"espying" poems
My heart I bequeath you
O’ stillness of my universe
I bequeath you my sanity
Spreading this cloak of being in your dust
I bow to your twinkling stars
To the waxing sun and scented grass
I bow to your springing rivers
To the parched grain and blossoming flowers
I bow to the warmth of my lover
And want of my beloved
I bow to your saccharine figs
And honeyed nectar in chalice filled
I bequeath my mortality to your transiency
Blinded by this light in game of ruse
Into your cohesiveness, I fuse
In blinkers to win the race
Espying a king in glass
Presage of being a slave
Yet when darkness falls
I furl my cloak and solemnly rise
For I bow not then
To your barren fields and waning suns
I bow not to your garish colors,
To the cloying drupe and wilted blossoms
Bracing my feeble transience
With my tenet and trail of faith
I bow to the King of kings;
Whilst I beseech for emanating hope,
In my tigers clasp, my God’s rope
I beseech,
Till the noise becomes music again
And as I gaze in the glass now,
All I espy is a beseeching slave
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
Teen, sixteen, gazing into the mirror, adoring
Her smug self afore that vanity espying glass.
At her well favoured features she's ogling
With ****** grins, sans ****** feelings.
Everything was still in a pink state,
Like morn, from her sole to her pate.
"Time's winged chariot" flashes by, and she's
Turned sixty. That same structure luscious
Like seasons, from summer to winter,
sooner changed: gray hair hath taken over
With wrinkle surface, shelving ******* on
A frame frail. Her cherished hot form
Has sunk, as the sun, down the horizon
Of beauty for ageing, which doth man transform.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
who was responsible
for the queen's ultimate disappearance
who took it upon themselves
to seek her clearance
over quite a length of time
those of a regal pedigree
have been unexpectedly vanished
from the monarchical tree
these culprits cannot be
traced anywhere on the ground
its as thought they are secreted
beneath a shadowy mound
and we aren't able to stem
their anti regal sentiment
which is ever hardening
like a ten ton cube of cement
exhibiting the crown's
bloodline doth bring vaporization
where there will be nowt more
espying of a visitation
danger is omnipresent
and its peril aimed on any empress
an unknown body of disfavour
not requiring her impress
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
Hear her soft lilt before espying her
from the promenade?
Listen carefully for mondegreen.
This morning she will come out
of the water, risen from froth,
made of the same elements
as Adam's Eve,
a pastiche dressed in summer's flurry,
transpicuous & clung-to,
amaryllises strung about
hair & thoughts,
the sinfully twisted scent
of Bergamot Orange
filling the nostrils as they flare.
Shall she succeed in coaxing you back
to a tree that once held such promise?
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
Beauty Is As Beauty Does
A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
If enough people are interested I will continue with this series as a Book with chapters this one being renamed ...Beauty Is As Beauty Does-Prologue .
Beauty Is As Beauty Does
A Story by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
If enough people are interested I will continue with this series as a Book with chapters, this one being renamed ...Beauty Is as Beauty Does-Prologue.
In the dark recesses of the void, we call our universe a cloud was forming, one devoid of morals or intent.
The molecules came together under the thought processes of a malignantly minded old sorcerer, blended with his hope of a lasting endowment of centuries of learning and spell castings.
He was searching for a one to carry on his knowledge and spells of potion and this cloud could carry out the espying in secret as he wished...under cover of dark and thought...unless a spirit was descerned by another caster of woven potions.
Today in time was measured more by centuries and decades as the process took... its form...questing for the entity as this universe and others had been targeted for his type of Magic...sorcerers specialized in their trade and like all good practioners he had his fireworks shows with energy beams and potion majic mixed to control and manipulate the certain being he was working with...for power was the name of his gambit...the access and addition of as well as controlling in the sphere of a society...let’s just say he got his jollies from using others well earned energy..What they worked for...he stole and reveled in the process.
It just so happened that today...his cloud was in the vicinity of a planet known to the Magical world as Earth...Terra...this being inhabitied by beings in many dimensions and frequensies...it seemed to home in on a child...being birthed as a logical consideration ..So that; further study was merited
.Marking this beings location in the foothills of a hidden mountain range ...in the Tibetan range and former birthplace of a religious teacher known as Lord Buddha...Siddhartha...and a nice long history in the telling of the Monks who followed him...this time a twist a counter turn of the incarnation was a Female child ..Looking to be imbued with the same set of majical powers...and the beginning of another time and space of reign as the first...excellent time to lay claim to the mind and teachings of this ...ONE..Of Beauty.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
I'm not a seasoned poet
As standards go
I have neither the will nor wit
To assemble words that exhale
Sensuous truths of beauty
I have been tossed in poetry's net
To serve and protect its fate
I'm not sharp enough
To detect Moon's climb
For I'm not Archibald MacLeish
I'm no master metaphorician
To equate yellow fog to a cat
For I'm not T.S. Eliot
I'm just here to release the waves
That load my pen to barrage
Their organic ammunition
I cannot delve into the dark show
As smooth as Edgar Allen Poe
I'm not one to sing of love, of wine
For I'm no Rumi nor Khayyam
I can't settle music's dust
For I'm not Robert Frost
I can only write what I'm taught
By the shadow rulers of Art
If Yeats is awake
And Shakespeare watching
If Whitman, Dickinson, Keats
And the rest of the sublime ones
Happen to be espying
They would regard me
As an underling
And that would be a win
For I shall never reach
Their poetic spin.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC
We long to roam through
discarded gardens overgrown
with antiquated notions
to pluck the weeds from
the very soil we often
refused to simply toil
Espying the single rose
beneath the creeping vine
asking not what encouraged it
to be simply divine, it just is
Little weeds that head with colour
springing beneath a summer flower
ignored for its parasitic ways
flourishing beneath a distant gaze
growing in a barren wasteland
untouched by a living hand
Unguarded garden in riotous
bloom, little weeds that like
to loom, beneath the heady
fragrance of another day
asking that you not pull them
from the only soil ever known
to them, they grew heart whole
despite you staying away
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC
Laying in my emotion.
Espying you in my ocean.
Drowning in your lotion.
Singing your song… na na na… aana
That’s how you sang it.
Looking you in the mirror of memory,
all night goes in weeping dream.
You are a sleeve of my waking gleam,
Your voice still beams
in my emptiness.
I wondered silently, on shore
of misty stream, how will I paint
you tonight - Bold and bright red.
But I am scared that there is no you
except in my empty heart.
I wondered what it would be
like sitting beside you on couch and
reading you my heart’s bleed. But
internally I squeal like a child when
I behold the truth.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
~
©
This Night is seemingly too long,
as i sit espying from my window,
alone with the shadows
And Voices.
I see the Night falling
as darkness takes its shape
And Structure,
the Night is Made.
A Baring Owl Screams
from the back of the Fence,
alerting every one of
the witching hour
And the Moonlight moves on,
shining and glistening,
Radiating the dark night.
The Sky holds no guiding Star
tonight
And men Sleep beneath
A
Strange Moonlight.
This Night is traveling too far
As Anguish takes the better half of me,
I sit in sorrow and illusion,
Fighting a thousand fears,
that troubles me without a smile.
I slip into the Night
Saddened
The Night has swallowed
My Glory
and here i am in dismay.
Two Nights born from
A
hopeless day,
where pain and sorrow
visits with their
twisted hands,
Strangling and Manacling me,
Who can Save a Wandering Soul?
Where he searches for the other
part of himself.
Where
two nights merge as one
and a long journey emerges.
Two Nights in one day,
Where my Screams Reverse back to me
And
all i hear are voices
Of Silence.
This Night is tortuous and treacherous,
This Night is so far from home,
This Night may never end soon,
This Night may last forever,
We may not Awaken.
~© Ovi Odiete.~•
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
into the abyss of envy he
fell
it gobbled him down in its
well
the desire to be the class
act
tormented his resentment
tract
they of quills superb of
skill
outshone the poseur's paltry
till
he hankered for what they
held
yet alas his penning so bad in
meld
at espying their brilliance of
verse
the ground swallowed him up as a
purse
jealousy he'd never ever
subdue
of the green hue there'd be an enduring
due
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 3:25 AM UTC
Open the book to pages blank, I, larva born alive, open, new, turning this life’s’ page, pupa, turning page, chrysalis encapsulating me safe, warm eager to too feel freedom. The comforts of light and darkness, sensing me entombed, darkness, being nourished, coddled, doted, protected…
Turn the page. Metamorphose, still, writhing, flailing, stretching straining to free from this bond.
Turn the page. Rebirth, excitement stretching, taking in new life, sensations of wonder, intrigue. Restless desire to reach to the breeze about and begin a journey in this, new life, powerful, strong aching to explore what is so new to the senses and learn more of these mysteries. Floating, darting, eyes bright, mind free to open to this newness of it all. Resting here & there taking in all that surrounds me. Time, something to which, I unaware nor care to know of. Exhilaration, without expectation or obligation I hover, flitter and roam.
Turn the page. Growing weary as the unending journey calls for rest to re-nergerize. Falling into a dream with reflections of this gleeful journey called life. Slowly, surely an undaunted sense of breath light slipping, teetering on this swaying reed, the inn, which gives me respite from this wondrous arduous journey. Fading reminiscing on what has been without regrets for the awes having experienced. Releasing my weakened grasp falling reaching the earth and dust from which I rose, espying the last of it with hopes of grace and dignity, I die.
Turn the page.Grateful for what has been and will be in my eternity of, Life!
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
*Walls designed with children's art
Room decorated with garlands of spider webs
Entering my grandfather's kingdom of treasures
Nearing a wooden antique box abreast his cot
Jumping with a loud scream
Seeing the thorns popping out
Ever disgusting ugly cockroaches
Hanging a large lock with arts of humans
The box challenging me to open
Breaking the lock abaft an hour of hard work
Lento opens with a creak sound
Eyes piercing out with a thunderbolt
Espying a red with golden jewel box
Opening it with exhilaration
Ah! Taken aback with tears of jolt
It was my grandfather's dentures !*
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
She travelled from London to Weedon
if only for a day she promised to be
someone of importance,
by burning bridges.
Espying the gentry by learning subterfuge
the romance of the veil,
observing the roses by feel.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
didst paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic,
and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape,
either authentic or copy cat.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Time true of ages triumpeth the secrets of faery
With Hazael's ivory tusk espying insight thus even
Solomon was not arrayed like the lily in the field, Eve,
Whose Tears filled the Aryeh Fountain that watered
Iduna's golden apple tree of discord, the source of the gods
Youth and health yet still not death preventing;
Continuance mightier thus we lose what is certain whilst
Seeking that which is uncertain under ye such as
Life and the volitant green silk with men and woman
On the right hand and spirits on the left as if a
Beatific vision were penetrated and the sun in the sky
Become blackened by the Rukh bird and like a lion
Satan stalks the saints, likeness in our echoing for the
Fairest in love and war for the matrimony of
Heaven and Hell.
Eleete J Muir
Jan 9, 2021
Jan 9, 2021 at 8:34 AM UTC
(preface to constipation)
way before aye knew
the name Fletcherism applied
tummy uncommonly (recherché) atypical dyed
in the wool feeding and/or slaking thirst guide
did precepts sans hungry
deaf eating beast impossible to hide
(the ferocious growling harassing imp -
armed to the figurative teeth ready to pounce
viz casus belli sans reeling off
a pseudo say id dish us vicious jeremiad
me, this unrepentant conscientious masticator,
who re: lied
on self control unbeknownst
to this pumpkin eater
unwittingly followed
the basic tenet of Fletcherism - custom made
modus operandi vis a vis exercising okayed
mandibular metered (when famished),
eyes kept closed while tongue gently played
adhered to practice of eating small amounts,
which discipline stayed
engorging self, and as a result
(consuming sustenance
only when hungry avoiding
(wolfing like an instantaneous blitz krieg flash)
found me aware visa vis master car ding
marginal increase in pounds meaning
thy body electric weighed
approximately for long stretches
when a habitue at one or another dining digs
stuffed nibbling on hors d'oeuvre figs
adequately satiating with with oomf
when contra dance caller Scott Higgs
announced "hands four," which signal
helped get my mojo back
and reel lee deuce home jigs,
which kickstarted, syncopated,
oft times espying Bobbie Riggs
who years gone back **** Vic Tory huss
e'en when donning apparel of Whigs
like colluding trump petting molecules
that via tiff ***** doth zags and zigs.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
The casus belli of the words harmony at the
Feet of Gamaliel's folly. A seraphic
Stratagem obeying certainties affirmation on
The tip-toe of expectation and the wind of
Discretion to tell of death in the *** as well
As of, the better part of valour; the cold-hearted
Claret flame searing noxiously at the drubbing
Casuistical deleterious benedictory embranglement-
To see as far through a brickwall as anybody, espying
The beshrewed fragrance of spirits on the left, cloying
Incuriously at the beatific vision possessing knowledge
Of experience goring miscreant houses made of
Man and woman with inconsequential hands to the
Right which cut the baby in half upon the
Green silk of kings who know not the time of day
Nor the breath of God.
ELEETE J MUIR
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 8:20 PM UTC