"gilds" poems
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, thier balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
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The engine is killing the track, the track is silver,
It stretches into the distance. It will be eaten nevertheless.
Its running is useless.
At nightfall there is the beauty of drowned fields,
Dawn gilds the farmers like pigs,
Swaying slightly in their thick suits,
White towers of Smithfield ahead,
Fat haunches and blood on their minds.
There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers,
The butcher's guillotine that whispers: 'How's this, how's this?'
In the bowl the hare is aborted,
Its baby head out of the way, embalmed in spice,
Flayed of fur and humanity.
Let us eat it like Plato's afterbirth,
Let us eat it like Christ.
These are the people that were important ----
Their round eyes, their teeth, their grimaces
On a stick that rattles and clicks, a counterfeit snake.
Shall the hood of the cobra appall me ----
The loneliness of its eye, the eye of the mountains
Through which the sky eternally threads itself?
The world is blood-hot and personal
Dawn says, with its blood-flush.
There is no terminus, only suitcases
Out of which the same self unfolds like a suit
Bald and shiny, with pockets of wishes,
Notions and tickets, short circuits and folding mirrors.
I am mad, calls the spider, waving its many arms.
And in truth it is terrible,
Multiplied in the eyes of the flies.
They buzz like blue children
In nets of the infinite,
Roped in at the end by the one
Death with its many sticks.
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Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
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Before a Creole love call, and a curdled Cajun moon
the bay water laps about pierrot, bay grass, and wading egret knuckle
Treading through his mucky labyrinthine mistress, and wind-knitted mire
beak prods pock, and inundate in the same instant
silt gilds his bill as he finally snaps about scaly sustenance
Sated
Wings boom and beckon in the darkness
Lift
Scooped in pearl beam, he commands the aeriform
An ether opus bellows about his form
Drying silt disintegrates from aerodynamic bill
Dribbling about in a forgotten slant in the darkness
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!
Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
Should e'er unhappy love my ***** pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed---
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!
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Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Comes from Nigeria with a name like drums
Comes from Africa with the sun behind his back.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao,
Mr. Ibiyinka with a smile in his hands,
Mr. Ibiyinka with a girl's shoulders in his hands
Life, he says, she is alive
She dances.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Paints like the sun gilds hills and fields
Paints like the moon silvers water and thatched roofs.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao
Freezes music into colors that dance
Freezes drums in a quilt of art from every place.
Frozen, he says, like water
Like a heartbeat.
Djembe, Conga, Bongo
Coming from Africa with the skins of goats
Coming from the fields and the homes and the dirt roads
Medium, large, and small
Speaking every language.
Ibiyinka, Ibiyinka Alao -
Djembe, Conga, Bongo.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
When daybreak gilds the sky with rose
She wakens, her glad heart afire
Yearning in poems dreams to disclose.
Sighing she lays such dreams away
To give housecats their morning food,
Hoping to write another day.
And though the morning brief may be,
She helps her children with homeschool
Bridging lives for eternity.
Three miles trudging to stay all noon
Helping a crippled neighbor friend,
Then sighs to see the day die soon.
Homeward she steals 'neath setting rays.
On battered Steinway plays a hymn
Blending with softly gloaming dim.
She feeds the frightened strays so thin
Shiv'ring in blustering wind and cold,
Doleful as night comes howling in.
The clock strikes two, she falls asleep
Too weary to pen dying dreams,
Trusts someday glad harvest to reap.
~Hilda~
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
I deemed thy garments, O my Hope, were grey,
So far I viewed thee. Now the space between
Is passed at length; and garmented in green
Even as in days of yore thou stand’st to-day.
Ah God! and but for lingering dull dismay,
On all that road our footsteps erst had been
Even thus commingled, and our shadows seen
Blent on the hedgerows and the water-way.
O Hope of mine whose eyes are living love,
No eyes but hers,—O Love and Hope the same!—
Lean close to me, for now the sinking sun
That warmed our feet scarce gilds our hair above.
O hers thy voice and very hers thy name!
Alas, cling round me, for the day is done!
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a good too many
snaps and cracks
from the skeletal forest
a gentle brushing
from an acrylic wind
that promenades itself
on marble toes
that crack and shatter
in gouache throes of
violence that
gilds the branches in
flowing starlight
a craggy ribcage
of sprouts and succulents
that paint a scene with
watercolor irony
an eager scrawling
of earthbound rabble
that hops freight trains
and skips life away
a conflict of self
flourished in opals
and ravished in
scented velvet
a good too many
fears and
desires
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
Ancient air beneath the stars,
Spilling under midnight's face,
Every glowing, hanging cloud
Is an amulet’s silvered trace.
Cast from broken spells of moonlight
Clinging to the pearly beams,
Like unseen spiders spinning silks
To pin a fairy's silver wings.
While she gilds the waiting dawn
With what the newborn angels sing,
In sunrise colors newly minted
For the newborn day they bring.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
The Spirit breathes upon the word,
And brings the truth to sight;
Precepts and promises afford
A sanctifying light.
A glory gilds the sacred page,
Majestic like the sun;
It gives a light to every age,
It gives, but borrows none.
The hand that gave it still supplies
The gracious light and heat;
His truths upon the nations rise,
They rise, but never set.
Let everlasting thanks be thine,
For such a bright display,
As makes a world of darkness shine
With beams of heavenly day.
My soul rejoices to pursue
The steps of Him I love,
Till glory break upon my view
In brighter worlds above.
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Autumn Moon
Autumn moon hung over in fire over the hill's
the wild black promontories of the coast extend
as fare as the eyes could see,
I need a place on the sea away from us away and
away from what we could be.
one winter afternoon sunlight that gilds the cobbled
streets of Montreal ,
I saw a small village outside Paris ,
beyond the light beyond the sun That is where my heart
hung over you ,
under sheets of scarlet satin
away from vows and other sins my heart gave in
above the confusion and the fuss of both of us ,
beyond the push beyond the rush my heart felt it was
going to bust with all the love you gave ,
the curve of the narrow street , reflected back at you and me,
there's a place for love and light
a peaceful time, no wrong no right ,
run me and never let go
let's run in the streets of Paris until
we get old ,
the shop window at left ,
still follows the old line of the country
lane that we once played .
there's a place for love and light for the both of us,
where understanding takes flight;
the cars line the street lights of Montreal feels so right,
with faith as sweet as scent
there is time for us yet.
Poetic Judy Emery © 1997
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
Morning walk in semi-sun.
Light gilds the last
of the figs, high up
on the branches,
burnishing them the bronze
of new pennies.
At the end of the year,
when all the months'
deeds, lessons, things done,
undone, the words uttered and not,
lie at my feet,
I exhale into light.
I wonder what
this day will bring?
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
The sun winks cheekily from behind a thinning cloud
And, like a great golden grin, gilds my day.
White light pulsates on the inner wall of my eyelids -
Mood lifting; warmth spreading; glorious light.
A faint breeze, feather light, lulls;
Softening the edge of the sun's heat.
Time drifts and thoughts linger
On the sumptuous sensation
Of a perfect morning.
A seagull screech brings the scene to life
and, with eyes closed, I look at the moment
and see the sounds arising.
Distant voices in the morning's chatter and the rhythmic whoosh of waves.
I feel the touch of sound as my heart beat strolls now;
As my mind idly paddles at the water's edge.
I breathe in the tepid air ; it glides softly, slowly through my nostrils
Reflecting the ebb and flow of the sea without.
Rising and falling with the tide's swell.
Limp limbs lie abandoned on the
Cushioned bed as each breath shallowly lingers, patiently anticipating the next.
No thoughts now.
Just image and sound and the sweet sensation of the intermittent breeze
As I float on a velvet sea of my own making.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
The slanting sun gilds
random leaves silver. Will they
****** in the breeze?
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
Thinking Clearly
I’m simply trying
To think clearly,
Times and destiny against me.
Not alone, it is we all.
A world of digits and addictions,
New temptations:
‘Lead me not into temptation…’.
Tiny hippocampus shrinking even more than ever,
It’s an effort,
I admit.
A part of words, a part of worlds
Inside a frame that gilds the lily,
Curls around reality
Like smoke from chimney.
Headlines chronically bad,
Chronicles of planetary sadness –
World of digits,
World on fire,
World that cultivates desire,
It is all the harder to think clearly
And sincerely:
Ergo, I
Am trying as a consequence,
To change the sequence
And think plainly, deeply,
Patently, indubitably
Clearly.
Thinking Clearly 6.18.2017
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II: Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
Whenever a voluptuous moon,
radiantly brimful, looms low
and gilds the tops of the trees,
The hills, the sprightly streams,
the languorously reclining lakes,
She appears to me from nowhere
Like a dream,
Like a flash of inspiration
to a muddled mind.
My Muse glides gracefully toward me
like an elusive wreath of smoke
and gathers me in her embrace
like a silken robe,
hovering around me
like the perfume of roses.
She appears as a stirring
source of fantasy and vision,
Like the magnificent Northern lights
displaying luminous draperies
on a star-spangled polar nights,
Like the spectacular rainbow burst
after an intense shower,
Like a shooting star,
Like a blessed apparition;
I take her
as one would a reluctant bride
with gentle persuasion
and resilient arms!
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
As raindrops shatter on the walk
And water gilds the leaves
A sparrow huddles in the damp
Beneath the dripping eaves
It’s feathers, brown and white, drawn close
To keep the cold at bay
A silent bird awaits the dawn
That heralds coming day
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 12:56 AM UTC
the setting sun gilds wave-crests on the Bay
a regal foot-path into the far West
a fleeting vision at the close of day
of Phaeton putting his horse-team to rest
imagination treads where feet can't go
in liminal states verging on our dreams
conflating what's above with life below
what's tangible with what--at most--just seems
before us, in its glory sprawls the night
ere rosy-fingered Dawn lights up the East
where touch and sound must take the place of sight
until two backs conjoin to form one beast
each moment, possibilities abound
if we'd but lift our eyes above the ground
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
With its death
the day gilds
the leaves.
I do not know the names of
the tree
and it doesn’t matter for
beauty.
May 25, 2011
May 25, 2011 at 10:13 PM UTC
Of Fang and Feather slides thy day
Through Quandre'd halls, delight at play....
That thee should glide thus so, my friend,
Would have, in me, acknowledged end....
That, that which gilds enticement's rung
Indeed, is for which, Song is Sung.
[email protected]
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 8:59 PM UTC