"filigreed" poems
1.
There was the tremor of leaves,
a rustle of bayonet grass
parried the multihued calm
of dawn's smeared light.
"This is what we trained for," the captain said.
We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.
2.
Filigreed shafts of light pierce
the bullet perforated leaf canopy,
bellowed yells punctuate the swirl
and buffet of turbulent air:
“Contact”, “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “
"Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.
3.
Fingers twitch, the grit of soil
twisted through their grip;
moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells,
Earth exhales a vermillion mist,
rising, echoless, in this cathedral of leaves.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
A visitor—
icicle fingers
tapping on my windows' pain—
white blanket in tow
Hurting enough, I paid him no mind
so he kept tap, tap, tapping
‘til cobweb-like cracks appeared:
a final, gentle tap
shatters my windows
My rainbow world
now smothered, pallid,
forced into boredom and slumber,
sunlight chased away
and I am never the same again…
Soul gets plunged deep in the cold
blinded by whiteness, numbed with simplicity
there is an eerie stillness,
almost as if no one dared to breathe,
even the barren trees refused to quiver
brittle dendrites seem to claw the sky
futile though, for they are frozen,
grasping at nothingness,
clouds stubborn and stoic,
brooding in silent grayness
…and then from within, a filigreed whisper escapes
palpable and brave~
it weaves its way through the branches,
gathering strength wherever it went
it beckons to the sky, which in turn
gives in and celebrates ~
letting dainty confetti fall
white, yet amazingly graceful
each flake falls softly on the ground—
a fashionable brocade
trees softly sway now,
and dance to a winter song
the sky weeps with happiness
for seeing a glimpse of life—
diamond teardrops
they catch a bit of evasive sunlight,
of which I thought I’ve lost
and give birth to miniature rainbows…
all this time, Sunlight was there
I just
never knew
how to
catch
it.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 9:37 AM UTC
Intricate pattern of the night
Brought to life by silver rays
Close mesh of designs
Filigreed artistry all over
Softened sighs wake up desires
Splashing the colors of night
Dripping with passionate fervor
Both the canvases pristine
Waiting to be exploited
By the artistry of the suave artists
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
*The filigreed pendant
Adorning your neck
With a drop of red ruby
A drop of your Love
Straight from your heart
Close to your *****
You hold the aura of charm
To enthrall me in a maze
Which leads to your heart
The filigreed pendant
Holds me to your fate*
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
Crocodile tears
A crying caterpillar's fears
A monarchy tottering
on empty childhood years
What will come of this?
Who will hear the cosmos crying?
My ancient mewling star
dripping filigreed, gaseous drops
of pure, unadulterated heart-break
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Sailing the mystic omnipresent seas,
on a craft made of dragonfly's wings.
Tacking across the magical breeze,
caused by songs that the sirens sing.
Weathered and worn by infinite tides,
holding lines made of eternal foible.
The warrior's blade like a rudder she rides,
in a sheath made of filigreed sable.
Virulent flow of futurity's pandemic,
vibrant waters fertile subtle surreal.
Ephemeral beings translucent endemic,
purveys omnipresent augur's appeal.
The starlit sky imbues waterfall's mist,
myriad creatures seek eternity's mantra.
Vivid delineations of artistry's gist,
seeking virile omnipotent yantra.
Celestial heights where eagles traverse,
soaring and gliding we learn to fly.
Must life be terminal we say of terse,
whilst composing music to make angels sigh.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
The night is speaking like a cascade.
She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
Sunk in the deep sea
of Sargasso eyes
I stay quiet and don’t find words.
And the scars on your hand
are fading, in order to burn
in my heart.
Oh, sailboats after a long trip
with all the winds in the sails –
sand is calling you.
But it isn’t death!
Oh, it isn’t the end too!
The hand
is going to knock up a hut for you
and in the wide garden
it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…
And I am a sign
The original:
Нощта говори като водоскок
Нощта говори като водоскок.
Преплита филиграрно светлини и сенки.
Потънал във дълбокото море
на сарагасови очи
мълча и не намирам думи.
И белезите на ръката ти
се губят, за да горят
във моето сърце.
О, платноходи след дългото пътуване
със всички ветрове в платната –
зове ви пясък.
Но не е смърт!
О, това не е и краят!
Ръката
ще ви скове на дом
и във широката градина
ухае на магнолии и на ръкописи…
И аз съм знак.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
In soft afternoon sunlight, flopped on my small yellow couch, I look over to the shadowed side of the room.
My apartment is pretty sparse, but in pride of place upon some modular furniture there is a white marble mantle clock that used to belong to my grandparents.
It is imperfect: part of the pedimented top is gone; it only works sometimes when I wind it up.
But it is beautiful, particularly its face of ornate numbers surrounded by a bronze filigreed bezel.
I majorly coveted the clock when I would go visit my grandparents as a girl.
After once being shown how to open the glass cover over the face—such a satisfying click when it opened—I was unable to resist doing so each time I saw the clock, lightly touching and pushing its hour and minute hands, probably contributing to its current damaged state.
Looking at it now takes me back to my grandparents’ home and those moments when I would wander around the house and yard while the adults conversed in the kitchen, the hush of the house a little nerve-wracking.
Where were my grandparents when they bought this clock?
What did they think would happen for the rest of their lives?
I research the clock’s provenance online, looking for the maker and model, and imagine my grandfather selecting this particular clock with care, wanting something to fit the house, the family.
I open a YouTube video of a horologist—who knew?—and he greets me amid a pleasant patter of ticking from the collection of clocks behind him.
I look again at my clock.
Find the meaning in the marble.
Those ornate numbers, that shape of classical architecture—they quietly reproach me.
Am I going about my hours with the dignity that these shapes suggest?
In the face of the clock I see the face of my grandfather, and while the clock does not strike, I hear the voice of my grandfather intoning slowly and deliberately—maybe trying to sound a bit wiser than he was—but wise all the same.
I am still attracted to all things shiny, but hopefully am more restrained now.
I stop the video, and the room is quiet again.
My smartphone is the only accurate timepiece in my apartment, and it of course does not tick.
It has its own sort of shine, a friendly colorful brightness from the dotting of apps on the home screen, but to save the battery I have set it to go black after a few minutes.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Sailing the mystic omnipresent seas,
on a craft made of dragonfly's wings.
Tacking across the magical breeze,
caused by songs that the sirens sing.
Weathered and worn by infinite tides,
holding lines made of eternal foible.
The warrior's blade like a rudder she rides,
in a sheath made of filigreed sable.
Virulent flow of futurity's pandemic,
vibrant waters fertile subtle surreal.
Ephemeral beings translucent endemic,
purveys omnipresent augur's appeal.
The starlit sky imbues waterfall's mist,
myriad creatures seek eternity's mantra.
Vivid delineations of artistry's gist,
seeking virile omnipotent yantra.
Celestial heights where eagles traverse,
soaring and gliding we learn to fly.
Must life be terminal we say of terse,
whilst composing music to make angels sigh.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
the same toothless chatter heard always
bruised biceps scratched with defensive wounds
too hungover for spanish class
so it’s a bowl of kief for the remedy
I’m singing in the rain
only it’s sunny out
and the toads are all escaping
hop up on another high
and scrape up against a new low
are we there yet?
Rock Bottom looks a lot like your apartment
forge filigreed with fools gold
black eyes and sore knees
soaking wet sleeping in a doorway
so long as the DMT is purple and not orange
then we’ll soon be biblical prophets
touched by God so that we could better understand
that the dishes aren’t going to do themselves
ever tried to pronounce psilocybin when you’re tripping?
cough medicine has another meaning
it’s just like the music videos
only my heart is exploding
my chest caving in
and the hurricane inside my head is blind
spark up another sweet
and pour another glass of sour
be well rested
tomorrow you’ve got another spanish class to not go to
I just took too much
all of these walls are still spinning
holy **** I’m high
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Hummingbird-hawk-moth and honeysuckle
Dewey aroma wafts, whilst luscious colors lure
Tubes of flower half full with nectar buckle
Furred insect cares not posy’s thoughts impure
Yet lured, yes lured, to stamens ***** quite more
Fancied moth puts out its long filigreed tongue
Anthers reaching for coveted wings to dust
Objectifying prey, tempting juices corolla young
Wild waltzing flight circulating pollen in lust
Honeysuckle’s sweet sensual seduction a must
Qualities as these voluptuous encounters
Reveal to mind complex ****** intricacy
Flower employing moth as vehicle mounter
Carrying to other blossoms pistol’s ecstasy
Nature’s chance romantic dance of delicacy
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
Sailing the mystic omnipresent seas,
on a craft made of dragonfly's wings.
Tacking across the magical breeze,
caused by songs that the sirens sing.
Weathered and worn by infinite tides,
holding lines made of eternal foible.
The warrior's blade like a rudder she rides,
in a sheath made of filigreed sable.
Virulent flow of futurity's pandemic,
vibrant waters fertile subtle surreal.
Ephemeral beings translucent endemic,
purveys omnipresent augur's appeal.
The starlit sky imbues waterfall's mist,
myriad creatures seek eternity's mantra.
Vivid delineations of artistry's gist,
seeking virile omnipotent yantra.
Celestial heights where eagles traverse,
soaring and gliding we learn to fly.
Must life be terminal we say of terse,
whilst composing music to make angels sigh.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Slipping through winter-grass
you falter, pausing
fall softly back
against summer's wall
Here
in the haze of dust and trees
are shadows playing
of antlered men and women with eagle-heads
saying
"Come by
the paths winding through bedroom walls
standing tall, overlook the
gardens that stretch through books
they smell of lemons.
Come, here you may
follow trams winding through sun-slumped cities
follow the paintings of emerald fish
swimming across marble floors
and you can tour the first world countries
and you can stare into the eyes
of passers-by on trains
watch lights like necklaces plastered against rivers
cities forsaken by gods and rains
Here dogs will sing of your virtues
And chariots their tyres will spring
here markets will sell you filigreed
silver
and *********** fit for kings
(complete with crowns and things)
You may stand aloft on slender buildings
watch traffic swirl by your feet
dip your fingers in amethyst rings
dye your hair in deepest indigo
feast on rose-coloured sweets
While
stepping
through rain-damped streets
dazed by sulky pressing aquarium
heat
(aided to press on only by
clay cups of spiced tea)
become transparent
dew-lapped
milk soft
mushroom with lacy edges
variations of delicacy
Exeunt
And
Journeying
be mulberry blooded
carnival skinned
roam through our words heeding nothing
but
dreams and the dreams of dreams."
So saying
these shadows
flick along yellow grass.
But remember kind reader, they
never sought these ways alone
They have never been to mourn
at funerals of lovers or friends
they have not heard the sound of death knells.
So listen, maybe you stay for a bit
Then leave their songs for someone else.
--- --- ---
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
in my dream of spirals
we meet on the stairs
at the shoulder of the world
may i? i ask as i gather you in my arms;
in our cloak of words
our filigreed cocoon of thought
here, in our dawn of skin
we shine softly
and spill from a thousand kisses
through an open window
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
Swift little flickers, frostbitten butterflies seek cause for silent tickers.
Errant thoughts muzzled, fearful to fly, forever puzzled.
Every place wrestling for resemblance: filigreed and brimming with brilliance
Kept their dizzy daydreams quite upright, poured over their faceted faces in hours twilight.
Inken sketches, florid smudges later you will find the carnage.
Nearly melted, beat those frosted wings, keep your wits about you, pretty things.
Go, flick and fleet: their flight; fly, fly always towards the light.
Soft whispers give way to angry hisses
Ever less goodness, evermore thoughtless.
Restless sounds of puncture wounds, outpouring of broken tunes.
Earth trodden ashes of the unforgiven writings call to halt the lashings.
No one hearing, none recalling the precious dress of lacing.
Intellect sparked, soon be doused; any voice of inspiration, oust.
Theft of name, take them to another unmarked grave, twisted game.
Young remember as their elders told in fright, 'fly, fly; always towards the light.'
Taste the soot on your tongue, the burn in your lungs, the breath of change this way comes.
Here they hunt thieves in the mist, starving fireflies on a mad tryst.
Run, fast and far they did, into the wastes they wade: anxious of judgment to be paid.
On the precipice you balance, guided by the insurgent cadence...
Under the needle all the more urgent it becomes, you fight with fists and tongues, pens, curses and drums!
Grow to regret their callosity for all your darling thought by the fervor with which you fought!
Hear the chorus of the masses screaming with all their might, their battle cry, "Fly, fly; always towards the light!"
Snowflakes listen in chaste wonderment of the divine's grand design.
Mutiny of the very worst kind, slaughter and smother your peace and mind.
Ostentatious trimmings traded for ember dress to set light to falsifiers' fortress.
Keen intellects, driven mad with hunger, retract their reticent mantles to reveal peerless sentinels.
Eternally seeking serenity through smoke, as in ancient rite they fly, fly; always towards the light.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
your priggish mien is too obscene
your loftiness bought with a spoon
you believe you're great
but really your fate
will be to slink back inside your filigreed rooms
your palace won't talk or balk at your whims
shelter from the minions to be appeased therein
you'll be safely ensconced on your imaginary throne
though the "stupid" servants must remain
they'll cater to your delusions so puffed up and vain
sycophants, suck-ups, yes-men you require
ring-kissing genuflecting servitude for the sire
still your convoluted mind is so much muck and mire
owning a computer shan't make you a writer
possessing a library won't make you brighter
having a calculator doth not make a mathematician
dearth of dialectics and paucity of vocabulary
nary ever an orator or articulate politician
get back in your place witless purveyor of haste
your knee-jerk hackneyed spiel lacks fervor and taste
those that admire you are fools for the taking
as contrived and duplicitous as your majesty of faking
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
Sailing the mystic omnipresent seas,
on a craft made of dragonfly's wings.
Tacking across the magical breeze,
caused by songs that the sirens sing.
Weathered and worn by infinite tides,
holding lines made of eternal foible.
The warrior's blade like a rudder she rides,
in a sheath made of filigreed sable.
Virulent flow of futurity's pandemic,
vibrant waters fertile subtle surreal.
Ephemeral beings translucent endemic,
purveys omnipresent augur's appeal.
The starlit sky imbues waterfall's mist,
myriad creatures seek eternity's mantra.
Vivid delineations of artistry's gist,
seeking virile omnipotent yantra.
Celestial heights where eagles traverse,
soaring and gliding we learn to fly.
Must life be terminal we say of terse,
whilst composing music to make angels sigh.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 12:56 PM UTC
***Consecrate me in your madness
sanctify this communion,
sketch me in bursting metaphorical hues,
color'd tinges blushed of cardinal's soft sonnets
paint a picture within inky filigreed lace,
finely woven silken thread'd tapestries
my religion breathes your affinity
harmony's rapport of favored essence
twist poetry into my hair, whilst
dancing upon the music in your stanza's hymn
bathe me in peachy champagne bubbled prose
suffuse butterfly shivers up my spine
i breathe the air you've fervidly script'd
etch'd in blood flow awakens my senses,
the emotions artistes' bleed out
you are my strength, my power
my weakness, my Achilles heel ~
swooning in the phases of your darkly lit moons
cut me deep into the heart & gut
piercing movement of echoes unfold.
moving majestic amethyst mountains,
shred my soul with your dragon's breath
anoint my ******* oils that seep from thy quill
make me punch drunk aberration's tipsy
drenching me in sparkling scarlet wine
clinging from the vines of destiny's path
my soul's existence is solely dependent
upon your utterly blissful verses within Elysian Fields***
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Winter whimpers as it slips away.
Tiny leaf buds tip the filigreed branches.
How fresh the air, and sweet the breeze!
My heart quickens!
I know something is about to happen.
The world whispers secrets in my ear.
My senses are all prickling and alive!
Burst my fetters and let me fly!
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 12:41 AM UTC
Instruction
by Michael R. Burch
Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the prettified tide
of sunset.
Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset
of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs
and my heart sighs with her—
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.
The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,
are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.
Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly.
Keywords/Tags: instruction, sunset, night, skies, wind, sighs, moon, silver, portent, sea, stars
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 4:40 AM UTC