"fashioning" poems
1573
To the bright east she flies,
Brothers of Paradise
Remit her home,
Without a change of wings,
Or Love’s convenient things,
Enticed to come.
Fashioning what she is,
Fathoming what she was,
We deem we dream—
And that dissolves the days
Through which existence strays
Homeless at home.
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Dark green depths of death,
where waters trickle and laugh
and tiny flowers dart
in the sweet fresh breeze.
Pull me into thine un-dulled depth
and make me one with thee.
Blend my body with thine earth
fashioning a sullen element.
To pause in a moment of fear
and everlasting awe,
to drink thy beauty still
from life’s edge, up here.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
It was from the sands of a windswept beach
I picked up pebbles that were easy to reach.
They had attracted my attention while walking by
their coloured well formed shape caught the eye.
There were so many to choose from I had to decide
in selecting those which my fancy would coincide.
It’s truly amazing what some people see in stone
a subject which a lot of our imagination is prone.
It was almost as if I’d found treasure on the seashore
and couldn’t help myself as I looked around for more.
The simple joy of collecting something that attracts the mind
is an age old activity which all people do have of some kind.
There were the questions of how many would I take
and what, if anything with them, one could make?
They were so abundant and all varied mostly in size
that it wasn’t hard to imagine an object or visualize.
It was also only the first location at which I found
that I thought surely there must be others around.
So with a sense of adventure I looked forward to explore
another beach while making my way home along the shore.
There were several other stops made further on the way
collecting various coloured pebbles amidst the sea spray.
Many times would I get my sandals wet along that coast
going amongst rocks and sand to the waters edge at most.
It was with a sense of gain and loss then after I’d taken enough
deciding right there and then to stop collecting which was tough.
The next step would be to think about and see what I would do
with all those beautiful pebbles gathered while passing through.
Maybe I could approach someone with the right flair and skill
who could make something with them and imagination fulfill.
That natural forming eroding action of water, ice, wind and sand
rarely requires the finishing touches of some other skillful hand.
Perhaps in fashioning some jewellery using metal to bind
a few pebbles together that are different or a similar kind.
Or maybe I could just keep some myself and give the rest away
a gesture of friendship toward which our memories would play.
Yes it was from the sands of many a windswept lonely beach
I came accross and collected pebbles that were within reach.
Isn’t it truly amazing what some people see in stone?
a subject in which much of our imagination is prone.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 7:20 PM UTC
Long ago there was a Princess
who never did really think about her Prince
she just hoped he was good-looking and kind, and loved her for who she is.
keep her out of trouble, and when they share true loves first kiss
it'll last forever, just like in Disney classics
True love was always in the first kiss shared
that is when the magic happens and sparkles surrounds her in the air
Animals sing as the two of you dance away without a care
and then the screen goes black leaving you with the innuendo that the love will always be there
This princess didn't care when her prince would show up.
Just keep living with all the colors of the wind like Pocahontas, growing up
and I just can't wait to be queen, now where is her real life version of Timon and Pumbaa,
to help her run away from dangerous stuff?
She can't live like Cinderella, cleaning up after all others
and her foot is a common size, because the shoes she wears is sometimes her mother's.
She could cut her hair and go into the military, so that it can make a man out of her
and maybe her reflection would be of her being the fairest and bravest of them all
Instead she'd stand tall
fashioning an escape like Rapunzel
to find her
happily ever after, once and for all
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
###
today
I went to the beach in search of epiphany.
I was hoping to find her among the clouds,
witnessing her morph into an ivory shape that would
probe my unconscious into fashioning
some big epiphany
out of her silver linings,
relentless against the beating winds.
or perhaps
unearth him beneath the patterns of cracks in rocks; and
he would weave a veiny trial to
lead my psyche into navigating
the big epiphany
after testing his infallible focus,
relentless against the beating waves.
instead
I felt the sea spray tease my toes
the maritime breeze whip my face
the scraggly sand stab my heels
the roaring waves crash against the jagged cliff
I did not find epiphany.
all I found
was that again
I felt small.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
(Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”)
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?”. . .
VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her—so gaily great—
A Shape of Ice, for the time fat and dissociate.
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history.
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said “Now!” And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.
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1
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
2
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.
3
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
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The first time i saw you, your stare lingered beneath
My mind went blank, it's as if i was recovered from the river Lethe
Eros and Ananke took the longest time on fashioning you
Apollo would befriend you because in my mind, you are the greatest view
To gain your love, i am willing to carry the world like Atlas
If you ask me, i will suffer the pits of Tatarus and come back to be your lass
I wouldn't mind staying with you in the island of Calypso
To be with you, i would face Charybdis and jump inside her tornado
Everytime you smile, it's as if the gates of Olympus open just for me
Your face will launch a thousand ships and i won't mind bringing my army
If i have no chance, my grief would reach the river Cocytus
And my heart would wander in the labyrinth of Daedalus
In the most confusing maze, you are my Ariadne string
You are the melody of the three muses when they sing
To get to your love how i wish i could be the goddess, Aphrodite
And maybe you can be Odysseus and i will be Penelope
With my kind of desire for you, Artemis and her hunters would never approve
If i am not for you, i would persuade Aphrodite and deny Cupid's reprove
Like Zeus and his lightning bolt, i can never leave your side
Poseidon's angry seas would compare to my feelings which will take long to subside
For your honor, i will fight like Hector of Troy
But like the giant, Typhon, someone will always destroy
Like Paris and Helen, we were doomed from the start
You are Cassandra and I, Apollo so you will never give me your heart
I am not Aphrodite, not Hestia, Helen and Hera
You can compare me to Circe, The Fates or even Medusa
Not as important as Hercules, Odysseus and Achilles
I might as well have a tea party with Achlys
No ship will be launched for my sake
In the garden of Hesperides, i am ignored even by a snake
In Olympus, you feast with the twelve goddesses and gods
Together with Hephaestus who was shunned, i share his odds.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Knotted Cord
Rebekah- Hebrew, meaning - Captivating; knotted cord. Wife of Isaac in the Old Testament.
I am a knotted cord,
Of chattering reactions,
and alphabetical perceptions
straining to elude me.
A tangle of cerebrum crammed to my cranium
snarled loops that hear light in code,
or see voices through pulsating synapses.
I am a knotted cord,
A grey rope of countless nucleotides;
fashioning my own skintight survival manual
from my own regenerating song.
Rough edged coils of yesses and noes,
Spiraling into collected silence.
I am a knotted cord,
A scrambled array of ambition,
Stitched with the lethargy
of an unraveled thread.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
They cut up her face
to spite who knows
She cut off some weight
despite her bones
She’s starved for grace
like a hungry ghost
Is it passion?
Is it addiction?
The way she suffers
so stranger than fiction
She’s waning away
just like the moon
It’s just the way
the darkness consumes
As they edit away
her absolute heart of the poem
Cut, copy paste
they stretched the truth
across her face
Now the disenchanted runway
calls her name
“Depersonalization"
Baby girl,
you were born
with it
Now you’ve
just been
manipulated!
The transformation
was a success
but you’re still sentient!
Screaming
"Being like everybody
is like being nobody
and this body
is no body
it’s a plastic prison"
built on a template
of all your false expectations
We need to
cut off the face
of the status quo
There’s nothing divine
left to her ratio
Knock the Goddess
from the pedestal
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.
The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
so they pack their sacks with their old guns
to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.
The first bullets abandon their barrels,
the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
booming into cacophony
in shrill-major.
Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.
Out come the canons,
dancing on their wheels,
silencing the gunfire,
spinning on their heels,
dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.
Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
armadas sing in baritone
while civilians scream soprano.
Children cry in alto.
Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.
While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
fashioning,
always,
a bellicose smile.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
He bought and sold things, much like the man
who sold balloons in the park, fashioning them into strange animals
mostly fastened to wooden sticks, except for the helium headed ones
they remind me of you, floating high and lofty
out of reach, wanting escape from ties and pulling strings
drifting from the city moving countrywards
many are mesmerized by the migration
the fantastical triumph of levitation
they wait for days, years under trees
but not I, I am no longer drunk by
hot air and helium dreams
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 9:36 PM UTC
The Hebrew King David sings it once
everyone tunes in as if he stopped the time
it's a song sang in every mother tongue!
It's a sea of tunes flows on the shore of the body
outpours and dances fashioning in both science and art
waxes through every vein and reaches out to the heart.
Folks love to take a dip in this same mellifluent cloud
but it's as varied as all the different mother tongues,
the one rhymes with all floats across the world.
Over all the different rivers that may zigzag
It knows the way because from the ocean they all come.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
imagine a conductor who
orchestrated with an orchestra
but instead of using his hands
to imitate rhythm... used his head...
and rhythm guitar could
be noted down in drumming rhythm,
still the conductor head-banging
rather than rhyming a# with c and d-dur
with his head rather than his hands:
air drumming and i hammered that
head into a shark head worth a 17th century
wig because i was too lazy to brush or cut
my hair; we were all grey and retired
in the former fashion trend as now-days
shrunk flesh for saving fashioning materials
into contorted squares of leopards in leotards.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
Whilst I sauntered the halls
Her face surfaced before the lantern
That beloved grin an abstract design
Though she was settled behind glass
Fashioning the imagery ‘tis window shopping
Presenting the proclamation that she’s without a price
I covet not for alienation to shape us
I hunger for a sense of harmony
For us to never have spaked of tragedy
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
There is hardly a breeze. The February sun
Stretches forth long fingers, and begins the slow thaw
Of our deep-frozen bones, so that things new begun
Will, in the coming year, ripen, grow and mature.
The church bells chime the hour, tediously questioning
Our good use of the time, mocking our intentions,
As though we could never succeed in fashioning
Anything that endures, despite our pretensions.
And night comes slowly on, the light in the West dims
As the sun disappears below the horizon.
The moon rises between two great clouds in the East.
Stars come out one by one. An *** sad lowly beast,
Complains loud to the sky that his rations are gone,
And I feel his dull pain in all my aching limbs.
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
Slowly my demons are tearing at me
gripping me
consuming me
attempting to take control over me
and the only thing stopping them is the smallest part of sanity
humanity
the weakest thing against a handful of enemies
who are immortal,
so a bullet would be like trying to **** them with a marshmallow
and their fingernails would be like fire to my skin
slowly cooking
and like a virus,slowly spreading
it's better to just become one
an immortal being whom everyone should run from
but they wont love and adore me
they'll only **** and scorn me
this is not an edward and bella story
there is no happy ending, no babies and no weird sort of glory
this is life with the unseen
we dont see them so we try to discredit them by all means
the greatest trick devils have accomplished
is convincing the world they don't exist.
and yet,slowly they keep tempting me
with tongues of gold
over my shoulders
their fascinated with me
with how i dont toss everything out the window and just give up already.
so many have before me
justifying that what they feel is perminent
when it's only temporary
fashioning a noose and kicking back the chair
with the lifeless corpse dancing weirdly in the air
and their soul,floating around it in midair
whimpering because they see the unseen
whispering and hoping that the sins are forgiven
did i ask for it, did i repent
or am i destined to be hell's *****
I shouldn't have to think about it
but I do
the thought sits marinading into my mind
Turning into fine wine
that I'll some day get the courage to drink
hoping that if I ever think about it,it'll scare me
causing me to rethink
but until that day It's me living with my enemies
us arguing, until I give up or die naturally
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
The flame
In his chest
The same
To the rest
But twisted
As he was
Blessed
But gifted
With inferiority
And was horribly
Conflicted
Of the message
He was meshing
With the decrepit
Feeling
Of his fleeting
Half stepping
To the
Recollections
Of his blessings
That he was tempted
To dissect
From the crowd
Inflicted
Despite the
Shroud
Of clouded
Bouts
Torn from
The panicked ****
Of the phobias
He knew they were scared of
And glared
Right through them
Before he opened up
His coat
And started shooting
Proving
Others wise
In the silent
Reprise
Of 45's
And nines
He smiled
In the exile
Of fear
Escaping
Through
The fading
Lights
Of dying eyes
In the wild
Surmise
That with each
Trigger squeeze
Eased him
Into shame
As he
Aimed
To please
For the release
Of lives
Crawling
For the
Finished
Lines
And in gorgazmic
Slitherings
He delivered
The final blows
With power ups
And scores
Progressing
The killing
As he reloads
With shrilling
Grins
And stints
Of compassion
Fashioning
The rationed
Satisfaction
He received
From the screaming
Mothers and babies
Brothers and maybes
Splattering
On the plastic trees
Of escalators
And skeezes
That laid shuttering
Headless
Upon the exits
Of his
Insurrected mind
And he was just fine
With dying
In kind
And he was just fine
Shining from
The shrine
Of Santa
In a sonata
Of solidarity
To the led
Soldering morals
In a story
Of victory
And of
Personal glory
For the lords
Of defeat
Seething
In the completeness
Of a defeatist
As he stuck
The heaters
In his mouth
And was out
Without
One doubt
As to what
Nothing
Means
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
“Love: an emotion, one that, so low as to bar
From fair desire—self-righteous and self-serving
Excuse, a pretense, lyric, will not inspire.”
I detest to hear him speak—
Adulterer, why, pray tell, do you prey upon the weak?
“Simple in answer, as simple in method. No heart
Rich needs to beat for “that” emotion obsoletes.
Adults, mature, do not even think the distinction
That is kid’s table morality, what mommy
Only says after a few drinks, winking, your father
In his eyes—just where you have come, in fact—
You needn’t think mommy and daddy stayed together
After long spats, strife, and frustration for their waves
Struck the same height or the moon hits mom just right.
It is not the eternal enthrallment of Eros that keeps them in motion
Dear, friend—it is “that” emotion. In bed, hearts
Are inverted and split down the middle
The negative just drowns away in chemicals.
But how bad we’d feel, (no?) if that, the long and short?
Machinate the “thing” justify “that” feeling
Ennobling, beatifying, kindling for sonnets and odes
Fashioning morality and aesthetics onto sweating
Thrusting beasts, one on one in their dance of love.
A harlequin of truth, my friend! When it is found
In contraception, safeguarding our natural predilection.
Ha! Oh, fools! Why trouble with the rituals
When, really, ****** collocations concern capricious
Chronologies and covetous craving for **** and ****
How ****** How crude! But, oh, but oh how true; think:
Admit the urge has primacy, the “L” emerges and
Lies emitted: of connection, intelligence, intersubjectivity.
Given its stage of farce and face, our sieves are at
Ageful capacity and then needs a bargain, more;
The office of “thing” goes unoccupied, its twin
Will gladly keep it clean and orderly, act
As it did: gentle and cordially.”
Blast it! Such ways in truth and walk, for
Repetition in faith of life
Pegs my myths with all their strife,
Strife and succor irony.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
It is in Septembers, Octobers, and Novembers
That Autumn dresses up,
Adorned in warm, golden tones of color,
And waltzes with her prince, The Fall Wind.
But when the clock strikes twelve,
Winter comes along with her December and January Winds,
Snatching up Autumn’s bright apparel
And clothing her in nothing but somber tatters.
Autumn keeps quiet, until the first rays
Of Spring’s long awaited sunshine
Touches the depths of Winter’s dark dungeon.
Autumn is showered with Spring’s rain,
And is coaxed into fashioning a new dress
With the same warm, golden tones of color,
But, this time, in a different pattern.
It is Summer’s sunshine, now, that assists Autumn,
With an occasional July thunderstorm to help form the new dress.
August passes by to give his opinion, and Autumn is finally ready.
For it is in Septembers, Octobers, and Novembers
That Autumn dresses up,
Adorned in warm, golden tones of color,
to waltz with her prince, The Fall Wind.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Last night
We dreamt of subtle imperfections
But were awakened to greater truths
Last night
We scratched with the skin of porcupines
Our breaths reflecting ice
Last night
Dashing out our fears
We heralded the end of youth
Last night
I swore I saw some of the old flicker
Tempt me in your eyes
Before, again-it up and left.
And Time
Only holds true
to the fashioning
and smoking of a cigarette.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
Bending my brain to a mighty confusion
Casting tangential thoughts back through the years,
Try to come to terms with opposing profusion
From the conquering of Everest to Locherbie’s tears.
From soaring the heights in the conquest of cancer
To scouring the depths of depravity’s bin,
In rescuing pilot pods beached at the isthmus
To severing heads in The Killing Field sin.
How man can conceive of a Monet’s magnificence
Yet “Zeig Heil” the field grey of Germany’s brute,
Whilst fashioning spires of Westminster’s cathedral
To pushing ******* in a blue, pin striped suit?
A tenderness shown to a toddler at bedtime
Depravity’s best when they used Zyclone B,
The grace of His Holiness blessing the children
Hiroshima’s glowing from mountain to sea.
This weft in the weave of the psyche of the people,
This black and the white and the right and the wrong,
As long as he breathes on this beautiful planet
Man’s behavioural leap will determine the song.
The yin and the yan, the fall of the domino
Depicting the way the human mind bends,
The roll of the dice and the fall of the cards
Shall determine the outcome… in the way it all ends.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
Auckland
NEW ZEALAND
25th January 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
He used a nice word for it-
Emulate
"Oh! Look how her imagination glides
From glorious skies to
Eerie depths, no hesitation
Dropping from resounding thunder
To dead silence that shatters asunder
All that is sensate
And that, my friend,
Is what I'm trying to emulate!"
With such shameless eagerness
He shifted styles,
A form-changing, chameleon of a poet
Ever so often devouring a new set of words
Like rich, delicious wine
And fashioning his words into
The poetess' writing style,
And crooning with her tunes
For as long or short a while
As his lecherous dog of a heart pleased,
Then letting himself be afflicted
With yet another poetic disease.
I rolled my eyes, yet silently asked
Him- the Casanova of verse-
*When will you stop falling in love?
When will you stop drowning into
Another woman's words?
Think about me,
Struggling to keep up,
Changing tracks with you,
Climbing up and down
Ballads-Sonnets-Haikus-Epics-and free verse
With you,
Watching you enamoured by her,
Still trying to emulate you
For the most vain of reasons there is-
Hope.*
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Are we but dream junkies
And all the stars that trail,
In the gloams of milky ways,
But empty islands more for us,
Golden archipelagoes, baubles
Ringing, rounding out heavens'
Wreathing, oceans, nil vastness
To fixate upon from whence we
Once were, by souls' fashioning,
Airy and unrealistic as dear fools'
Child-minded convictions, fables,
Foetal, in smoky amniotic aethers,
Wisps of matter to see unlocked,
Unchained from sparks of nothing,
Wide eyed as supernovae in voids,
As light injects into us such purpose,
Imaginations so neatly dreamed upon,
Once and for all, stories bound in sleepy
Times, or tis more our sole, sun, but one
Dim light in all these unsettled sparklings,
A tapestry which etches our righting eyes,
Into sandy itchings, spiral notches, grains
Ticking us eternal to vested lime beds waiting,
Are we sunk in drunkeness by the overheaded
Skies, fumbling about, numbed, slumbered
In soul rummages?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC