"goblets" poems
Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the ***** Oh your voice, slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.
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Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
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We could scale
snow capped mountains
or tiled rooftops
We could stroll
the halls of grand art galleries
or the city's graffiti stained alleys
We could sip
wine from elegant glass goblets
or instant coffee from chipped cups
We could watch
gala operas and musicals at the amphitheater
or puffy clouds as they float by in the sky
We could look
up to the vast galaxy and its starlight
or down to the metro's sleepless city lights
We could listen
to loud pulsing rhythms at a concert
or to the steady beats of each others hearts
We could go
and roam the world all day
or just stay in each others arms all night.
I can't care less
on what we could do.
Every moment would be
Fun,
Adventurous,
Exciting,
Marvelous
Grand, and
Breathtaking
As long as you are with me
and I am with you.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In the graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams to not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulers.
On day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possess now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theatres.
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Thanksgiving is a time that never will I forget
Hopping in the car for a very long ride to grandma's house
With heavy white frost on the grass, glistening in the sun
Singing songs and counting grain bins to pass the time
Now the frost is melting, we are getting close to the grandparents
Rounding that last bend and then their lane up to the house
Riding up to the house I can see smoke coming from the chimney
To the door and into the house, I see my cousins playing, and smell the Turkey
Grandma's brown and gold tablecloth, covered with her silver
trimmed grey dishes and crystal goblets ready for us to eat.
Have to sit and chat while watching the Macy's parade
Saying our blessings and giving our Thanks as we begin the feast
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
Life Death Hope Loss
A canvas of happiness and sorrow
The Aesthetic of existing
Beauty in the painting
Admiring the painter
Every stroke from birth to final light
We wake the morning
We die to the night
Wherever we go
The static plays a melody
The sound of increasing pretense
As the serpents die of their own poison
Drink from their own goblets
The play is over and the curtains close
Thank you for coming
We hope you enjoyed the show
The Aesthetic
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:40 AM UTC
New York penthouse
room service
french perfume
satin sheets
gold etched dinnerware
sixty-one pairs of high heeled shoes
diamond earrings
crystal goblets
antique art
picturesque window view
of the homeless on the streets below.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
the was a little squirrel a funny chap was he
looking for adventure upon the deep blue sea
he built a little raft from logs upon the ground
tied them all together till securely bound
then he set a sail for some foriegn shore
some where he could go never been before
he packed lots of nuts and things that he might need
organized was he. a clever chap indeed
after quite a while on the sea of blue
suddenly an island had come in to his view
squirrel was excited and landed on the shore
in this foreign land he never saw before
he took a look around to see what there might be
then he saw a monkey sitting in a tree
monkey he was friendly and he said hello
to the little squirrel that he didnt know
they began to play on the golden sand
happy and content in this far off land
they built a little table for a picnic treat
then searched along the island for things they could eat
they began there picnic underneath the sun
sat down both together for there picnic fun
then they took a walk decided to explore
looking for adventure on the foriegn shore
they found a treasure chest that was very old
when they looked inside it had lots of gold
there were golden rings and some goblets too
lots of golden coins there were quite a few
now they both were rich on the island they did stay
and made a home together in this land so faraway
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
satin black robe, maroon nails,
my cold palms on a colder marble balustrade,
the moon soaked rose garden,
and crying angels of that medieval fountain;
Beethoven creeping in the background
but still my heart didn't strung a sound;
All I did to find inspiration
still I'm going blank for years
words won't splendidly fill my unfinished fiction;
But still I'm here
grasping onto the midnight smoke
trying to give colours to my drunk imaginations;
My tired sighs now wished
that it'd be easy
to come up with words,
a missing lover
or a ballroom ******
or a heartbroken maiden
with empty goblets filling her scars;
anything would do now;
As long as this melancholic sonata goes on,
And before this cooing midnight
disappears into a blinding dawn,
You would find my impassive face
and desperate gaze
capturing floating words
to give a meaning to this new found romanticism;
Aug 26, 2023
Aug 26, 2023 at 1:44 AM UTC
stuck between pride and ****** mood
lurid lights, laughter, ladies, lively lips
we are 96 souls away from the magic
and we nevah wake up or get up, nope
i swear on my momma's grave and pray
may she rest in peace with good ghosts
wise man told me to wear a black suit
me, tho', forgot if i did so, can't help it
was i trippin from dawn to dusk again
probably but ya gotta triple that time
and consider the weirdness of my speech
dem words stumble other words upon
meanwhile me and milly made luv to luv
luv laid back like rasta villages, jah songs
she's spreading her legs and licking
13.8, worship the fountain, that's basic
gangsta poetess & burglar, membah 108
while meetin milly, i imagine her naked
64 minutes later, lolling on silver satin
the lips such big perfect matches
by the end of the day we float over glaciers
our months vanish within a few days
hihaho, tickling trip, totally toony, truly
milly and tizzy equals eccentric & woozy
steering dreams, mysterious mixtures
golden goblets, served on light tables
we falling into the floor, a voltgreen maze
wondaland's gardens, we reach 'em
frozen loops of yummy yearning, yeeeah
all dem blankets and pillows, hundreds
in a bed spacious like a football field
a quarter of milly's back is my tattoo
parking lot at 4:16 am, 24 k bracelet
gotta look at it under the light of the sun
reminds one of eazy legs & adorable greg
we come, observe, read, blast and leave
stuck with mental blankness, in limbo
block party of creation 96, 2056 souls
oh my, sweaty forehead, i'm so cold
burning bloodshed, beasting bloodbath
marriage of mystery and skyline tales
sparkling are the eyes of yayo vampires
8 days awake, bangin in sky dunes
schmock, dinosaur, sole talker
Jul 26, 2021
Jul 26, 2021 at 6:25 AM UTC
Now just off Fordbridge road lies a wall where Curry plants line up all in a row ,
their scent wafts past the walls and to the Church where like sung melody of coral song can be heardwhere Christ is Lord .
Did you see the robin red ******* capture ?
Did you see how it fluttered it’s tiny wings ?
One moment captured by walls of brick ,
and only an open window found this dear Robins rest .
What Babylon’s we seek .
What red walls we creep ,
Our prisons we like birds fly in to open windows .
Saddam Hussain looked out on Babylon’s ruines from his Palace
of opulent wealth ,
where black angels stalking darkness creep ,
the arrogance of evil lies
the envy of gold .
The night the moons light hid the pagans covered their eyes .
The hand of Gods
writing on the wall .
Wine filled goblets of gold ,pleasure , wealth and power to bestow
a feast of flesh for all .
Cut down with trembling fear ,
cut down as God is near ,
Cut down his arsenal to unfold .
Oh gates of Babylon of who Dio did sing and who’s gates opened wide.
who Alexander the Great
and Babylonian blood could not hide ,
the might of the Persian army ,
now lies crumbling in the dust .
Then my dear let no Babylon awake and tremble not that God alone
should take you’re fear .
For our secret love no one may tell ,
when we meet with beating hearts in our curry planted gardens of love .
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
Like salt from a shaker,
she flowed into the room.
Sprinkling just a bit too much of herself.
Ruining the assumption of true flavor.
My taste for the bland is non existent
However; I need the seasoning to be just right
to taste such a delicate dish.
Nothing too over the top, but just right.
Lying on the surface, ready, waiting to be devoured.
Her mood changed when she saw that I had dropped the napkin,
Saw that I bent the fork,
dumping it next to the ice and wine.
And the waiter; that tight nosed ******
Shrugged and harrumphed his way to the kitchen,
Saying there would be no desert. No tasting this night.
She thought she had seasoned me well, and left me to bake in the chandeliers and crystal goblets of this place.
Alas, she fell short of the recipe,
Foreplay burned in an overheated oven.
Burnt to a crisp in her little black number,
and over salted in the assumption of her come hither look,
and my desire or the lack thereof.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 8:27 AM UTC
Little famished people left after they were born
A tiny old place can no longer be their home
Little acquisitive people travel to the cities
Soon their greed seize their courtesy
Little naive people disguise so well.
“Let us add a white shade to our scarlet blood.”
Little grey people complain about the world
A tear or two should ‘justify' their ‘love'
Little learned people fight for human rights
Dazzling crystal goblets clink on every ‘I'
Little erudite people cherish old tombs
But they forget the life spent in the womb
Little fading people live no life
Hence they regret as they retire
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I ******
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.
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Climbing clouds on calamitous clouds
Which break underneath my feet.
Feat of power feast of kings
Milking blood from the plump vine discrete.
They tear man from limb and brother
For judges to goblet just few.
How was anyone to know
I reach for the smaller of the two.
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 11:36 PM UTC
there was a little otter adventure bound was he.
built himself a raft and headed out to sea
he packed lots of food so that he could eat
packed himself some fish his very favorite treat.
he sailed across the ocean in the deep blue sea
looking for adventure where ever it might be
after quite sometime he saw an island shore
otter was excited now he could explore.
suddenly he heard a voice up in a tree
i am over here come and play with me
there he saw a parrot as friendly as can be
otter he was happy and now had company.
they began to play having lots of fun
on the golden sand underneath the sun
then they took a stroll to see what they could find
maybe there was treasure someone left behind.
suddenly they saw sommething in the sand
otter started digging parrot gave a hand
they had a found a chest big and very round
hidden underneath buried in the ground.
opened up the the lid there to there surprise
there was lots of treasure there before there eyes
there was lots of gold lots of silver rings
goblets and a necklace lots of other things.
now they both were rich with riches by the score
lived happy ever after on the island shore.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;
Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain —
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten —
After the stillness, will spring come again?
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THE ROSES slanted crimson sobs
On the night sky hair of the women,
And the long light-fingered men
Spoke to the dark-haired women,
"Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier."
How could he sit there among us all
Guzzling blood into his guts,
Goblets, mugs, buckets-
Leaning, toppling, laughing
With a slobber on his mouth,
A smear of red on his strong raw lips,
How could he sit there
And only two or three of us see him?
There was nothing to it.
He wasn't there at all, of course.
The roses leaned from the pots.
The sprays snot roses gold and red
And the roses slanted crimson sobs
In the night sky hair
And the voices chattered on the way
To the frappe, speaking of pictures,
Speaking of a strip of black velvet
Crossing a girlish woman's throat,
Speaking of the mystic music flash
Of pots and sprays of roses,
"Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier."
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From the goblet slowly sipped,
Of the poison cunning slipped.
To his wife he gave a nod
Not noticing how she acted odd.
From the Bank his money waned,
His loving wife had gradually drained.
To be with her new found love,
Her husband gone to heaven above.
From the goblet slowly sipped
Dark red wine, which she had tipped.
With a powder from her hanky,
So she could play her hanky panky.
On his seat he rocked and swayed
Not knowing that his wife had strayed.
Into her loving eyes he stared
And she gazed back as if she cared.
From the goblet slowly slipped
Dark red wine, from lip it dripped.
But his wife she did not care,
She wanted him to leave her there.
In that grand house with swimming pool,
She smiled too think he was a fool.
For she would live there in that mansion,
With her lover, dark and handsome.
From her goblet she then drank
Until onto her knees she sank.
For whilst she did conceal the potion,
Both the goblets were in motion.
Revolving tables come in handy.
Red wine, fruit juice or fine brandy.
And so the tables turned, you see.
It was she that died it was not he.
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 11:55 PM UTC
there was a big black cat and he just longed to be
a pirate on the ocean sailing on the sea
with his pirate ship and his pirate hat
and a big black patch a proper pirate cat.
he started on his journey across the oceans blue
hoping to find treasure in lands he never knew
he came across an island and he rowed a shore
there were lots of things he never saw before.
he took a look around to see if he could see
find a hiddden place where treasure just might be
suddenly a parrot come flying from and a tree
then he said to cat just you follow me.
cat he followed parrot along the island shore
they walked for a while then a little more
then they saw a box buried in the the sand
cat began to dig and parrot gave an hand.
they dug out the box the treasure had been found
opened up the lid and and had a search around
there were lots coins and some golden rings
goblets made of silver and lots of other things.
cat was very happy his dream it had come you
now he was a pirate and had a parrot to
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
the was a little squirrel a funny chap was he
looking for adventure upon the deep blue sea
he built a little raft from logs upon the ground
tied them all together till securely bound
then he set a sail for some foriegn shore
some where he could go never been before
he packed lots of nuts and things that he might need
organized was he. a clever chap indeed
after quite a while on the sea of blue
suddenly an island came in to his view
squirrel was excited and landed on the shore
in this foreign land he had never been before
he took a look around to see what there might be
then he saw a monkey sitting in a tree
monkey he was friendly and he said hello
to the little squirrel that he didnt know
they began to play on the golden sand
happy and content in this far off land
they built a little table for a picnic treat
then searched along the island for things they could eat
they began there picnic underneath the sun
sat down both together for there picnic fun
then they took a walk decided to explore
looking for adventure on the foriegn shore
they found a treasure chest that was very old
when they looked inside it had lots of gold
there were golden rings and some goblets too
lots of golden coins there were quite a few
now they both were rich on the island they did stay
and made a home together in this land so faraway
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams
gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams
haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite
cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty
gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control
ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls
mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow
tinkling diamond chandeliers
funiture art nouveau
elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar
thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for the czar
pastel parisian cakes
hand stitched italian shoes
hornback crocodile leather
master barbers fine shampoos
bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liqueur
any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur
richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires
soak them drink them in
bask in their fires
all priceless things
based on human lies
worth less than dust
compared to love in
someone’s eyes
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
A child found a book of war ,from hay where her mother and father lay dying .
From page to page she turned ,
each page of sage dripped in blood and gore .
Each page spoke of vengeance’s sharped sword ,
each page of sorrow and death ,
each page of sabered ****** hand .
Call of tyrants from mountains came to fight forever in Odin halls ..
The weavers witch spinned and cut the thread and cursed the land .
and goblets of blood of man slept till nevermore .
Spin spin tales of woe ,
Spin spin the weavers go and blood and goblits forever until
the curse is broken .
Gods poets spoke of love and peace to take the darkness that stalked
the land one bright light to guide them,
so even God in his mighty love might not judge them .
Spin the thread the tales of woe ,
Spin the weavers gold and blood ,
and goblits until the curse is broken .
And the fires burnt and furnise fired for shells of war,
that fed the cannon and muskit .
For King and country ,
For Cromwell’s army ,
to over throw the country .
Spin the thread the tales of woe ,
Spin the weavers gold and blood ,
and goblits ,
until the curse is broken .
Two lovers with beating hearts ,
one left for King and Country.
He looked
into her eyes ,
“;don’t be sad when I have gone for you’re sadness forever take you .
Then over the top to the four winds blown ,
over the top for King and country .
.” So weep beside the willow tree ,
for letters of love for me .
For where flowers grow our hearts will go ,
See the flowers they grow
beside you .
and though the trench in death you lay my heart will forever find you for a telegram man arrived today as i was picking flowers .
The girl closed the book and placed a flower in ,
then danced around a young willow tree for now the curse was broken .
Dance around the willow tree ,
plant a flower of love for me ,
for now the curse is broken.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
42 since I started to breathe rotting leaves under a November blizzard.
34 since I entered this body that day on the porch.
32 since I understood violence to be an accepted
part of life.
So many years I have carried this burden and I am tired, so tired.
So many sad Novembers.
But it's April now and 29 since I tasted a woman's mouth. 26 since I discovered how it felt to be inside another human, while completely inside myself.
It's April now and I crave the pale round goblets of milky skin these young flowers offer.
New rituals indeed smolder as centuries unfold.
It's only been 12 since I knew I was part of God
and 7 since I started hating us for being so close.
It was last March since I lost faith in you and I haven't stopped breathing shadows.
I am so tired, dearest.
What must I do?
It's April now, the walnut tree is black against the streetlight; the sycamores line the empty boulevard and I can smell the ghosts in the park.
These milky skies and milky thighs burn in
my skull. January has lost her way
again as everyone forgets about the poets.
It's the poets that get them through a grey December.
We all share the same air, we all breathe
each other.
There is a lone willow tree, in the cradle of the park, bearing your divine name, which can be heard whispered by the ghosts who wander
on this lonely reservoir.
I am pining for dried tea bags and empty dresses as long summer nights bring insects and revelations.
I am your stone gargoyle.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
pillows of wind, freezing the minuet dew drops on each blade of grass,
tiny ice goblets
dutifully every morning.
it whistles, slipping between
the barren trees,
curling around the crumbling houses
built in the '70s
a time when,
they may have kept us sheltered from Mother Nature's ghastly wrath.
whispering against the window panes, creeping past the glass frames.
icy hands claw their way across the floor, up the bed posts
beneath the sheets.
gliding cold fingers up my legs,
down my spine. wrapping themselves around my neck,
the fire in my eyes has died.
sweet release, a gradual fading light.
my heartbeat slows,
though inches away,
warm & unaware you lie.
boney tendrils squeezing
as I drift to my glacial demise.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC