"ensconced" poems
1. your precious smile,
that never failed to shine;
a heaven-sent beam,
that made my heart your realm.
2. your tenderness,
that gave me bliss;
how could someone be
like you, so dearly?
3. your good vibes,
that surpassed all tribes
in giving off the positivity
i need for my stubborn reality.
4. your talents,
that awakened everyone's hearts;
you are my significant inspiration,
you give life to my life's ambition.
5. your humility,
that's filled with sincerity.
while everyone else is toplofty,
you remained lowly.
not everyone as wonderful as you,
could show meekness too.
6. the happiness you shared,
at times when smiling is something
i never dared;
darling, it meant everything.
7. for your meaningful silence,
that gave me a better comprehension.
although your stillness was tense,
i knew in my heart it was never a rejection.
8. for your music,
that never halts to flourish.
music, your depiction of aesthetic;
through you, the melody will never tarnish.
9. for being your genuine self,
you gave me potency to do the same.
shamming is no longer something i'll play, for you taught me how to
end that witless game.
10. for bringing me daily sunshine,
for setting the moon & the stars aligned;
my everyday became better,
and i will treasure you forever.
there are way more reasons
on why i love you for real.
through the passing seasons
i could slowly & slowly reveal
and show you how i truly feel.
as time passes us by,
i would no longer hesitate
and keep my sentiments ensconced.
through the coming weeks, months and years,
as long as we have all the time
i would dauntlessly lay out to you
that the way i feel for you is true.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
The great hiway of dawn
Stretching to slumber
pouring out from her greedy
palms a shore, to wander
Hesitation & doubt
Swiftly ensconced
O Viking, your women
cannot save you
out on the great ship
Time has claimed you
Coming for you
~~~
And I came to you
for peace
And I came to you
for gold
And I came to you
for lies
And you gve me fever
& wisdom
& cries
of sorrow
& we’ll be here
the next day
the next day
&
Tomorrow
~~~
There’s a belief by the
Children of Man which states
all will be well
Search on man, calm savior
Veteran of wars incalculable
greed. Search on man, calm savior
God-speed & forgive you
morning-star, fragrant
meadow person girl
13.2k
each time her bare front
is full with illumination
she is defined by the mystery
of infinite black behind her
and at her most enlightened
is dappled with caters and scars
ensconced in darkness
lined by an aphotic slivered edge
shadow speaks
most deeply
of the ways
in which
she moves
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
I opened a door in the cosmos
and was swallowed, ensconced
by the darkness that followed.
Euphoric,
there you were
Phantasmagoric and sidereal;
I find I'm beside myself.
Come along and freefall with me
At the end of times
O'er the cliffs of nigh
We'll aspire to fire into spirals of nebulous unknown.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
As the sun sets
and melts -
a deep orange -
into the blue vastness
yet another
weary day
dies
and a void
creeps into me
and fills
my heart.
I think of home :
I think of you
and
the sky
blushes a faint red.
The birds
are home-bound
restless to be ensconced
in the warmth
of their nests,
the turbulent sea
has come to a stand-still
with her pacified waters
resting lightly
against the
broad, brown chest of the shore.
The traffic
trudges at a
snail's pace
as hordes of vehicles
bang on to the road
with an
air of urgency
that gets
more pronounced
with the
incessant honking
as the city
rushes back home
and my dear heart
returns to the
heaviness and hope
that accompany
my wait
for you
for home....
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
A forgotten tale, ensconced in stone,
A murmered doubt, said all alone,
I preen my ears, for these little secrets,
Smothered in their prime, yet blazing with heat,
I long to know them, those long lost legends,
The forbidden stories, with unfinished ends,
For I seek the weapon, to make all enemies cower,
Hidden atop that chest, perched in the highest tower,
And so I search, through the witches hour,
I search and find secrets, the only true power.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
Post-azure, cloud splashed sky,
washes with the suns descent,
breaking into melodies of sunset.
Fracturing into a blush,
the richness of the spectrum
makes itself known.
On a tangent of change,
amorphous clouds bleed
amber glow
and bittersweet combinations
of reds and yellows.
Vermillion streaks through,
and a few cloud folk turn titian,
like sumptuous surreal apricots
rotting in the sky,
that seem to augur
encroaching darkness.
Billows on the horizon
leak crimson,
like spilled wine on table cloth,
and pucker out
like blooms of flaming roses.
Fire refracted
coloured cousins of the sun
are dancing all about.
Here is the anthem
of wild transformation.
Here is cause
for quiet celebration.
Here at this fluent juncture.
Here at the closing of day.
The whole of the ocean below,
is the skies tremendous mirror.
It's reflection is variegated,
into variations a thousandfold.
Multitudinous, and ever differentiated,
distortions of above
ride the crests of waves.
Each apex is a new story.
Each new story,
just as soon as it is told,
comes crashing into trough.
Each finale is the ****** of beginning.
The dynamic roar
of the oceans ever-changing topology
is rife with meaning.
Colossal symphonic wonders,
the primordial song,
releasing upon: the uni-
verse continual,
sending the manifest
to move, with the give and strain
of immaculate design.
Here ensconced
between the safety of light
and the mystery of night.
Here at the oceans edge.
Above, shades of catalina-blue, in conversation
with the outer most cosmic-black
dismiss earlier brighter hues.
Tinged by the infinite nature of space,
the jeweled dome darkens.
Overhead, the first stars appear,
sky transparent to beheld blackness.
Luxuriant, pulling horizon, attracts
violet into it's unfolding theatrics.
Bloodied clouds turn purplish, then black,
a darkening rawness allures,
decaying with vivid beauty,
tragedies of a rouged romance
drug down into shadows play,
searingly alive, extraordinarily actual.
And then, the hush of dusk.
Darkness is felled, like silence.
Scintillating stars
strengthen in the nights
surrounding abyss;
giving radiance definition.
Dynamic Beauty
Lives In Transition,
Oppositions
Compliment.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
Beneath the surface of the earth,
Beneath the green and sodden turf,
Wendy wombat, supreme digger
Raced to make her tunnels bigger,
Pulling dirt with mighty claws
And toiling hard without a pause
Ensconced within her little pouch,
So small they had no need to crouch,
Her children slept, all warm and dry,
As mud and dirt went flying by,
Quite unaware how nature planned
To lend them all a helping hand
For wombat pouches don't get full
Of dirt and mud as mommies pull,
For mother nature in her wisdom
Looked upon her magic kingdom,
Saw the wombats under ground
And wisely turned their pouches round!
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Gates climb
News and paraphernalia
Modern communication
Internet on vacation
Today, rural Australia
Goes awol in valleys, hills
As seeking when hiding
Frustration biding
Trees, various pitfalls
An Insufficient population
Say Cannot build towers
Excuses bely hours
Trying, for connection
Work with what's known
Try cavalier solutions
It's the execution
When, creativity shown
First try computer waving
Above head I'm shaking
Signal not taking
Despite, the swaying
Next option lying on floor
Hint of access, fleeting
Patchy greeting
So slow, won't store
Then stand on top of bed
Try to reach high ceiling
Wobbly feeling
Response, still lead
Despite heat, go outside
The temperature violent
Connection silent
If Home far, just beside
Time past, similarly stung
Found access best rate
The paddock gate
Balancing, top rung
Troop to gate hopes keen
As Searing heat, metal
Stand and settle
Tightly, cradle machine
Process long, time lost
A Connection success
Finally access
But who, counts cost?
Eventually, its loaded mail
As Balancing hold keen
Humorous scene
As Sway, in light pale
Internet access by Gates
Not Bill, Steve, Microsoft
Hung steel aloft
So basic, surely debates
Climbing for a signal now
Is the practical response
Sadly ensconced
As Rural, area know how
But surely it must be time
When access essential
Internet critical
Yet today, gates climb
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Through the veil of the cool mist
my eyes met yours and made a tryst
a promise that our hearts will blend
and our love shall last till the end
over the hills you disappear
and in my dreams reappear
O my delicate snow white rose
ensconced in my poems and prose
O my delicate snow white rose
emanates from my heart a cadence
that resonates with your heavenly fragrance
All the barriers I shall break
My life I shall put on stake
Until I merge with you one day
To be with you forever I pray
From my life please don't vanish
let our love never diminish
petals of your love I shall always cherish
O my delicate snow white rose
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
Who said
sound is a vibration
that travels at a bizarre speed?
I saw it softly floating
ensconced in bubbles
to a celestial gravity
that pulls them up
to the realm of idyllic bliss.
Bubbles exude the
brilliant hues of my yearnings,
wrap me inside
their merino fleece warmth,
hold me to their *****
with the tenderness
I ever cherish in my soul.
Sound nestles in its heart
a mesmeric glow of music
ordained to play
the salute note
to augur the birth of a
new hankering.
The woeful flute
of the gypsy maiden
soulfully sings
a melancholy melody
for her lost love
to get a phoenix’s wings
under the silver mist of the
new moon’s splendour.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a "Whale Hail"
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.
Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.
They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.
Their ride started slowly,
but pleasant enough.
But then came a hill
and the going got rough.
He groaned and he struggled
as he trucked up the road,
but not even juiced Armstrong
could handle this load.
With two tubby tourists
ensconced in the back.
He slowed to a crawl
then stalled in his tracks.
Something had to give
with those two in the rear
The cab then turned turtle
chucking him in the air.
The two tubby tourist
were down on their backs
Their driver unconscious
and two tires flat.
An Ambulance came
and gave him first aide
The two tourists rolled off
and he never got paid.
If we banned too large colas
and sixty ounce beers
could we hope that these
land whales
might,one day, disappear?
Until then its risky
to pick such fares up
unless in a limo
or a truck thats Ram tough
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
After the rain, came the heavy snow.
Falling with silent thuds through the trees,
the bush and below.
Muffled crunches of boot ensconced children
zipping up parkas against flakes by the million.
Stillness in my heart slipping through the broken parts,
dripping to the snow in colors of blue and vermillion.
The quiet flakes gently holding my confusion and loneliness.
Caressing my cheeks as a mother would to her child crying
in whispered tearfulness
A painful summer ambled slowly away leaving a far fairer autumn
but as winter and her snows knocked at my door, the mountain beckoned, and I lost him.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
The night becomes you -
hair coiffed in fashion
illuminated eyes reveal attraction,
the scent of body oil
pervasive,
ambient music evolves
persuasive
savory rhetoric,
cabernet erodes my inhibition
no contrition, turn the ignition.
The night becomes you -
you wear it well
an amalgam,
ardor and insouciance -
redefining glamour,
ephemeral moments
dial down the sunlight,
I am slain - voice and accent
weave their spell;
black dust coat, white hat,
a pair of posh boots
they live to tell.
The night becomes you
rhyme scheme - lyrical poetry
sophisticated venue, table for two
ensconced, the
leather lounge,
similitude within difference;
undulation - cadences of
counterpoint -
poise and peril of duality
we inhabit the floor.
Postprandial, conversation extempore;
machinations of intoxicating discourse,
I could drink your words -
artistic milieu- beguiling imagery,
sonant susurrations
penetrate my being.
The night becomes you -
theoretical locutions
phrasing depth and humor,
undiluted amour, tensions resolve
frame by frame,
solidify the affair
and validate the rumor
subsumed in sequence, pulsating,
igniting the sapid interior flame
silver screen ending,
effusive reviews
two hearts collide and form one;
the cherub's arrow finds its aim.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
A man lonely and so cold,
Trying hard to grasp an aura
He assumes to trust to not reveal the hidden,
Until unknown souls spot the flaw
Abruption,
Cowardly thoughts he fails to hold back,
Paranoid, so paranoid his nerves become barbed,
His mind darkened as he's blinded,
His words cruelly reversing any remaining trust,
His screams so beyond chilling they sear the mere
Love left in a heart
Though only so few understand to not blame,
To not blame a man ensconced by a cold world,
Only trying to survive with a fire he himself sadly creates
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Night comes
r
o l l i
n g
down again
in painted coats
of thick onyx
clouding my vision
as if a brightly-striped
cuttlefish,
sister of squid
has enveloped me
in its
dark liquid
sea ink
an opaque vapor
for protection,
a shimmering
sheild against
disillusionment
pain of potential
loss
endless strands
of longing
knotting in my
hair like kelp
keeping me rooted
to the sea floor,
feet ensconced in
the soft squish
of muck and earth
Miraculously,
I breathe,
as if a sea nympth,
a mermaid
holding on to
the silvery scales
of her reality
indigo-dipped
in deepest iridescence
blending with fronds
of vibrant greens
and I am floating
within a vast membrane
of brine
somehow nuturing,
liquid cushion
of womb-water
letting it slake
the piquancy of thirst
that bursts my tongue
into succulence
Spiked in sea stars
like thorny crowns,
I reach out to
discover new textures
puncture the dark
with my fingers
enfold those waters
to me,
letting them
rock the soul
of my soul
the heart
of the seed
of my heart
and allow my
sonar, as powerful
as a whale's
encompassing call
to surge up
through nautical miles
of ocean depths,
buoyed through layers
of waves
up unto
the winds
that ride,
ever-tenderly,
the surface
of
the
dawn
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
With no argument I think most people agree
With the adage stating that, "you are what you eat"
But it's possible there's information not known
Having equal importance or maybe more so
All the nutrients eaten; We intake our food
It will travel through digestive tract once consumed
Same can also be said of our actions and thoughts
They're the building blocks making up all that we are
Brains are not like a rigid or fixed type machine
An old dog and new tricks go together it seems
Our plasticity will let us both change and shift
It makes pathways; New neural links over the rifts
These connections might possibly benefit us
But this same mechanism can also do stuff
With a negative scope, the outlook and belief
We might think we're no good; Our lives filled with much grief
If we're constantly saying things inside our heads
Like self-doubting, self-loathing and feelings of dread
Then our brain will re-wire to fit this outlook
Once ensconced in this spectrum; Not easily shook
The same way that a person engages with time
Like activity, also is true with the mind
A small change in the way that we look at ourselves
The new thoughts and beliefs in our mind start to meld
With the make-up within that each one of us holds
Self-beliefs and self-doubts from our birth till we're old
Like a painter with ink; Our brush never is dry
We are always creating what's in our mind's eye
So don't hinder yourself with a picture that's bleak
Just believe in yourself and go get what you seek
You are capable of so much more than you know
All it takes is belief and in time it will show
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:27 AM UTC
I will never be
ensconced in
charming lace
valentine
hearts
candypink encased
You will not see me
withering away
back of hand
upon brow
in fainting stance
in a flowing silk dress
swinging on a
perfect bough
For I am a river
wild and true
sometimes quiet
sometimes
roaring and
soaring in
shimmering hues:
Blues and greens
mixed with shades
of earth, of fire
bespeaking emotions
in tones of desire
My river can get messy
can flood over too fast
because my heartstrings
get pulled
by the strength of
the blast
It can bring up
colored stones
in its undertow
fish and otters
spinning
in voodoo
overflow
As the colors rise up
in this heated coolness,
this deluge
the influx overwhelms me
with a power so huge
and then I need
some metallics,
flecks of silver and gold
to soothe
passion's piquancy
when it gets
particularly bold
Specked within rocks
to ground me, keep
my feet on the soil
prevent my heart
from slipping
down into
a choking,
hot oil
Bronze minerals reflect
peaks of sadness,
searing pain
from rawness of hurt
with no one to blame
Yes, it can be a balm
and also a burn
to be so linked
by spirit-threads
to another, in emotions
that churn
just on the brink
but never truly there
to experience the
fullness of rush
ripe culmination
abundant and lush
and that's when the
river turns
into molten
lava...
and I must dig
deep under
layers of ancient strata
seeking relief
in coolness of earth
as my spirit
again undergoes
a kind of rebirth
For when we
grow to love
strange things
happen, indeed
In the core of
my essence
you are the root
of my
seed
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
hours drip slowly
onto a taunting empty page
the soul’s depictions brushed simply
a palette of whispered words
dry as if it were thoughts painted
onto a tightly stretched canvas
it's been said so many times before
similes,...
form clots at the tip of the quill
words,...
finally surrendering to gravity’s flow
as the ink scribes the paltry ruminations;
flooding the same stifled notions
another way into another moment
metaphorical sleights of hand
incarnate onto the absolving
sheet of parchment;
traces of past now’s ensconced
in considered words
miles of silent reverie,
spun,...
like a spider reprocessing,
carefully savoring
each fine silk thread of web,
spinning the womb of time...
© H.A. Rivers 2012 … All Rights Reserved
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC