"gabled" poems
in such in was springtime (hollyhock and thistle) girls and boys went nudely up their downs, into crystal waters of crisply straying health (when all noontide swung wide its gabled darkness hutch) and boysandgirls (in holly) went winter in its touch.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
In Rājagaha the Well-Farer lectured
On wisdom, concentration, morality…
The monks listened, devoutly, calmly,
To the message replete with practicality.
On to Ambaliṭṭikā they journeyed,
To Nālandā and Pāṭaligāma as well.
The Buddha continued to spread the Dhamma--
Or teachings--at which he was known to excel.
After passing over the Ganges,
To Koṭigāma they made their way.
The Buddha repeated the Four Noble Truths
That still guide many people today.
At Nādikā the Teacher referred to the Mirror
Of Dhamma and said to always begin
By looking first at yourself to discover
The truth that lies deep within.
On to Vesālī the ascetics wandered,
Where their Master continued to share
The power and value of mindful living--
The importance of being clearly aware.
During the rains the Awakened One rested
In Beluva, where he postponed his trek.
While staying there he grew ill, but he knew
It was NOT his time, so it kept it in check.
"Live as islands," he said to Ānanda,
"With truth as a refuge. And grasp not, for I
Have always told you that all things dear to us--
Whatever is born--eventually will die."
After the rains, the group traveled
To the Great Forest--to the Gabled Hall,
And the Buddha repeated the Eightfold Path--
A message of wisdom pertaining to all.
Bhoganagara was their next stop,
And then to Pāvā the wayfarers did go.
Their host, Cunda, served "pig's delight."
The Buddha grew ill. Why? We don't know.
Despite his illness, he continued
To Kusinārā and lay down to rest.
Music sounded and flowers fell
From the sky to honor the One-Who-Is-Blessed.
"The Dhamma will now be your teacher.
Strive on untiringly. My time has passed."
After entering deep concentration
The Great One died. Those words were his last.
Thunder sounded and the ground shook--
As it does when any great teacher "goes to sleep."
The Buddha is Dhamma; the Dhamma is the Buddha.
Because of that there's no reason to weep.
The compassionate Buddha's Teachings have spread
For over two thousand five hundred years.
His Message of living in wisdom and compassion
And loving mindfulness perseveres.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
i
so
me t
imes
see in
those t
ranspar
ent eaves
the quick b
lack forest
of the panele
ss leaves the h
ithering blata
nt brains scurry
to and fro and fro a
nd too" their marki
ng frailing whizzin
g forth to which heaven
gabled songs the limp s
aints court and snuggle
gregariously the foiste
d girth of the black quick t
rees in there in their unrem
arkably souls i,ve watched t
hem go back and forth and forth
and black lithe brooding reams
of slow wood in them, there their
i'm starting to wear wear wearing
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:07 PM UTC
FRENCH KISS
*Such buttery lips
Sweet cream-silks, wrapping our tongues,
Je patisserie.*
Le VALENTINE
*Red rose and sweet prose
Cyrano DeBergerac's
Moonlit balconies.*
DESIRE
*Burning in goose flesh
Yearnings with caldera-thirst
Your kiss is like rain.*
DEBONAIR
*Dean in gabled suits
Eloquent body, jazz-smooth
Sweeps her off her feet.*
METEOR SHOWER
*Friday night space lights
As we caress the hours
Streaks across the sky*
ORIGAMI
*The creases of us:
Tales of dragons and white ships
Neatly folded sheets.*
VEGAS WEDDING
*Romance thru sun roofs
"Hallelujah" honeymoons
Marriage number two.*
BON VOYAGE
*Like wide sails that cup
The high winds of this marriage
I'm at Love's mercy.*
NAPE
*Warm whispers my lips
Down smooth meadows of your neck,
Sweet familiar bed.*
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
a stopping sort of started ending newing knewing sort of ended stopped and beganed sort of yesing sort of wooing newing
sortofandalso
alsok
i
nd of stopped starting begunning
like well gee the summer was a nasal laughing roughness kind of sort of.
i'd like to kind of
or else to maybe
with autumn who was distinctly haired
in rich arresting dead
that kind of starting stopping started
or well i'd like to think
it,swellwhynotanywaybecause noone never didn't atall even in the big gabled church of dawn that strung the sky with gelatinous heaving fibers
all rabidly gesticulating puffy sansfinger hands grimaced on the slender naked
blue and black and bursting sort of kind of because sinewed fluffy hammers on because wrists because
when you get all ***** in the mucky sterile daughters little pink little rose bud climbing open little rose bud up open big blooming like pink little sort of big sort of small sort of rose bud
you kind ofwell you clean kind of your you you clean kind of clean it straight razor cleaning your you
you cleaned with her big sharp little ******* all sharp and little and big under her shirts under her skirts kind of sort of because
that,s
wher
e
she keeps it she
keepsitin there
summer:
she was unfreezing fresh squeezed lemon wedges sugar hilltops sweaty laughing nightmares in the big in the pale in the cordial surly pillow thick skinny heaps of gobbled luscious hot raining balmy slow quaking deaths every day i stood on that hill and i looked out over the city and she was really well gee sort of because.... . . . . . , ; ' "
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 4:00 AM UTC
Nashville and Andromeda
by Michael R. Burch
I have come to sit and think in the darkness once again.
It is three a.m.; outside, the world sleeps . . .
How nakedly now and unadorned
the surrounding hills
expose themselves
to the lithographies of the detached moonlight—
******* daubed by the lanterns
of the ornamental barns,
firs ruffled like silks
casually discarded . . .
They lounge now—
indolent, languid, spread-eagled—
their wantonness a thing to admire,
like a lover’s ease idly tracing flesh . . .
They do not know haste,
lust, virtue, or any of the sanctimonious ecstasies of men,
yet they please
if only in the solemn meditations of their loveliness
by the ***** pen . . .
Perhaps there upon the surrounding hills,
another forsakes sleep
for the hour of introspection,
gabled in loneliness,
swathed in the pale light of Andromeda . . .
Seeing.
Yes, seeing,
but always ultimately unknowing
anything of the affairs of men.
Published by The Aurorean and The Centrifugal Eye
Keywords/Tags: Nashville, Andromeda, universe, cosmos, meditation, introspection, loneliness, alienation, pen, writing, night, darkness, sleep, moonlight, love, lover, affair, affairs, haste, lust, virtue, ecstasy, knowing, unknowing, aware, unaware, oblivious
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 9:21 PM UTC
it emits a curious colour when i am summer
(a curiously on edge colour)
when nights of me are balmy
and thick with viscous laughing
smoke between the necks of ladies
such musically ivory necks of ladies
a colour
(curiously) when
is Summer me? rests upon the
napes of trees in parks
where dirt and goldest
crush of dawn collide
with unmuscled violence
(this colour is me totally
ambiguous
and clear as
the rain dropless eaves of
heaven which are so ****
before the body of her
husband (the sun) who
in those mornings warmly
comes to her and penetrates
her smoothly scratching
the heaped body of the earth)
In summer curious,
colours are me
eyes, nose, knees, and hair
all hued
and erupting
gallons of fresh colour
and wade out into Summer
deep thighs burning cut by
the sharp petals of daffodils
and tulips. i set running hot
colours from each razored
hewing of my skin and fall
upward into gabled satisfied
skies forever
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
A blink and a yawn
and a grandiose
stretch
and a new day
begins
Bottle on the
nightstand
a reminder
to find
another
reason
The season
of withered
preoccupation
has come
and the longing
to find freedom
pushes extinction
back into the
realm of possibility
The ability to remain
slipping through my
jaded hands
while the demands
of society ring hollow
in the gabled corners
of my vacant soul
Pain
The only friend
who does not
shun my company
Pain
The only friend
whose end would
be of consequence
Pain
The only friend
I leave behind
to mourn my
existence
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
I sit before my window silent,
arms at rest upon the sill; I
sit and dream of silent things,
as the rain falls slanted upon
the gabled roof; winds sighing:
and watch the falling rain
appear, and silver streak the
window-pane. I sit and dream,
the world forgotten, and even
so do my dreamings change;
no more of sad forgotten silence,
color blooms behind my eyes,
and fills my mind with rainbow
light, shining, as the glow behind
the key-hole, as the blushing
dawn fresh washed in rain.
Thunder roars beyond
the pane, and lightning cracks
the sky in twain, but out of
revery, out of dream, I do
not wake for the crashing
din. Rather, then, in sudden
sequence, in a seconds flash
of swift cessation, no more of
color do I dream, no more
on rainbow laughing light,
but in the midst of a storm of
thunder, of lightning, and the
lashing rain, high above the
foundered land, I find myself:
and amidst all that raging
torrent, between the thunder,
and the wrath of Gods most
holy lightning, a single drop of
silver shining, strikes the
point between my eyes,
wherein the third sleeping
oculus of dream doth
dwell; and I wake. A leak
in the roof.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
Skin, the
girl you're
in. sleepsso
furiously amongst
the roots of chaste flowers
i twould
(to loose by touches febrile)
the flock; your gabled arch
unroost so mightily
tempests even would swoon
(and sodden every desert parched)
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
chin lightly nested atop
loosely peopled interlaced fingers
supported via multi purpose table
bent arms displayed elbows cocked
(approximately gabled
at ninety degree angle),
which pose frequently assumed
when pondering what to write,
an idea spawned when clothed left fingered limb
inadvertently roiled the so called "funny bone"
named because of funny feeling generated
when Ulnar nerve compression
triggers pseudo shock sensation
coursing one direction or another
traveling from neck down into hand
constricted in several places along the way
such as beneath collarbone
or at wrist
most common place for compression
(hands down)
behind inside part of elbow
medical terminology tagged
"cubital tunnel syndrome."
interestingly enough, this scribe attests
more frequent occurrences along
liberal democratic side
no matter I claim dominant right handedness
and reckon eyes that human body electric
eel silly not perfectly symmetric
also chiming in that such vulnerability
a very minor design flaw
extant within the amazing
**** Sapiens anatomy.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC
*A Sentimental Journey Home
Sunlight slanting in the pane
and Lighting up the floor.
Ivy creeping to the roof
Just like it did before.
At the fence the stately pine
almost reaches to the skies.
A mourning willow sways to and fro
beneath its thousand sighs.
Along the pathway flowers grow
As every year they do:
forget me nots catch morning dew
like tears in their eyes of blue.
A familiar place yet not the same.
The stone has darker grown
And Lichen covers the gabled roof
since I was still at home.
We have changed these passing years
yet here I am once more.
With only echoes ever calling me
From sweet voices of before.
Within my sweetest memory
The sounds of long ago
are calling to me gently
as they whisper oh so low.
The voices fade with shadows dark
inside the broken door
And my tears are seeing what has been
That haunts me evermore.*
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
frail i, in moonlight shall, march
up wisp of spring
into gabled spilt
juice
of curving dawn
orange
whose rind
like the human also
drys
withers
sloughs
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
They'd lived on the flats, humdrum home in a prosaic town.
Those gabled edifices perched on hilltops
Beyond their means, perhaps,
But certainly beyond their needs;
Their children had cribbed at the foot of their bed
To the detriment of sleep and other night-time activities,
And they'd later shared a room, learning early on
That life was often a make-do vocation,
But could be rife with joys in spite of that.
The kids moved on, to mirth and mortgages of their own,
Their parents resolute in their desire to stay put,
Eschewing the siren song of some trailer court in Sarasota,
Some gator-patrolled condo in St. Pete,
Choosing to confront the seemingly never-ending residue
Of stubborn low pressure systems
Lugubriously wandering up the St. Lawrence valley
For weeks upon end,
The humidity and mosquito-laced all too brief summers
(Though, on those nights where no pop-up thunderstorm
Threatened to chase them back inside,
They would sit on the porch, peering at the gravelly old hills,
And he would whistle some tune from some long ago,
Perhaps pulling her out of her chair,
Dancing a slow and somewhat unsteady waltz
While he did his damnedest to stay on key.)
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
The pretense of circular reasoning paints the eyes
a misty shade of dull.
Eyes that view, from the dragon perch
of a counterclockwise carousel,
imagined scenery with a sprinkling of dreams.
A Gothic vision of crashing waves
against the grayish cliffs
that rise to a foggy grass clad plain
where sits the emblematic gabled home
with ****** in the windows.
The calliope moans a dragging tune
to match it's steady spin.
the sound of wind through tarnished brass
archaic and unsettling, a broken drag
of whiny sounding notes in a symphony of impotence.
You seem to look and dress the part
of the person you portray;
feigning superficiality for acceptance in the world
I, myself, am not for a second fooled.
You are the very essence of substance and depth
The carousel comes to a gradual halt
a hesitant dismount;
back to your prison of practicality and need;
visions pass from ominous to pastoral tranquility
The eccentric dragon of blue and gold awaits your return.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Deans in gabled suits
Eloquent body, jazz smooth,
Sweeps her off her feet.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
across her golden, gabled field
i saw you--
my beloved, detested, metallic colossus
--once starry-eyed, once honey-skinned,
we bathed in that shrill of your voice,
how endlessly shimmering
it was.
as if to suggest disturbance to the sky,
your darkened eyes pierce upwards
they pierce the sky
and pierce the clouds
and pierce my own.
they are your sabers--i realize
all too late
--forgive me, my beloved, detested, grotesque,
your screams were strung on telephone poles
while your blood irrigated these wheatfields,
and we relished in that ignore and in that bliss
and in that love.
so, my beloved, detested, unholy
swing the iris's hilt--
how i beg of you
--and tear down the rain.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 6:41 AM UTC