"ferruginous" poems
Aquiver mellifluous ineffable hiraeth nefarious somnambulist epoch sonorous serendipitous limerence bombinate luminescence ethereal illicit petrichor iridescent supine aurora solitude syzygy phosphenes oblivion ephemeral incandescence denouement vellichor eloquence defenestration Sondra effervescence cromulent cellar-door debridement
Illustrator icon verdant cerulean aeneous albicant amaranthine azuline argent chartreuse damask ferruginous haematic hyacinthine ibis ochre primrose russet sanguineous virescent mystborn transcendence
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
The setting sun
pours in red wine
and every trace of emptiness
in my goblet is filled up.
The ferruginous night
hoots on that ghostly tree,
whose long legs are in the waters
of the large well of desires.
Something gray
walks in slowly underneath
my chair
What was that?
A shiver runs down
on my spine.
T'was a cat
The grey one
stealthily
entering my room,
to find some warmth.
An interruption!
It spill ed my concentration.
I implore!
And the generous you...
You continue to pour
your strength into me.
I taste, I swallow
first a minimal amount of it
till I gain courage to gulp
full mouth of it...
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
Geneva
Is a ray of light
Where ferruginous ducks
A million lullaby,
They sing.
And in the dark of night,
I have discovered
A Fragment
Of peace.
And by the lake I've seen
Memories of future,
Joy.
And I have seen
Life
As it should've been.
May 28, 2023
May 28, 2023 at 6:19 AM UTC
this unruly night
is macadamized on the wall,
whit its bare-knuckled steel mangled
to a ferruginous glaze of rust.
the dismal kiss of
cold on the unclenching fist of the dark
is irretrievable in the grass,
soon, glass-faces will break as my simian jaw
was once shattered by a scuffle in the twilight-bells
of recess.
it is like the night dances and in awe,
struck by some rude awakening, we sit forever
emptied of beauties.
even the flesh rouses to startle the reared relation
of calla – its hot-flush widespread of petals
thought I am given always, an intone of forgetfulness.
such pure lunges and gyrations – we all have
spaces to cross latching us in total placeness like
black hooks impinging voices to a shriek,
yet surely they go off wandering in sunsets
waning in the formless crepuscular, waiting the night
to pour stringencies,
small-breathed furies futile
like arsenic.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
farewell and farewell—
so this persists, the night
unraveling
its exigent face
as delicate as daybreak.
each window shunned, each door
left open for the wind of your red feet
to enter a plenitude of vagabonds,
goodbye and goodbye
and nothing has ever changed.
to remove yourself from me
and retain, a dagger:
to seize with your hands, my blood
and to bathe your body, with
new darkness.
to move away from me
resounds a bell, a prayer's end,
the birds are in their clandestine,
the felines are in their rendezvous
and your body assumes
liquid measure, surpassing matter.
let us not converse grief when it is
fancy to speak of embrace — you
are a rusting machinery left in the
ferruginous dark.
so we have never returned
and i no longer grieve you:
you are as untenable as a fixture or
a sepulcher.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
I take this mangled body of iron,
its acoustic of all malleability.
the flattened world outside
sings something so slender, a structure
of a rose.
as long as there is the fierceness of these words,
they will leap forth, a defenseless vault,
and cry a breakwater of rivers.
these words like caged birds peering out
into the ferruginous world consummated
by the oldest of thrills crumpled anew – fledgling beats
of dance, this hysterical morning that slinks to a clasp
of slipshod music.
when it is time for all of Earth to slumber,
I am the drapery and all unknowing eyes,
my children.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
if love's the gaze of stone and hate
the water drifting hands to their
undreams of dreams, then it shall be
with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
they will not dare speak the ineffable.
if love's touch homing back to cities as
spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
can be, these flowerings drone
exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
of the roots to the Earth
and i will sing these delightful bursts called days in
April have not the touch of frolicking birds
and the quibble of the masses half-opening
and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
of their aqueous variations
it is April, sing gently, as now all the
leaves have fingers and the ferruginous rivers have feet and my love
a flower at last!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC