"foundlings" poems
You make me feel wistful
With your tight bellies, limpid eyes and endless manes of hair,
You make me feel afraid.
Dainty Angels,
I can't...Quite...Remember...
You make me feel jealous
With your waiflike allure, sad vulnerability, delicate beauty,
You make me feel inadequate.
Fairy Foundlings,
I won't...ever...be....
You make me feel ancient
Outside, dated and decrepit.
How do you feel? What do you need?
Why are you all so sad?
My dreams are your nightmares.
I tasted raindrops once, too
I almost have it, almost understand.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
Foundlings lament beneath their shrouds
For the Givers they never knew.
Shouts of terror, gone unheard, loud
And bright in the fright of selected few.
Shadows cast beneath sunlight's flags
Are trademarked captions made of stained silk.
They trod the daylit bog in dusty rags,
Secretly living, they and their ilk.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
flesh smirks cautiously
silent beehives squelching elk
leaps glumly, mules snarl
bluebird builds, rigid
foundlings disappear lamely
incarnations peck
raw conjurers acts
devious shady agile
rosemary boasts, stare
starflower hovers
depression gives birth snidely
harps romping mustang
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
O vicious household gods of Rome
you Manes, Lares, Muses, Fates
who justified patrician homes,
whose reign this poem celebrates,
Allow me now, in retrospect
to excavate, then analyze.
Depravity with cause, connect;
depriving you of alibis.
Relax your stiff noetic poise
as my plebeian pen records
through lyrical poetic noise
the crown imperial crime awards.
My lines, like foundlings, long to ****
a mother’s milk in measured draft
and dredge some gold from Tiber’s muck;
Lord Christ: illuminate my craft.
ROMULUS, let that wolf-tit go
and REMUS too – unlatch that breast…
milk of Etruscan madness, flow,
with empire’s crimes forthwith confessed.
We will not blame your leaden wares
nor ergot mold in rancid bread
for genocidal state affairs,
brutality, and martyred dead.
The Circus, leering, restless, loud,
cheers gladiatorial excess.
The haunted forum’s phantom-crowd
awaits the tyrant’s next address.
He speaks. The wind blows through the arches
stirring up the roadside litter.
Trumpets blare. The legion marches.
Empire’s aftertaste is bitter.
You were Antichrist. That is all.
We cannot dignify your past
or glorify from whence you fall
or praise the mold from which you’re cast.
Christ traveled far from Galilee –
came, saw, conquered – and on it goes.
Our king shall reign eternally;
that she-wolf’s milk no longer flows.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Shush, stop replaying echos of the past
they have been blown by the east winds
right to the cliffs of the angelic twists
and I stare at the window, as everything moves
like the sun never rose
and the moon never shone
never surrender to their voices
as the hollowed beats of their soul
is an empty sack of sarcastic laughter
founded by the foundlings of St Elizabeth
who litter the Aspire asylum with loathe
and the troops of their dusty bags vent
to the charcoaled hues of the ceiling
Where the castaways truly hide inspired
as emptiness get inhaled in the alveoli
to the dense of the unpenetrated amoeba
and they all get sick, in a dread of a century
Let’s run.....It’s the borbounic plague taking its toil
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
taut the barb which my heart
flung away and adorned – such language is black while
many others have their places that silence
had fractured.
the punctual shadow of the night,
I converse in them
through the pulse of the roots and their
consistent counter-beats.
the many others, whose centers encircle
heavy in their viscera:
enisled as a conference of birds
in plenitudes of brindled mouths – the augury
that sees itself, my full being – this nocturne
of stone-flight. the cosmic working of the sky
that hands me, a necklace of stars which implausible pearls
simmer in fond gleaming: these foundlings that are
dreamt away, and named innumerably across
many other anonymities we recall with a throng of sound.
in my hands the night folds like an origami
conscious of its florid ikebana,
as there could be another splendid thing
like the calm: glimpsed, coveted like the light
of all things grave in darkness.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
The most beautiful poem is written on a shroud,
As if the stars closed their eyelids at seeing the gods die,
But still-gauzy foundlings like cities of dusted sunlight,
Bound so long between the pillars of Athens and Rome,
Disconsolate remnants in after-golds and winding sheets of stone.
The most beautiful poem speaks only to death,
So it may know something of our loss, our bereftness,
And like the turnkey of afternoon to evening
Under the warm-felt pressure of our reminiscing hands,
We too shall pass like long-limbed sunset along the barren grass,
Like so many solitary walks bundled up in Autumn mists,
And eyes filled with someone once there and absences to come.
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 5:40 PM UTC
Like leaves falling down
Crumbling listening to Freddy
As he sang the ballad so sadly
Helplessly I succumb and drown
Such are matters of the heart
No one is ever too cunning or smart
For the cause we become foundlings
Victims we are nothing but weaklings
So what is there to deliberate
“You broken my heart” Freddy says
“Bring it home to me” and he prays.
But there’s only heartbreak to calibrate
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Forest in morning—
Mellow sun rapt in branches,
. . . Hair tangled in mine.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
.
From the eyes' corner, no surprise,
As leaves, are shaking on the trees,
The startled birds of new made eyes,
Two flights converge as fresh memories.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
From the eyes' corner, no surprise,
As leaves, are shaking on the trees,
The startled birds of new made eyes,
Two flights converge as fresh memories.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
Forest in morning—
Mellow sun rapt in branches,
. . . Hair tangled in mine.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC