"gossamers" poems
White gauzy smoke is blown through the lily,
Floating on air,
Fondling leaves and dewdrops who're glittery,
A view so rare.
On a picture elegance is enjoyed,
A Polaroid,
Presented in a silver-gallery,
Who's gloomy ne'er.
With gauzy threads from a silky cocoon,
White as the moon,
Lily-hands craft blooming embroidery,
With flowers there.
Like gossamers this elegance's tender,
Lit and slender,
Shining at the afternoon silvery,
Which does not flare.
O Mâhî, this form is a web of rhymes,
Who slowly chimes,
With threads we're finally stitching poetry,
Crafted with care.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a ***
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from **** unto ****
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
2.1k
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze.
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
2k
Descry the glittering sand,
Every coin is vestal, unused.
He cast unto the well,
Uttering a spell
That dwindled on his aching lips.
Amiss, his voice does not graze
Her conscious divination.
A thousand times again,
He strives-
Just for a spare thought.
But the fool, consumed, controlled
Wallows in the walls
She sculpts around him.
He begins to work away the vines
Of her honied tendrils.
Yet, each finger twined of gossamers,
Drenched in delirium.
Nay, she rejects his presence.
But grants her endless visitations
As a specter, with a Faustian kiss.
He drinks of her,
To parch his arid throat.
Remote, he holds the seed
Which festers within.
Forever.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 9:00 PM UTC
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
1.6k
Once dense thicket, coppiced
To bear a cornucopia filled with
Indian’s Summer rare blood moon.
The All-Hallows summer extends
As Samhain comes closer
Recognizing, celebrating the ever coming.
Wide leaves writhing and crunching from
Deciduous oaks as they bare to nothing.
Crushed grass and brush uncover a
Light trail leading to preserved boscage.
Through the dense brush
Untouched water thickens
From frosty moons bite.
Seizing gossamers flight
The soft breeze harshens
For long nights moon is soon near.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
the driven snow is driven bleak
and swirls of ghastly gorgeous
swoon in the nubile gossamers
of undulating mist.
she is completely mad.
thought she saw a cat
perched in a quails beak...
singing cordial grimms
in a hologram
of dead love.
what are those petals in the iris
of infinity ? are they her soft hands, or papyrus ?
a sheet of hot winters, crinkling in the twilight
smelling of whale song and apple sauce,
her hair in a braid
of ravens.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
“The sound that pours from the fingertips awakens clouds of cells far inside the body”
Robert Bly 1926-
You could say that the sound that tips deep cells are waking
heralds with bugles divine revolution
You could say that the sound that echoes from spirals
gossamers emeralds’ scintillant light
You could say that the sound that squishes from mangoes
is luscious and opulent tripping with pearls
You could say that the sound that slumbers in harp strings
howls round the polar bear’s tumaceous couch
You could say that the sound that tremors from tadpoles
triggers eruptions of undersea mountains
You could say that the sound that sits on the windowsill
on Arcturus flickers as icicle fire
You could say that the sound that bounces off drumskins
loosens the shackles of acuate cacti
You could say that the sound that shivers off rainbows
silkens red poppies at sunstrike unpacking
You could say that the sound that rumbles round moonrocks
passes on purple to stillness of shadows
You could say that the sound that echoes cicadas
crackles through canyons of memory rising
You could say that the sound that gallops through nightmares
shrinks in the face of the falcons glissade
You could say that the sound that is diatomaceous
tangles up synapses sparking at random
You could say that the sound of deep cells awakening
&n
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
Lavender paints the heavens, lingering
Over an elegant array of cerulean, silk
Gossamers. Rays of sunlight dangling
Among the fringes of distorted clouds,
Nestled within the gleam of your eye.
Soft summer breeze caressing my skin;
A tune you hum fastened in my ear.
Lavish hues seep from your open lips--
Never gray. The foliage beneath you is
Evergreen. Autumn only a memory,
Raw yet fictional.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
Furtive in this Winter air
We watch a pale life hover there
Suspended by some hope defined
By gossamers so unrefined,
A silky substance floating by
Like spider web in azure sky.
We watch a pale life hover there
In freezing air, in sad despair,
The **** frost down on frozen ground
Reflecting hopelessness profound,
Saw lost eyes in a careless world
...But turned away as day unfurled.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
20 February 2010
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 2:59 AM UTC
don't lie to me.
I've heard those echoes
with every setting of the moon.
I've heard those whispers
with every sunrise
that's ever kissed
the parchment of my skin.
don't lie to me.
I woke up with the constellations,
remembered in the silken threads
of mother time's embrace.
I cleansed my eyes of the gossamers
when starlight was but a distant promise
of a reality yet to burn itself into existence.
don't lie to me.
I couldn't cut it as a weaver
of honey ladened words
heaped upon the nebulae,
derelict between the flowing stelar algae
and that roaring darkenss from which
all things come.
don't lie to me for I have bathed
in the cold light of eternity.
Feb 2, 2024
Feb 2, 2024 at 6:07 AM UTC
I give the kiss of death
to a fuming roll of paper,
puffing out the siphoned life,
shaping gossamers of ourselves
in the air. But the wind,
it messes us up.
The only artist it knows is itself.
It's magnum opus is the perpetual
molding of cumuli of ephemeral and temporal.
Once more, I **** a breath of solace,
and release a hint of relief.
I cast my oneiric world:
soundless, so my fears and worries will remain unspoken;
shadowless, so my courage and love won't remain hidden.
We take form once more,
but again displaced.
But the smoke will not roam across space.
It will drift to me, to choke these reveries,
and banish them through violent coughs.
Our togetherness is nothing more
than an ethereal form.
The wind, after all,
gives the kiss of death.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
*Therapeutic it may seem,
Illuminist assumptions claw
To recollections which allude
To that which was and is no more.
Gone is history’s clear blue mode
Associations lost to shade
In jaded hopes of eons past
To aspirant’s cold censored fade.
Germans clawed to **** shrine,
Eskimo’s to barren ice,
Russians wept in baritone.
Aspirations censored thrice.
Reaching back to jewelled thought
Dim as dust, as it may be,
Gossamers of shades of silk
All valuable as gold to me.
Now weeping in frustration’s craw
Extending out for tendrils thin,
Misting clouds in shrouded skies
But tantalizing taunts begin…
Fulfilment in a feather touch
Of fingers stretching into dark…
A trickle of a thread resumes
As fragrant ghosts of recall hark!*
M.
Auckland
17 October 2014
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
There stood an imaginary, invisible houri fairy
As a bride under a maple tree
Dressed in prism-hued layers
of chiffon in ethereal shimmers
and delicate silken gossamers
She having her weeny wedding in the fall
And fairy folk bustled about all round her
as flimsy and flighty as they could be
while saffron leaves fell down upon her
in ceremonial nuptial
An autumn's ritual
and as nature's pretty confetti!
Branches denuded
Yet autumn's august
for the wilting's
ravishing!
The willowy fairy
almost drowned
in henna fallen maple leaves
Playing hide 'n'seek with a browny brownie groom
camouflaged in the heap
© Copyright
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC
gossamers of golden silk
enriched with salt-water luster
sea-foam pebbles nestled between
warm sand freckles
gracing sunset skin
with a jolt
i wake and wish
silently to myself
for someone to just
put me out of my misery
there's no serenity in sleep
only an endless barrage of shifting
mirages half-glimpsed through
a looking-glass awaiting
my every whimsical
fear
consciousness is a hoax
a self-sustaining delusion
premised on confusing anecdotes
and misrepresented by inadequate
synecdoches that fail to convey
intended meaning
it is not difficult to trace the illustration
of truths that prove
at once illusory and immediate
deliberate attempts to assuage sentiment
before it returns in full force
terminate without consequence
since affection drowned in ambivalence
yet i somehow still
lack the cognizance to
be fully aware of my
own subconscious
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Gossamers of drywall
speckle the lips
of the trout lily leaves
beneath the boarded windows
like sprinkles of dew
rainbow on a boy’s ice cream.
At the edge of the lily
patch crouches the crane,
the treads of its tires
wilting in the heat, out of air,
having awakened on the wrong
side of the flowerbed.
The planks of wood
are just planks of wood.
The boy lays them across
the ground, building a bridge
through the leaves
to get to the other side
of the leaves.
His arms are out at his sides
like a bird about to take flight
cone in hand but he falls.
Well at least
trout lilies are not lava.
In fact, and he remembers
this with edges that *****
the backs of his eyes
and stick to the sides of his mind,
he can tell they aren’t toxic
because she showed him how
to notice the speckled pattern
on their leaves.
Totally edible. See?
But today alone they taste dry.
The sun melts
the boy’s ice cream
into the soil
and, on fingers that boil,
offers him molten gold
as compensation
for the world.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
Patchouli incense, chestnut thighs
(the stoicism found in
clocks made of paper)
an impressionist's linen,
fingertips all too aware of their own alive/
the chimney's formless eye
awakes to Mattress & agedviolin & I
turning to beautiful October taking off her whistling clothes/
yawn n gasping in gossamers ghost
The weeks bobbing (interminably) like an optimistic pond of
matchsticks
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(three strikes of a distant Mountain
bell signals reflection at Ryōan-ji)
(we abide by the fury of charging organs)
loveliness, willing to empty
our bodies of day
and fill our heads with
goodnight
an hourglass garlanded in stems
which
the years turn over
pillowlike
II
(((((blink to
summer rain
my heart has become
occupied by an unfamiliar
Canyon
(summer(ra(in s(um(mer rai(n)
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC
Among the wreckage
of her soul,
lie shards of ribcage
(splintered like
the stern of a ship
that has weathered
many a beastly storm)
and fragments of heart
(veins as thin and lifeless
as the gossamers
of waterlogged spider webs).
Sunken treasures
you could call these things,
waiting in this perpetual limbo,
this Bermuda of Lovers Lost.
"Girl, overboard!"
he'd cried
(even though he
had been the one
to push her over the edge
in the first place).
Imagine that:
wrists tied behind her--
what hurts more?
The rope burns
or the cuts?--
feet sweeping despondently
across that doomed plank;
she can feel her love's breath--
frigid as Neptune's sea-bound winds--
undulating against the back of her neck.
She turns around slowly,
and he shoots her that
pathological
barracuda grin,
promises her that he cares--
truly, he cares--
that she means something to him.
But many a thing
a pirate does thief,
the truth
being one of them.
The next thing she knows,
she is plummeting
(watch how she does fall for him)
towards the convulsing
stretch of grey beneath her,
and as she whips about
through the bluster and the rain,
she stares up at him
with wild, pleading eyes.
She wants to scream out,
"Why?"
but there is no room
for words (or poetry)
upon the lips of the drowned--
after all,
dead girls tell no tales
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 1:21 PM UTC