"encrust" poems
Hush, lullay.
Your treasures all
Encrust with rust,
Your trinket pleasures fall
To dust.
Beneath the sapphire arch,
Upon the grassy floor,
Is nothing more
To hold,
And play is over-old.
Your eyes
In sleepy fever gleam,
Their lids droop
To their dream.
You wander late alone,
The flesh frets on the bone,
Your love fails in your breast,
Here is the pillow.
Rest.
6k
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.*
oh forget looking
for scapegoats
these days...
full blown schizophrenia,
happening,
all over the anglophone
world...
me?
i'm just looking
at the lampoons...
sorry...
lemmings...
and the English?
top the table in western
world...
they thought they'd be
bailed out by
the H'americans...
good luck rolling
that pin-ball...
not gonna happen...
they have their own ****
to deal with...
it could have...
but now it will never
work out, no anglophone
alliance bail-out plan...
it's a ******* farce...
it's a bogus in the bogie
in the ******* coalmine...
forget the canary...
**** i'm seriously flipping
the coin on phrases...
FDR contra DJT?
magic!
no... the politicians were always
going to place the card...
the joker... free-fall dance-loose
feet...
my bet is...
it'll fall flat on its face...
the eastern European Achilles
heel of the europhiles...
that's a supposition,
not a proposition...
or thereby, pre-....
but i do love being a spectator
of rare sport...
en masse schizophrenia...
a nation, divided...
what a load of ********
the English thought that their
anglophone alliances would
last, would encrust them in
a new globalization mechanism...
even the ******* Icelandic people
think they're European...
what did the English think?
just east of Las Vegas?!
an island surrounded
by a massive prehistorical lake
"facility"?!
no one is looking for scapegoats
these days,
there's no one to blame...
mea culpa, mea culpa...
these days?!
everyone is looking for the lampoon
brigade!
- and let me tell you...
mea culpa mea culpa...
no one is looking for a scapegoat
worth kristallnacht;
people are looking
for a lampoon...
or...
karmesinrotherznacht,
the night of... broken hearts;
broken, crimson hearts.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
Orange clouds of crystal and
halos of gossamer dust,
regal and iridescent
in all of their shine encrust.
The crown of dominion
a minister of the skies,
surfaces integrity
in winds it's vaporised.
Striking down in lightening
his electric charge berates,
a celestial karma
sacred justice gravitates.
Casting shadows of chaos
with red blemishes of rage.
His sceptre in thunder bolts,
universal he's a sage.
©Jacqui Slade
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Evergreen ponds of mint,
Circulating everchanging scents of space.
The busy-bustling bees of the scorching sun,
Their ebony and mustard bodies catching the eye,
The sweet-seeping smell of fresh honey harvest.
Tangible scent of spring touched grass and moss,
Carried on the arms of wise wind,
To encrust the mind and body's senses.
Continuous dance of trickling-trickles,
Born from that same stream,
Of August warmed water,
Clear as your gray eye's shadow.
Do you remember...
That night of an August full moon?
When we bathed in that same stream,
Our naked bodies silver under the moon's touch.
That August moon,
We shared our dreams and desires,
My fingerips wrote poetry on your skin,
Your lips spun silk against my cheeks.
That night,
So long ago,
Now feels like only yesterday...
Can you still remember that night?
My fingertips?
Your lips?
Though the deep ocean is your new home,
The jelly and dolphins your new companions,
The growing coral your new body,
Can you still remember?
I believe you can,
I hope you can,
But just incase,
The undulate movement of the ocean,
Has washed away your memory...
This flower is for you!
It is a wild scotchbroom,
Mustard yellow, like the bees of the scorching sun.
It is my wish that the ripples of the flower,
Once touching the water's surface,
Will reach your ears,
And echo the memory to you.
That night of the August full moon,
When we bathed in that same stream,
Our naked bodies silver under the moon's touch...
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
The birds hang dead, paired, on the hook.
Male and female, man and wife, are strung
Up in a brace of everlasting love,
Still warm. But time will soon freeze over
Freshening blood, encrust the opened eye,
Congeal warmth. And what remains is this:
A neck-to-neck unbreaking dull embrace,
The love gone cold, unbeating hearts kept close,
Reciprocating wounds, an unforgiving stare,
The silence in a breathless, parching throat,
A half-bent wing, refusing to enfold -
Time will wear love’s fingers to the bone.
Then bullet-hardened bodies take their course
And undo softly with a rising rot.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC
A fire of desire lays behind the smile
Your fist prominent with lost miles
Tasteless passion that oscillate piles
A cold flame embodies the draught
Torn embers that glows and downs
Faded colours that distract and frown
A blunted clarity try and blow itself
Dismay adorned to encrust destitution
Distractions paraded in devolved arrays
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 2:39 AM UTC
we rove in shabby clothes
in the splendorous groves
of our night kingdom.
we tread unkempt beds
than rather lay our heads
or make love
in them.
we darken the closest star
we further the farthest
more lost, than
found.
we groom the mane of our lying.
not for the lack of trying
the truth...
but more, for the harm -
done allies
in a war of thumbs
in a Serengeti
of our imminent
demise.
we poker face.
we monopoly grey
where our pink blood
is enough.
we trouble the rust.
we slink and encrust
where the oil slick cuts
a more striking
disfigure.
we toss sharp dice
for dull games. blood mites
for dust devils
in broken
chains.
we retreat from rings
that ferry ending gloom
to better yes the no of things
too maybe
to true.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Suspended in mid-air, hung like symbol in a square
The vines encrust and entangle
Symmetry defined: just a touch of mastermind
Near enough to be made out
Yet so far, far and away.
Step out to affix the eyes, gears turn amid the cries
Of morals gone and others come
The day has turned upon the one.
Warrior and sage accrue the wealth of none
But their own; forgotten, and alone.
Fallen upon the grass, the leaves they shield at last
The warrior and sage from cannon blast.
We hung suspended in mid air, angels and tears
Our arms linked as though we, one.
The illusion of unity was cast
Like a die cast upon chessboard
The pieces all awry
There's no chance at play here, either win or die.
The light hung like spent shells
Crackle and pop and fall to earth.
Aid the cries of doom and despair
Impending end chills the air.
Though were your plan to cheat the gods there really is no need
Eye divine sees all, even undone deed.
Clandestine eyes espied the crimes
Before ever crafted in a mind.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
.
Oh! Fragile martyr man--
your word play is so electric.
Therapy pulses magnetic
power
to your malignant
deformities.
Death becomes
your golden ticket
to enchantment.
The freedom revolution
evolves
from a badly broken,
bleeding humanity.
Certain
faces simply
whisper power
which question the spilled--
blood of thousands
on a daily
basis-
Another cliche war is
refilling the inkwells
of the blank page,
starving artist.
Delicate tragic fairy tales remembered--
Layers of rust
encrust the tick and the tock
all throughout the grinding
gears of the clock.
Paintings of the Thinker
sit thinking in the
keenest calculable clarity.
The dreamers of darkness
bathe in the cold,
blinding sparks
of falling starlight.
.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
i will love you
until my heart pumps so hard that my veins burst through my skin and attach themselves to the mattress, spreading across the walls and feeling for your body in the darkness
i will love you
until gravity becomes old fashioned
we'll wear it as vintage
falling into each other
all over again
for old time's sake
i will love you
until we explode in mini supernovas under the scrutiny of God's microscope
and our dust fragments tumble,
then settle snugly,
spooning on His bookshelf.
to encrust the covers and begin another story
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Enliven a straw
and stride in jeans
that herd afore
this clothing mall
while hoofs grill today
will encrust visceral might
with orient of fascination now
amuse its preponderance
with only water engulf
her captivating lore again.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 8:55 PM UTC
I was in tomb
Engraved with
Beauty I need to
find my way out
Out of the crystal gem
That enchant me
I am in your cocoon tomb
My tombstone needs to be rolled
So I resurrect at the sight of light
That encrust me in the quiet void
I need to encrypt my name in your mind
To unleash the rain in your heart
As I taste the buds that lies in you
You entice me in your tomb
As I stare at you life is beautiful
Written by
Martin Ijir
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
She hints at the resemblance of his face
Thick intoxicating colors a medium
Lumps of grey possibility scattered around & ready
Creative flicks splatter the paint cloths
Complete rest and silence fill the space but for
Steady breathing in the background of
Determined, dashing eyes,
Searching for the right place...to alter
Her fingers work the sleepy clay
As he remains in her mind's eye
Pondering, imagining, constructing
Perspiration thinks down her neck and temples
Damp, sandy gloves of medium encrust her strong fingers
Cool and grainy beneath her hands
Clicking her tongue thoughtfully
Hours like minutes pass by in numbers
The light begins to fade
She continues deeply thinking and kneading
Till the dawn light breaks
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 10:07 PM UTC
we're all ******* with the fables
of remembrance we ascribe mythology to,
not to gods, but to men preceding us;
and our remembering comes with
shortcoming of pardoning bankers;
so why bother, mythologising man
when the gods are brought before
the altar? i rather mythologise gods
that mythologise men:
to be discrete, unlike the greek poets
i encrust the gods with morality:
þᛖᚱ þᛖᚱ...
þᛖᚱ þᛖᚱ...
þᛖᚱ þᛖᚱ þᚱᛖᚾ ᛞᚨ ᚢᛚᛖᛖ
(ther ther...
ther ther...
ther ther, thren da ulee)!
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
I. Used to know you well ,
We used to cook fish by the sea .,
and chat ,
and laugh for what seemed like hours .
Breakfast as the sun rose ,
the waves crashed ,
upon the shore until they could be heard no more .
My words just resemble puff clouds now that just sail by ,
and now everything I do just becomes a more
Complicated form of boredom .
Where Sea Eagles made their nests ,
their talons now lie encrust in Neolithic tombs . For,
What follows me at night ,
Keeps its distance at dawn .
My metal gods goad me to become God like ,
and spit in my face when aragance calls .
For in thirty thousand years when I. am dust
And Archeolagists turn me into an antiquity ,
Angels will still be singing your praises ,
their joyful song untold ,
.
How our friends don't listen ,
and the bad shepheard steals
from their love feasts ,
Takes and does not put back .
The Suns setting ,
soon it's light will fade ,
Darkness will encapsulate the Suns Ray's again .
Say a prayer for the dying ,
Say a prayer for the lost
For in daylight the heart beats
For it's in its light that Christ is found ,
Sleep well my bleeding soul .
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
AGUILAR
But a happy few
Broke from our cages and were spared for slaves,
Within the warlike clutch of Na Chan Can.
My freedom have your wax and honey bought.
One stubborn soul, Guerrero, stays behind.
CORTÉS
And with slave’s ransoms, we must rescue him.
AGUILAR
He will not come.
ALVARADO You must mean “could not,” man.
What exile, broiling in the pits of hell
Is tossed a rope from heaven and will not come?
Your Spanish rusted in these humid airs.
AGUILAR
These Mayas have seduced him to their cause.
When I confronted him, he spoke to me:
“I am a wartime chieftain, and their judge,
And see how lovely are my wife and sons!”
Three handsome half-castes nestled at his hip.
“You go,” he said, “and may God go with you.
But black tattoos have spiraled round my eyes,
And broad, thick discs now pierce my ears and lips.
Would Christians welcome one so scarified?”
CORTÉS
God only scorns the scars of souls.
OLMEDO Well said.
AGUILAR
His crabbed wife waved in my face and spat:
“What grimy scarecrow dares provoke my lord?
Shove off!” But our Guerrero caught my arm.
“I’ve warned our Mayas of Castile,” he hissed.
“If Spanish visitations will be suffered,
The scabies of their ‘culture’ will erupt,
And Europe’s slow, inexorable flow
Must soon encrust and case these florid lands
As running wax will coat a candlestick.
Then must I trim Death’s wicks.”
CORTÉS What can that mean?
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
Tonight words couldn't rhyme anymore
Phrase cut to the deepest sore
Since my cup of coffee left, oh mi amore
I lost someone that I really adore
I tried chasing her cometh prompt enough
That I forget she's also a fragile stuff
To win her heart the poet tries
Engrave letters through her shining eyes
Unexpectedly she's into stalactite cover
That came with the thought, "how to encrust her over"
I'm just a one of the star lover
That only brag respect and undying manner
In the end, I realized our differences
Became a hindrance and torn of roses
While I'm just a stone rocky sepulchre
Who shameless love her
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC