"foliated" poems
I. Neptune’s Theater
A rock spins through the universal tumbler
and its warm blue pools calcify
as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath
builds a lace castle with his fingertips
Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald
where painted parrots chat up cardinals
butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse
and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.
Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched
free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem
beneath an array of bioluminescent stars
as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.
II. Sapien Siege
The hot acidic hand of death grasps
the mesh rends and tangles
the ecosystem shattered
reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.
Butterflies impaled
cyanide-swooning damsels
mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward
coral to potash, corpses to coal.
The pretender to the throne blinks
rubs blurry lenses,
kicks plastic fins
and moves on to the next show
Unseeing and unaware
of the luminous filament in his wake.
Self-appointed divinity,
deus ex machina.
*******************************************************************************************
Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
sleepy eyes open glimpse high ceiling red wood beams house built in 1920s glance out window tree tops blue skies mountains in distance flock of birds flying east chirping sounds passing car engine accelerates inhale deep breath through nose stretch legs plantar dorsal flex feet raise arms over head stiffness in shoulder feel strange sensitivity in right pectoral above ****** cautiously examine with hands feel coarse lump growing more like nub smell moss glare down at growth protruding from chest panicky by soreness rise from bed to mirror on closet door tree stem jutting out from chest inspect dark bark like calloused growth little leafs budding this cannot be race in nervous tantrum run to bathroom suffer painful weight pulling me down clutching carrying foliated limb with arms see myself in mirror horrified stagger back to bed lie on right side branch resting on mattress breathe anxious breaths reexamine pectoral area feel sinewy roots spreading under skin across chest up neck down over stomach waist legs forget how to get home disorientated nauseous exhausted what is this flora invading me ******* kafka metamorphosis post-modern hyper-real narration without accountability jorge luis borges metaphor without mindfulness fairytale run wild jean baudrillard simulacrum psychosis room now filling with plant undergrowth stinking of earth dirt gooey slugs worms shells bugs festering climbing towards windows voracious for light warmth moisture blocking out morning sun entire body trapped in tangled twisted leafy twigs excruciating pain fright lungs gasping suffocating encroaching darkness fatigue loss surrender wake up 4 AM from nightmare scared to fall back to sleep
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
Without you here,
I've been able to name stars after myself
And ***** my fingers on roses that I've planted in my own garden
I've read and written poetry because I have identified myself with confidence and happiness
And the throbbing constant ache is at a dull hum
I'm foliated sketches and the dog-earing of my favorite pages.
I am the prayer I say at night before bed and the gratitude I feel in the morning
And without you here,
I am still all of those and so much more
Without you here
I am so much more
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 5:01 AM UTC
I saw a foliated Beatle, playing guitar
he looked like a reject for bleeding Ringo Star
a slug had wiped it's trail in it's sleepy state
yet he was so desperate it was all far too late
Then he was stuck, ... stuck in the mire
and his warts were growing and on fire
he cursed the day that he was born
he would not be father of any spawn
Then she ripped him up
then she ate him up
to there was nothing left
nothing left of him
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
0 0 0 0
\ /
\/
***The desire tree,
chopped down,
stumped,
unattended,
since long....
But the rain
nourished it
and few shoots
foliated anew...***
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ************ of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.
Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "
(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
*Oh my delicate twig, be careful, blown away you might be!
Be careful as you sway amidst branches adorned with thorns, torn you might be!
Oh sweet one, don’t take my words of caution as an attempt to shackle.
Just words they are, born out of concern, concern for you my love.
And yes do forgive my perception of you, perception of being weak.
It’s just the way this world is, the strongest are broken by the winds of malice.
Anyway, now I will stay afar and never be the one to hold you back.
But never will I be too far. Always ready, to shelter you under my expanse foliated.*
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
Somethings are forever.
Like a last goodbye, swelling into a deep lullaby.
Or like new beginnings under a reign of tiny kisses.
Eyes illuminated,
Heart incinerated,
Mind foliated,
Soul encapsulated.
My emotions are a crutch,
My will, feels like it doesn't weigh much.
Death bed.
Flat line
Passion reborn.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC