"ermine" poems
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.
Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.
With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.
The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.
The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.
© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
They wear their wealth like a crown
Glittering jewels adorning their kitchen chairs
Red leather velvet resting on the sofas
Pearls dripping in champagne
This lavish mansion is their Kingdom
The money their thrones of precious stones
Their influence their ermine and silk cloths
Their wealth like crowns
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
98
One dignity delays for all—
One mitred Afternoon—
None can avoid this purple—
None evade this Crown!
Coach, it insures, and footmen—
Chamber, and state, and throng—
Bells, also, in the village
As we ride grand along!
What dignified Attendants!
What service when we pause!
How loyally at parting
Their hundred hats they raise!
Her pomp surpassing ermine
When simple You, and I,
Present our meek escutheon
And claim the rank to die!
6.9k
151
Mute thy Coronation—
Meek my Vive le roi,
Fold a tiny courtier
In thine Ermine, Sir,
There to rest revering
Till the pageant by,
I can murmur broken,
Master, It was I—
4.2k
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal
I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy
some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats
so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name
watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe
and here is where man comes in...
as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...
strange...
my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals
and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:
*I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation
let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...*
June 2014
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Lady Winter
I.
When surly Winter sighs, her icy breath
Makes adults think of coming death,
Makes children think of falling snow,
Ice skates and sleds and away they go....
II.
Alone among her Sisters, Winter holds such power
To stop the World, to drift in Time, if only for her hour.
She puts the trees and fields to sleep,
Then covers lakes and land 'neath sheets,
And though she tucks them into bed,
Their sleeping form is of the dead.
III.
This Lady White whose frigid face
Turns from the sun with chilly grace
Has for herself a single duty:
The world to rest in icy beauty.
In the North, where'er she goes,
She dresses lands with icy snows.
In gowns of ermine stand the trees
White trains of down lie at their lees.
She sets the plain with crystal lakes,
And sugars hills with frosted flakes.
Where ever she in beauty goes,
The icy Queen her magic sows.
IV.
Strange sister of four Seasons,
Her face, at first, seems set in Death,
But we who walk out on her icy grounds,
Traverse a frozen pond or wander rounds
Deep into her forests fast asleep, know well,
We who stop to listen and to look can tell,
Life's certitude awaits the end of chilly Winter's icy fling.
(Congregation: "Even so come quickly, Lady Spring!")
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
15
The Guest is gold and crimson—
An Opal guest and gray—
Of Ermine is his doublet—
His Capuchin gay—
He reaches town at nightfall—
He stops at every door—
Who looks for him at morning
I pray him too—explore
The Lark’s pure territory—
Or the Lapwing’s shore!
2.5k
In the cold, cold parlor
my mother laid out Arthur
beneath the chromographs:
Edward, Prince of Wales,
with Princess Alexandra,
and King George with Queen Mary.
Below them on the table
stood a stuffed loon
shot and stuffed by Uncle
Arthur, Arthur's father.
Since Uncle Arthur fired
a bullet into him,
he hadn't said a word.
He kept his own counsel
on his white, frozen lake,
the marble-topped table.
His breast was deep and white,
cold and caressable;
his eyes were red glass,
much to be desired.
"Come," said my mother,
"Come and say good-bye
to your little cousin Arthur."
I was lifted up and given
one lily of the valley
to put in Arthur's hand.
Arthur's coffin was
a little frosted cake,
and the red-eyed loon eyed it
from his white, frozen lake.
Arthur was very small.
He was all white, like a doll
that hadn't been painted yet.
Jack Frost had started to paint him
the way he always painted
the Maple Leaf (Forever).
He had just begun on his hair,
a few red strokes, and then
Jack Frost had dropped the brush
and left him white, forever.
The gracious royal couples
were warm in red and ermine;
their feet were well wrapped up
in the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to be
the smallest page at court.
But how could Arthur go,
clutching his tiny lily,
with his eyes shut up so tight
and the roads deep in snow?
2.4k
117
In rags mysterious as these
The shining Courtiers go—
Veiling the purple, and the plumes—
Veiling the ermine so.
Smiling, as they request an alms—
At some imposing door!
Smiling when we walk barefoot
Upon their golden floor!
2.1k
Love has given up.
It was the wrong religion.
And London did not melt into the Thames.
You teetered on the edge of a golden world,
and then fell suddenly—
accused of sortilege, ****** and treason.
And at his pleasure—
or was it mercy?—
Was it for the sake of your seven years,
or perhaps for the little daughter?—
in which flowed the royal blood, spoiled by *** and lineage.
Whatever it was, no matter.
He would spare you the pain
of being burnt at the stake.
Instead, to be executed like royalty—
dispatched by a French swordsman.
The prophecy must have been of little comfort
as your ladies helped prepare you to meet
Death, newly betrothed.
A gown of dark grey damask
floated over a blood-red petticoat.
Your mantle was trimmed with ermine.
Queenly, you stood and addressed those who had come to
watch you. And then you knelt and began to pray, and
quickly and mercifully, the blade
carried out its trajectory.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
As kings who see their little life-day pass,
Take off the heavy ermine and the crown,
So had the trees that autumn-time laid down
Their golden garments on the faded grass,
When I, who watched the seasons in the glass
Of mine own thoughts, saw all the autumn’s brown
Leap into life and don a sunny gown
Of leafage such as happy April has.
Great spring came singing upward from the south;
For in my heart, far carried on the wind,
Your words like winged seeds took root and grew,
And all the world caught music from your mouth;
I saw the light as one who had been blind,
And knew my sun and song and spring were you.
1.9k
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall! '
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Sometimes poetry doesn’t happen
Until you’ve fashioned what you want to say
And felt its worth in prose.
You go somewhere a little known
But time newly fashions its affect.
Late autumn then, today summer’s end.
Since early morning the sun has shone.
Heading north, the clouds magisterial.
Spread themselves, ermine-cloaked.
I watch you as you drive:
The pleasing proportions of your seated self,
a warm glow on your left cheek.
*We have become so careful you and I
With what we say and the way we say it.
Hard to keep the conversation aloft.*
After ninety miles it’s good to get out
In a by-passed village, a quiet place.
Bicycles now take us towards the ancient coast.
There it is: the sea. The spirit lifts.
Wind at our backs and grateful to turn
to the pleasure of a minor road.
Now there’s time to take in a distant manor,
the swallows’ dart and spin, a stone tower
from which the landscape’s perspective flows.
A long straight road runs to a coastal village.
Lunch is eaten against a churchyard wall.
As a cloudy afternoon beckons, crows gather.
Turning east will the headwind strain
The morning’s calm confidence? Perhaps.
Have we come too far and expect too much?
At the causeway now, where the tide has left
The horizon-reaching expanse of mud and sand,
It seems a long road to the village at the island’s end.
Briefly, we sit to contemplate a yet further isle
Where, facing the sun’s fall into the folds
of distant hills, a northern saint found solitude.
So tired at the hotel I insist on immediate food
And soon the tension of the day falls from your face
And briefly I catch a smile from your eyes.
*Memory returns me to another room where, newly married,
I caressed your long nakedness in a strange half-light,
My hands and body visiting every part of you.*
As dusk falls we walk briefly to view the sand and sea.
Then bed and hardly a page turns before seeking sleep.
Restless, I reassemble the day, moment by moment.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
.
(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)
totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.
~~~~~~~~~
*who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,*
of the first poem
*all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no
our first child is of our ***** where real borning does occur.
the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected*
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,
*and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"
then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self
then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths
then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail
you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?*
american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that all can see
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
Today there will be no siren nor
simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
forethought and afterthought.
Dislimned – all; you, left
in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
in pursuit of light.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
A handcream made with shea butter,
A record collection all-a-stutter,
Fancy watches, ermine fur,
“Cold blooded luxury”
Strawberry liqueur.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
961
Wert Thou but ill—that I might show thee
How long a Day I could endure
Though thine attention stop not on me
Nor the least signal, Me assure—
Wert Thou but Stranger in ungracious country—
And Mine—the Door
Thou paused at, for a passing bounty—
No More—
Accused—wert Thou—and Myself—Tribunal—
Convicted—Sentenced—Ermine—not to Me
Half the Condition, thy Reverse—to follow—
Just to partake—the infamy—
The Tenant of the Narrow Cottage, wert Thou—
Permit to be
The Housewife in thy low attendance
Contenteth Me—
No Service hast Thou, I would not achieve it—
To die—or live—
The first—Sweet, proved I, ere I saw thee—
For Life—be Love—
1.6k
elegant escapades
everglade excursion
elevating emotions
enchanted evenings
egrets and ermine –
elated elephants encircle
eucalyptus
entering estrus –
evangelical elders
each embedded
even the entrenched
earn ecstatic event entrees
eat and expand
enjoy
experience –
explorers explode
expanding energy
engraving
extra’s
expertly
eloquently –
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
All the wallflowers
Picking up the sun
Slowly walking towards
The madness
Moving statues
Entwined at the
Fingertips
You can find your
Picture on my wall
Walking on two legs
Facing the sound
Of empty eyes
May 1, 2024
May 1, 2024 at 10:33 AM UTC
Elegant,wrapped up in stolen garb,
Naked mink and ermine,
Cower coldly in the gutter,
Undressed.
The rich ***** bedecked with jewels and pearls.
Stolen from the littlest girls.
Bracelet,a creation from reptilian teeth,
Neath her coat,
A chill, heart resides,
The tiger in front of the fire,
Once he was real and she was a liar.
She declared a love of animals,
The ones whose heads hung on the walls.
Nouveau riche?
Nope, a super *****
She heard the scratches at the door,
Alas alack, she was no more.
Haw haw.
(c) Livvi
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
The kings they came from out the south,
All dressed in ermine fine,
They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,
And gifts of precious wine.
The shepherds came from out the north,
Their coats were brown and old,
They brought Him little new-born lambs—
They had not any gold.
The wise-men came from out the east,
And they were wrapped in white;
The star that led them all the way
Did glorify the night.
The angels came from heaven high,
And they were clad with wings;
And lo, they brought a joyful song
The host of heaven sings.
The kings they knocked upon the door,
The wise-men entered in,
The shepherds followed after them
To hear the song begin.
And Mary held the little child
And sat upon the ground;
She looked up, she looked down,
She looked all around.
The angels sang thro’ all the night
Until the rising sun,
But little Jesus fell asleep
Before the song was done.
1.4k
Shall I be a chameleon?
In a way that
Makes observers sick,
Shall I uncunningly
Side the slick?
Shall I optimize my chance
Echoing both
The good or wrong stance
Of who by unfair means
Seized the rein of power
And hence benefits
Will not be loath
On me to shower?
A chameleon,
Reflecting my surrounding
Shall I be
Self serving
As it has become
Nowadays a common thing?
Shall I be an ermine ?
Keeping my professional
And self integrity
And cleanliness
True to my conscious
To the extent of
Facing an unfolding adverse
Shall I distance
My self
From being
A false witness
On my colleagues
And neighbours?
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
166
I met a King this afternoon!
He had not on a Crown indeed,
A little Palmleaf Hat was all,
And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!
But sure I am he Ermine wore
Beneath his faded Jacket’s blue—
And sure I am, the crest he bore
Within that Jacket’s pocket too!
For ’twas too stately for an Earl—
A Marquis would not go so grand!
’Twas possibly a Czar petite—
A Pope, or something of that kind!
If I must tell you, of a Horse
My freckled Monarch held the rein—
Doubtless an estimable Beast,
But not at all disposed to run!
And such a wagon! While I live
Dare I presume to see
Another such a vehicle
As then transported me!
Two other ragged Princes
His royal state partook!
Doubtless the first excursion
These sovereigns ever took!
I question if the Royal Coach
Round which the Footmen wait
Has the significance, on high,
Of this Barefoot Estate!
1.3k
I wander through the world
to make my own math.
Maybe a kid with
ice cream will stumble
across my path one day
and venture the scene.
Brown grass and an
abundance of wheat,
mangled trees and
ice cube sun rays--maybe
something in between.
As a wayward
Purple Pincher Hermit Crab, I
float through ocean currents.
As a North coast coyote
sometimes I can't tell what I am.
Just wandering through
ice cold smoke, smoldering ash,
apple orchards, joyful torture,
dead rose gardens, a thornyard,
a sunflower sanctuary. Serenity,
I wear no crown, no ermine cape,
I eat beetles and grasshoppers
off of a rusted plastic plate.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
this is an educated
refined, cultured, poem
fit to clothe a queen’s body
radiant enough to sit on a king’s head
no doubt,
the king’d head on a silver plate
this is elegant, truthful,
and most dignified as robes
and gold threads on a priest’s mitre
and ermine round the waists
this is immaculate,
probing, penetrative and sedate
so well-constructed, traditional
so cast into meter and scanned
so organised and adept
as a gynaecologists’s fingers
and last but not least
it is reverend, respectful and silent
as full of respect as are holy poems and sonnets
and poems all fit into good form and shape
and thus it refrains from 4-letter words
though - **** - sometimes it slips and falls
like a drunkard, into the gutters
but it is the fault of the terrain
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 7:17 AM UTC