious from below, the whale's eye view here in their sanctuary.
First we see a mysterious dark shape, a nose, that morphs into an ever-expanding building,
that materializes into the entire magnificent whale suspended in our thin world
then arching over, she bursts the water, scattering dawn's sparkling treasure.
We surfers call with uncharacteristic exclamations, pointing in excitement,
So close we can feel the whale's contagious joy.
One Hawaiian woman slides off her board, to place her ear on the water in reverie;
hearing the Kahunas ancient Aumakua call.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
I SOUGHT a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.6k
The white dove has been
symbolic of abstract things.
I ask it to fly
far, put muscle on its wings.
Until recently the dove
atrophied inside
the skull. Now I’ve forced it out,
favoring strong emblems,
images too pure for doubt:
The Ark, the raven, the dove.
The raven flew the globe
but found no carrion worm.
Because of instinct
it was unable to confirm
any paradigm or thought.
Next the dove took flight
and, though it failed at first,
found a concrete
symbol to quench the parched Ark’s thirst:
one lonely olive leaf.
But even olive leaf
allows interpretation.
Each stronger symbol
creates its complication:
the skull, the Ark, leaf and bird.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more;
When a tear falls that, thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore.
On a round ball
A workman, that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, All;
So doth each tear,
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow
This world—by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine armes, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another’s breath,
Who e’er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other’s death.
1.5k
I
I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
II
What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the ***** of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.
III
Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving ****
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
1.5k
forgiveness
the empires silk wraps the parchment
blue and gold ribbon of such regal device
but this neat folded apparel
tangles in my mind
with fog of memories frame
door table tray
the parchment bears the blessings
but the ink is as black as his heart
cold as his intent
child i was
child no more
forged instrument misshapen
blunt
a single paper cup of jungle juice spilled
haphazardly on the clean lines
the parchment adorned with the
phrase and emblems of republic
stained with my child's mind
child i was
child no more
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
The stars so beautiful, filled with beauty and light,
Sparkling and shining so bright,
Up in the vast starry beautiful night,
Oh, what a beautiful wondrous sight…
The wolfs howl at the moon,
The stars are so beautiful, the night far from noon,
The beautiful night is starry while the air being windless and cool,
To anyone who never seen stars, this beauty will make the person drool…
A comet zooms above in the night sky,
Speeding so fast, up so high,
A bunny hops by, such a little cutie,
An owl hoots by me, maybe like me too, enjoying the beauty…
The grass sways from the breeze,
As I stare at the sky I freeze,
The stars are so beautiful, like little sparkling white gems,
It's the Almighty One's creation, and the stars are one of His beautiful emblems…
The night sky, full of galaxies and inspiration,
I stare in awe, at the Almighty One's creation.
The oaks below the stars, lit by the soft gentle light of the moon,
As I stare in wonder, I know I will fall asleep soon…
I watch how a few light purple clouds by the moon pass,
I smile, laying by my camp tent on the cool Spring grass,
My eyelids start closing slowly over my eyes,
Closing my view from the beautiful night skies…
I fall asleep gently and slowly, my dreams showing me paranomas of the sky,
The wolfs howl at the moon, a bunny munches on the grass, while the owl hoots and soars so high,
Seen clearly by the beauty above,
While I miss the view by sleeping like a happy warm dove…
-Mishka Wayz
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 11:39 AM UTC
This day was fused with difficulty and a newer sun
The only note this night can end on, is a bad one
In the rush I fell further from life, poor fortune seemed impaled
The crude white's new and improved hypocrisy had been scaled
A restless heart burns beneath these bones with a trembling sigh
As I'm identified, it hits like vesta when these loaned emblems tie
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
Our peaceful night sleeps soundly in a mesh of magic arrows
Awakens, looking into the seeking eyes of mankind
Feeling their great joy and bitter sadness flow
Into each breath
In kind
A delightful journey gleaming softly within a minute’s pause
Calmness laughing, lost inside a rolling tear
A gateway bursting with applause
Our peaceful night
Can sense
Our spirits here
Emblems alight and lie mirrored within the wakened night
Glory crowns the essence of our coming day
An outpouring of our feelings light
Night’s magic arrows
On their way
Mankind gazes in wonder at the splendor high above
Night wakens reaching out for their hands
Filling each soul with arrows of love
With each breath he breathes
And commands
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 8:30 AM UTC
I once visited the father of a soldier
who died, fighting a war quite far away.
And the words he spoke to me shall ring eternally,
so listen to the words he had to say.
Did you ever have a pal who was your hero?
A pal who meant the world and more to you?
Who conquered every dare and all your dreams would share,
he alone was the cause for all you do?
Did you ever have a pal who’d lift your sorrow?
Who by a smile could make sad moments bright?
He could make each pain and care somehow seem to disappear
and bring sunshine into the darkest night.
If you ever had a pal, like my pal,
then you know, when duty called, just how I feel:
That beneath my stead pride there’s sadness deep inside,
a heartache there that nothing seems to heal.
He said, “Dad, I’m much too young to be a hero.”
But, still he went in answer to his call.
“Dad I want to do all the things you taught me to.”
Then went away and gladly gave his all.
In my hands I hold the emblems of a hero,
these medals and a flag—red, white and blue.
And yet, far and gone, lies the body of my son,,
who died because his heart was brave and true.
But, Sir, I’d rather have a son than a hero.
I wonder if the world ever becomes
a place where people see a better way to be—
where men no longer sacrifice their sons.
Yes, I’d rather have a son than have a hero.
Yet, you hand me these ribbons and a flag.
Did you ever even see who you took from me?
Did you even know the trophy that you had?
I always knew he’d be brave and do his duty.
But, there was so much he had inside to give.
You said, “Be all that you can be; come join today’s army.”
Yet you couldn’t even give him time to live.
Sir, I’d rather have a son than have a hero.
And though I respect and honor this call you’ve made.
Yet your words can never hide the emptiness I feel inside;
nor these medals ever fill a hero’s grave.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 5:25 PM UTC
staring at the ceiling, counting the mosquito bites on my arm
there are sixteen
reasons why you left me but I can only remember the one that went unsaid
"you cannot fix yourself"
there is a constellation of scars on my hips
and I can see your face, hear your biting words in them
if I try hard enough.
maybe it's just a reflection of the moonlight,
or it's just one bad night. one of too many.
am I the insect stuck between screen and glass
trying to escape something shatterproof
when the more effort I put in, the more likely I am to die?
even the mosquitoes have become tired of seeing my blood
it fills the sticky night with a sour-sweet stench
of broken promises and lost lies.
but god,
I am the moth who only wants to get closer to the light.
you were my light.
and I'll leave the windows open all summer
as if maybe you'll crawl back in through them
I've broken the glass in all of them anyway
I've named sunrises after you
they too are supposed to be emblems of hope but only remind me of how broken I am
and it's funny
because I used to wish on every star that you'd understand
but now I just wish to be able to forget you.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
Waiting for the ferry
I found a piece of Delft, or so I thought,
Blue white and shining on the rock beach at St. John's,
Mixed it in with unfamiliar coins of Canada
Dreaming of a foundering ship,
The dish and how it might have looked
Stacked on all the others in a busy galley
Ages back when it and she were whole.
I walked along the rounded stones made slick with growth
And watched the tide sweep out so fast
It seemed the ocean raced to find its home.
You lingered by the picnic tables.
I saw you check your watch six times,
Wondered at your sharp fixation,
Your sense of past and future,
How it might survive me.
Later in the empty bar,
Amidst the dreaming roar of engines
And the splashing underneath our hull
I thought I heard you laugh but I was wrong.
You were huddled by a table
Peering pious in your half filled glass.
The laugh I heard came from a stranger.
A fisherman I came on later on the deck.
He pointed towards a far direction
Misting emblems of his home.
He said he missed his wife.
I envied him.
I was moving far from mine.
The closest thing to memory,
Those foreign coins
And small white fragments
Jostling close to silence
In my pocket.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC