"festooned" poems
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F
~~~
overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green
it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual
"record breaking warmth"
yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen
traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived
so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day
"record breaking warmth"
for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
miracle,
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night
indeed,
it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
Summer struck with the fist of Chicxulub,
incinerated spring in a blinding flash.
Abruptly the pond on Chehalis Trail
was topped with water lilies,
where famished families of water fowl had
festooned the serenity of the surface;
now vanished for cool Canadian climes.
Racoon eyes peered in night shade green,
Foxglove and California Poppy brushed
through blades of overgrown grasses.
Crow song battled with Stellar's Jay,
the morning's true American Idols.
I stirred from slumber to impatient cawing,
chiding --- The best of day's awaiting.
I was off to savor summer's sugar,
lest autumn slip in unannounced
on the coats of Quetzalcoatl.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
Love is the scent with the lotus born.
It is the silent choirs of petals
Singing the winter’s harmony of uniform beauty.
Love is the song of the soul, singing to God.
It is the balanced rhythmic dance of planets -
sun and moon lit
In the skyey hall festooned with fleecy clouds –
Around the sovereign Silent Will.
It is the thirst of the rose to drink the sunrays
And blush red with life.
‘Tis the promptings of the mother earth
To feed her milk to the tender, thirsty roots,
And to nurse all life.
It is the urge of the sun
To keep all things alive.
Love is the unseen craving of the Mother Divine
That took the protecting father–form,
And that feeds helpless mouths
With milk of mother’s tenderness.
It is the babies’ sweetness,
Coaxing the rain of parental sympathy
To shower upon them.
It is the lover’s unenslaved surrender to the beloved
To serve and solace.
It is the elixir of friendship,
Reviving broken and bruised souls.
It is the martyr’s zeal to shed his blood
For the well-beloved fatherland.
It is the ineffable, silent call of the heart to another
heart.
It is the God-drunk poet’s heartaches
For every creature’s groans.
Love is to enjoy the family rose of petal-beings,
And thence to move to spacious fields -
Passing by portals of social, national, international
sympathy,
On to the limitless Cosmic Home –
To gaze with looks of wonderment,
And to serve all that lives, still or moving.
This is to know what love is.
He knows who lives it.
Love is evolution’s ameliorative call
To the far-strayed sons
To return to Perfection’s home.
It is the call of the beauty – robed ones
To worship the great Beauty.
It is the call of God
Through silent intelligences
And starburst of feelings.
Love is the Heaven
Toward which the flowers, rivers, nations, atoms,
creatures – you and I
Are rushing by the straight path of action right,
Or winding laboriously on error’s path,
All to reach haven there at last.
4k
I had walked miles that day.
Finding myself in these old
Los Angeles side streets,
was to travel back in time.
Bougainvillea, overflowing
with color, festooned the
weathered cedar cottages.
Heavy trumpet flowers,
sleepy in the filtered light,
stirred beside huge green
leaves, in the easy marine air.
I walked on.
Evening had come, and with it,
a few stars shone over the ocean.
After a perfect dinner, I still
craved a bit of sweetness
on my tongue.
Walking back from the end
of the pier under deep
cobalt, the night sky held me.
Just ahead, tiny birthday candles,
and warm, kind faces, welcomed
me into their midst.
Softly, they sang 'Las Mañanitas'
in one voice, and I sang with them.
Someone's hand
reached out to me; a
thin paper cake plate,
heavy with treasure,
was silently offered.
Tres Leches, soaked
with tender love
and milky sweetness.
Heaven could only be
more of this.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
In the floodgates
of forever
I see you standing,
arms out, so ready
the multiple layers
of silky delicious
that we have created
until now
swirling about us,
a storm of veils
beckoning like sea waifs
and I am opening up
like never before
my heart practically
out of my chest
until it is
flying forth,
a mythical
winged creature,
prehistoric birdling
and you,
with your strong arms
your third eyelight
turned on
catch it
hold it
nuzzle it
until the rest of me
can reach you
bursting forward
through swathes
of time
turbulence a mere
snippet
and we meld
and merge like oceans
hearts lit up
in electrical surge
time and place not existing
We are the sea.
We are the Earth.
We are the desert velvet
We are the wonder
in the hallways
of our arteries
We are the bloodflow
heartflow
of the universe within us
We reign the
ever changing existence
that keeps us whole
allowing room to breathe
to bloom in mystical
wild gardens
yet binding
through realms
of our light's
endless expansion
our souls embracing
as we dream future visions
upon our tongues
and as I gaze upon you
our eyes a magnet
you ignite my glow,
the king of my citadel
festooned with
flowerbuds
for your
queen
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 4:32 PM UTC
Walking the strip
As though I were a pinball
In a giant arcade game.
Showgirls posing,
Gamblers jostling
With over-sized flasks
Hanging around their necks.
The streets are festooned
With picture cards,
As numerous as confetti,
Advertising all the pleasures
And prices of escorts.
Vegas, Baby?
Keep it there,
Not here.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
David-sculpture Eros' wings
Lovelorn youth in search of Spring
his only hope in traveling
a peace from broken promising
poetry's earth-shattering sage
magic an optimistic stage
Loveless : puppet to self-worth,
Lovelorn still has yet to learn.
Love defends as guilt will fight
lessons of fires and appetite
Loveless is insatiable to hide
new ecstasy festooned with pride
Loveless will wail and cry
Lovelorn wakes free to fly
learning that love is self sacrifice
yin and yang so prophesied:
gifts to waking minds sublime
all seeds are sown in fields of time...
As Loveless screams his agonies
wide eyes drool over magazines
Lovelorn runs piningly
for more to always feel at rest,
for something golden as the sun
Loveless could care less,
empty having none
defeated before having won?
Love defends as guilt will fight
Both will weep when they see the light...
Tears from Less will burn regret
'Lorn lets flow to Openness
peace of mind knows happiness
both alone yet never so
and when two meet
as One will teach :
burying all the misery,
both similar with their sorrows
all must wake up now--tomorrow.
Alone or less, love will be
found in fields of dreams that sing
David-sculpture / Eros' wings.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
The ceiling of the grand ballroom
Opens as if it were taking in a deep breath.
All of the golden oil painted negative space
And striped Moorish arches allow the chandelier to shine
Blood red.
The pirates hung from the ceiling,
Each with his wrists bound to his ankles,
Festooned in the shape of a teardrop
Or a bell or a drop of blood.
The Jolly Roger slowly turns
Without even a slight breeze or breath,
Dangling from a single chord of rope.
How jolly Roger used to be before the navy came,
Smiling at the sinking enemy ships set on fire by black powder.
Perhaps he still smiles, even through the darkness,
Even through the gaping, gasping
Cannonball holes you can almost hear moan
On the side of his ship far below the surface of the sea,
And hangs high and proud on his ship’s tallest mast.
Perhaps the pirates hang high too, robust and glorious
Like their billowing flag, shameless and naked
With nothing to hide and everything to be proud of, a trophy
Not for a queen and her navy
But for themselves and the successes of their wanderlust.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan
Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, **** and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Sara L Russell
(inspired by painting "She's Leaving Home" by Mike Kaluta)
High-rolling dunes; the landscape where I fly
With wingbeats of an eagle overhead
While to the east, the ocean's waves roll high
My astral body's light years from my bed.
My magic carpet's hung with golden bells
Festooned with lanterns, steeped in sandalwood;
Carries me higher; as the ocean swells
The sighing of the sea is understood.
A warm wind runs its whispers through my hair
The azure sky is darkening to grey
A stormy ozone crackles in the air
Like laughter, as the eagle soars away.
I cross dimensions, cheat the hand of fate,
As easily as opening a gate.
(To be continued...)
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
He gave me a ring
With its facets glazed and cracked
Insisting it was once his great-grandmother's
She who
In rot-edged vintage photos
Wore a mink stole and flapper beads.
_________________________________________
She pulls at seams
Takes up and brings down hems,
The stole pushed to the back
Of a web festooned attic
In a steamer trunk slapped with decals:
Moscow
Austria
Monte Carlo
Rio de Janeiro.
On cold days she wears it again
Dancing to old melodies on rough boards
And when she hears the front door slam
It's made to disappear in haste,
Her engagement ring clacking
Against the trunks flip locks.
That night as she makes biscuits
For her breadwinner she sees
The crack, the chip
Through a glaze of milked flour.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
since I last
rode a bus,
no, poems aplenty
have poured and dripped
from ink-saturated fingers,
here there and everywhere,
disguised by many a nom de guerre
the bus riding infrequently,
as work no longer demands me,
I ride for the occasional occasion, when legs won’t
carry me the far away distances
they say violence in the city
is random, and just seems worse,
seemingly a newspaper creation,
but I know better, and random violence &
poetry inspiration do not walk or talk
hand in hand, not for the hands that write…
in every crack, lamppost,
festooned
with flyers for concerts years ago,
poems reached out to me, write, right?
I too am papered with memories of long-ago
city travels, picking up scenes & dreams
that became poems, instantaneously, scrambling,
to get home with them retained, untainted,
preserved with the freshness of city smells,
city swells, homeless, rowdies & oldies shuffling,
the interwoven of disparate desperate humans,
fodder once and now for Walt Whitman’s leaves,
each distinct needy for something else,
but for me,
just one city big view, a Cloister’s museum tapestry,
remade, rewoven anew every moment of every day
and a poem-rough tumbles from
without
&
within
,
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
this is the news: a strange to do with all strange. some other kiwi in the hissing bliss of a fine day.
the spoils of bounty are ludicrous in disarray. a jumble of lumpkin, festooned in prayer-wheels and Tibet.
a fountain of open hands.
on the brink... on the terrace of counterfeit pantomimes
a man of days
darning socks and ultraviolet, with quasars for aspic.
a drunk pirouette -
bereft.
love is the one jungle you know when you're lost, and the last thing that made sense. All day.
the spoils of bounty are numinous, always. a trundle of frump-kin, immune to what feels like a guess.
" i refuse to sell my daddy's ranch! "
if you blink... i might tell you where you lost your mind.
an ace of spades
a Goldilocks and ultra violence, with ****** for aspirin.
a defunct smidgen
of less.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
afternoon's glint on the mirror-pond,
a whirling specimen of fire,
ocher-speckled, Sun's insignia
vessels deep into the clammy water;
furiously swaying like a pinned down
beast reluctant to be held—
Makati traffic jostles the silent grieving
of the asphalt. simultaneous burst of
chrome on the metal bodies,
oh, the coming and going,
children laughing vibrantly without
memory of scathing pasts and
boorish origins— tossing coins
beckoning the heaven in pursed lips
and clenched fists tender with years
dwindling along with the turning of
the calendar's page, the sudden leap
of figure lamenting the absence
of language;
i walk the street festooned with dried
leaves and forlorn seasons,
hurling no amaranth to the entire
Makati cityscape.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
I'm at that moment in the sleepover
Where I have a headache
From too many sweets and out of tune singing
We are both curled up on the bed under a blanket
Festooned with kernels of makeshift popcorn
The iPad is full of ridiculous videos
And the desk full of dreams on sheets
Of pure dove white paper
Except now it's covered
With glue sharpies and cutouts
But never mind
I couldn't care less now
Because I'm worrying about the money
All spent on food and clothes
Clothes that make you look like you had less food
Than you actually did
I know you're going to snore so bad
But right now I'm writing and laughing
At cheesy videos and hilarious quotes
I wish we could stay together always
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
She is the stained girl, a diffident dreamer
Who looks for the sun and the rain together
Her panache is to craft blissful memories
Festooned with vivid thoughts, her accessories
She is the stained girl, a feeble believer
Who relies on a happy ever after
Yet scared to be seen from her cheerful facade,
Something that would charge her of being a fraud
She saunters in the midst of the piqued storms
Resounding the hues of the jaundiced norms
Like a bird highlighted with vibrant plumes
To fly around the walls of perplexing rooms
She wears the best maquillage, old and new
To make everyone away from being blue
She offers her hair, those gilded strands
Yet they exploit her gift with their vicious hands
She is the stained girl who seeks for uprightness
Yet pain has shaped her with creased faithfulness
In front of a looking glass, there I see
That magnificent, stained girl looks like me.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day
but
social convention dictates,
that while taking the minutes,
of the meeting for
the arts faculty directorate,
thats NOT okay.
if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but my boss says,
it might be
difficult to tell a phd student NO to a grant application,
in a bath robe festooned with purple hippos drinking tea.
if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but
my husband tells me, POLITELY,
that jeggings,
are not best suited to my ruebenesque frame.
if it were up to me ....
but
apperently it's not.
.....so black pants cream shirt and vest it's to be
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Festooned with the heraldry of doom,
a gilded, wainscoted room,
whose occupants drink ale in an oozing swarm
while harpers harp a solemn tune.
The lioness gives obeisance to the new king
with an offering
of suffering,
and warm droplets of water...
Two fates inseparably soldered
by misfortune,
on this, the longest night
then toward the light
and not beyond.
Again, backwards, repetition, turning.
A yule tide with no pull
from the heavenly orb, burning.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Just, thought I, to escape a while,
Mundane light in the desk at home
On these splintered, black-tar roads
Marching, festooned in leaf and in rock
Snapping and scattering from underfoot.
My heavy breaths are this odd meter
In-out, in-out on this pavement slap
The knees are strained, down, the stream
Of rheumy little beads—lines! (I sense
Conception of a rare cadence
In which earth finds its synchrony).
‘Round the walls of rustic homes and will
To this walking gallery of the ‘ville
Ancient oaks, they lift their head and grin
To a sky beyond the storm, what with plumes
Unearthly fronds, dark with salmon painted on
Softened, its oil, burnt carnal black
That loose-end feeling holding it back.
Furrowed brow, I run with now
Sweet winds and pirouette
The dancers go amidst the leaves
Hold Hell high ‘bove white hands
Turned in deference and o,’ Arbor!
Your threshold live and saturnine
Entire eternities unfold now, silk scarf on
Goddess Eve, her halo proud
Gold embraced by Pink and now
She strides in by the choral geese
Flown to sing her godhead to sleep
Her rest had blest pain to leave me now
At those gates loud, effervescent
Shimmering, shimmering
In calm disbelief
And on
And on.
Back at the source, that in-between
Bare **** of the Fasick bridge
Magmatic pallets, on faces two
One shared tear drop, a cosmic breadth.
I saw from there the garden of stone
Lonely tombs in blamy play
Fruits sprung in those past lives.
I shared their rest for moment still
And back it goes, the nameless past
Where they exists as dreams, beside me.
Two sides, met then so diverged
I saw their peace where night emerged
Where pink embraced the dark
Went to rest on low horizons.
The world closed its lips and lids
Its eyes and loving heart
Bathed, it all, in low florescence
And lullaby of cicadas.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Walking by that isle
hope it will not reach its memories
to me
with all that red and pink and bows
festooned with ribbons, Doilies, flapping doves
Cartoon kisses
candy heart...ache
Doubt all the chocolates of
the lovesick world
could fit in those heart-shaped boxes
Crying out for dollars, Perfume, diamond rings
Isle end-caps filled with promises
carnations, roses
Gaudy sugar pleas –
Be mine!
Be My Valentine!
All the tiny candy hearts in the world
all 8 billion
strung end on end
could not –
Love U
Hug Me
Be Mine
You Fine
Hey Babe
Lets Rock
Luv Ya
Play Time
Adore
You Rock
Text Me
Hot Boy
Say Yes
Sweet One
The only hope of February – these
Meanwhile
Cupid –drunk, passed out
behind some barren trees
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 11:28 PM UTC
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee--
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,--
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
No pity dims our eyes . . .
How many others, like ourselves, this instant,
See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'
Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .
When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly,
And even those most like angels creep for schemes.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you,
Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.
But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring,
Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons
To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . .
And all these others who at your conjuration
Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,--
Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important,
Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces,
Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,--
Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting
This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways,
Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter,
Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows,
Lean to the music, rise,
And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion
With kindness in their eyes . . .
They say (as we ourselves have said, remember)
'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us!
And how it brings to mind forgotten things!'
They say 'How strange it is that one such evening
Can wake vague memories of so many springs!'
And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places,
They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime,
And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree.
With secret symbols they play on secret passions.
With cunning eyes they see
The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling,
The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . .
The pendulum on the wall
Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling;
Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.
1.3k