"imago" poems
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
**** the torpedoes!
Full Speed AHEAD!"
So it is we lose our heads
And trust the masses
Whose rabble rise
To stick their fingers
In our eyes.
Freire told us true:
Dialogue must happen;
Time must be taken
To speak Truth,
To hear Truth,
To see Humanity
In the Other.
If not,
Violences ensue,
Blood spills,
The hordes topple
In toppling their oppressors...
Become oppressors.
Still,
Small voices
Whisper
"Imago Dei!"
"Imago Dei!"
Stop to listen,
Stop to see,
Stop to think.
We and They,
They and We,
Are We....
Are WE.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
(Song for the Genteel Salesman Blocking My Path Each Time)
If only you knew.
Beneath blonde, rebonded locks
Curled extroverted lashes
Cemented titanium dioxide
Plastered patient breathless pores
Lips-wine-red
Nose elongated,
Dark strokes imprudent
Cleopatric windows to
Sadness of soul.
Maverick femininity in
Saccharine swan-like greeting
If only you knew.
Eden was perfect paradise
She who was crafted
Immaculately from your rib
She was your Soulmate
You were Beloved
Protector, keeper,
Nourisher of her being
If only you knew.
You are treasured by Him
Who fashioned you
Out of mud
Breathed life into your nostrils
From nothingness
You were imago dei.
You were anointed shepherd
Of all that lived
Moved; slid.
You were perfect
Majestic in Truth
You were imago dei
As you should have been
And can still be.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
Cara beltà che amore
Lunge m'inspiri o nascondendo il viso,
Fuor se nel sonno il core
Ombra diva mi scuoti,
O nè campi ove splenda
Più vago il giorno e di natura il riso;
Forse tu l'innocente
Secol beasti che dall'oro ha nome,
Or leve intra la gente
Anima voli? O te la sorte avara
Ch'a noi t'asconde, agli avvenir prepara?
Viva mirarti omai
Nulla spene m'avanza;
S'allor non fosse, allor che ignudo e solo
Per novo calle a peregrina stanza
Verrà lo spirto mio. Già sul novello
Aprir di mia giornata incerta e bruna,
Te viatrice in questo arido suolo
Io mi pensai. Ma non è cosa in terra
Che ti somigli; e s'anco pari alcuna
Ti fosse al volto, agli atti, alla favella,
Saria, così conforme, assai men bella.
Fra cotanto dolore
Quanto all'umana età propose il fato,
Se vera e quale il mio pensier ti pinge,
Alcun t'amasse in terra, a lui pur fora
Questo viver beato:
E ben chiaro vegg'io siccome ancora
Seguir loda e virtù qual nè prim'anni
L'amor tuo mi farebbe. Or non aggiunse
Il ciel nullo conforto ai nostri affanni;
E teco la mortal vita saria
Simile a quella che nel cielo india.
Per le valli, ove suona
Del faticoso agricoltore il canto,
Ed io seggo e mi lagno
Del giovanile error che m'abbandona;
E per li poggi, ov'io rimembro e piagno
I perduti desiri, e la perduta
Speme dè giorni miei; di te pensando,
A palpitar mi sveglio. E potess'io,
Nel secol tetro e in questo aer nefando,
L'alta specie serbar; che dell'imago,
Poi che del ver m'è tolto, assai m'appago.
Se dell'eterne idee
L'una sei tu, cui di sensibil forma
Sdegni l'eterno senno esser vestita,
E fra caduche spoglie
Provar gli affanni di funerea vita;
O s'altra terra nè superni giri
Frà mondi innumerabili t'accoglie,
E più vaga del Sol prossima stella
T'irraggia, e più benigno etere spiri;
Di qua dove son gli anni infausti e brevi,
Questo d'ignoto amante inno ricevi.
1.4k
1. Egg
[This is my hatching
thought, which you cannot
see.]
2. Larva
The moon shines,
a pretty pill.
It couldn’t fill me with more.
It couldn’t
spill its light more
brightly or cover me more
tenderly. My chalky
smile smiles back at her more
sweetly for the pain-killing.
It’s magic.
3. Pupa
La lune brille,
une pilule assez.
Il ne pouvait pas me remplir de plus.
Il ne pouvait pas
répandre sa lumière plus
vives ou me couvrir plus
tendrement. Mon calcaires
sourire sourires de retour à son plus
doucement pour la douleur-massacre.
C'est magique.
4. Imago
The moon shines,
a pretty pill.
He could not fill me with more.
He could not
spread its light over-
bright, or cover me more
tenderly. My limestone
smile smiles back at its,
gently. To the pain-killing,
it's magical.
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 2:46 PM UTC
There is nothing fair about the pale light of New Spring
Air that is full of promise,
bearing no fruit or cinnamon scent
Naive contempt that we all will bear a rich fullness
Sun wick in its watery gaze.
New Spring is the forewarning of the lengthening shadow
While the flowers bloom, gnarling hands tug at their roots
Decaying the imago, delicate foundations,
ruining their artful poise.
Urge of the nightingale wavers and a swift dirge comeuppance
Clouds break apart, denying their lofty existence,
Soil blackened by the soot of His flamed feet,
Which trespass sweetly and indulge in the
scent of burning and plague.
New Spring is the cowering of my hope
and the doubts of rightful renewal
Bread I bare is stale, water a rasping thirst
My heart unfrosted and chilled from Winters gambit
Tis a Stolen Season
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
I'm sorry we've had to sleep on the ground for the past three weeks
Would you rather live in a place with such an unstoppable grief?
That's a harsh realm of parasites across the street
Piled right up your shoulder blade is concrete
They sadly noticed my silent birthday wish was wings
To leave from the entrance, of the air I breathe
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
*Hot buttered biscuits , homemade strawberry jam
Cool November mornings I've felt through a pane of glass
The beaches of Nova Scotia to the lighthouse on Tybee Island
Mother ocean , she pulls at my feet as the tide draws away
Good morning Savannah dancer* .....
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
He couldn’t take his eyes off of his living room’s mirror.
His own reflection was staring back at him.
Mesmerized by his self’s own image-re-presentation as he was.
Wanting to see himself through an-other’s perspective.
Desiring to be seen as somebody else.
He went on to become one with the famous imago.
In an endless arms race, an endless metonymy, drifting as it is called,
He tried to achieve the unachievable.
He tried to attempt the impossible.
He wanted to do the non-doable.
Always, from a young age, feeling inadequate and insecure.
Because he deemed himself incapable of stretching his own existence,
To make it fit with the family’s ideals.
So he spent the rest of his life trying to be recognized as something.
As something which he wasn’t at all? Yes. (How tragic. How sad.)
That left him with nothing but rage, hopelessness and despair.
A bipolar marionette of somebody Else’s deadly painful pleasure.
Powerless as he was, he went on living while construing ******* solutions.
So that he could just "get by". A coward hiding behind somebody Else’s wants.
And then one day having said to everybody, everything that made him upset, he left this place.
He never came back.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
*How long before this has to end?
Unspoken words remain off route
Not only streel in the room, but lean in
You take your head out the oven
To see love decline again
How long before this has to end?
We talk, talk, and ascend
We climb above their upends
They only reach to our chins*
*Tread lightly over what we’ve maimed
May have put the imago into the flame
You’re down and out, on higher ground
Heaven’s on fire with a lack of sound
There’s things you need to heft
Before they weigh on you
Regardless on how you feel
Rid the ample gossip and gab
When frailty tries to take the wheel
Take the door and don’t look back*
You’ve found your peace of mind
You've found someone new to heal
Until they crack their jaw of glass
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
"In the beginning was the Word..."
The voice of the Creator
awakened the universe into being,
a Word spoken out of nothing that
echoes in eternity.
A sound that collapses time and place
and brings forth the Word to echo
infinitely through all the ages.
The Word chose to dwell among us
in the form of a vulnerable human being,
who was flesh and blood like me.
You and I share the imago dei, and
like the Word made flesh can yearn
for unity with the Creator.
The Word echoes in our flesh,
and reverberates through our hearts.
We encounter the Word knocking at our door,
when we welcome the stranger.
May the sound of love echo through my soul into yours.
May these words speak life into mine and to yours till
the sound vibrates into a we.
No longer separate and alone, but home.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
35% off all print books on LULU today with coupon code of LULU35
mine books can be found, there.
~
some recent poems:
[loneliness]
the only
animal
recognized
by the magician’s
one-trick
pony
/ touch
giving itself
a childhood
/ an alien’s
crucifix
~
[liftoff]
the scarecrow loving puppet put a pop gun to the head of the soundman’s lamb.
-
my last meal
was my mother’s
voice.
~
[the cross]
the haunted clock
in tornado’s
house
the weightlifter’s flower
the rabbit’s
bliss
~
[scare]
I know it is nothing
or a relative
of nothing
what mice
make
of a mouse
possessed
/ my distance from the unborn widens
~
[homage]
like some verbally abused parrot
the crow
the phone’s
god
~
[depictions of reentry (iv)]
/ the tadpole torching my stomach in the museum of the heartless alligator
/ the spider the star in suicide’s eye
/ the crow in the devil’s purse
~
[depictions of reentry (v)]
/ you can work here for nine months
/ it’s not like riding a bike
it’s more
like kneeling
in the center
of a stickman’s
nightmare
/ never you mind
the bloated
baby’s
yellow
tooth
/ at least the sick
they confuse
death
~
[depictions of reentry (vi)]
night terror, the handwriting
of imago’s
child…
/ resurrection, a memoir
~
[depictions of reentry (vii)]
/ the hands and the crushed mind they crawl from
/ god of the briefly ugly
/ the homeless child of nostalgia’s native
/ graveyard
our game
of telephone
~
[depictions of reentry (viii)]
we laugh about them now
scarecrows
the stepchildren
of apocalypse…
pregnancy as suicide prevention.
be wowed
by stuff
on earth.
~
[depictions of reentry (ix)]
before I got sick
there was a sound
my mother
could make
and a bird
perched
on the arm
of a snowman…
angels, yeah
some
grab their ears
when trapped
~
[depictions of reentry (x)]
the unlit candle
desertion’s birthday
-
the voice
is not god’s
that experiments
on children
but ask
away
-
the dog we buried
is sometimes
on fire
watched
we think
by our sister’s
cooking
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
an imago:
the butterfly
sips silky nectar,
looks for gold.
the pupa
hangs, holy chrysalis
hides the doll.
the caterpillar
nips springtime's bud,
shears hairy cat.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
I'll mold this world in my hands,
Pick apart the pieces of evil
Crush them between my fingers
And blow them away
Like powdered glass
Into the eyes of my shadow.
Press it down with my thumb,
With God-like strength
Erupting from my fragile human form.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
night terrors for which my daughter has a few choice words written in cursive.
that have told her she is black but have used the blank communique of her skin as proof she’s surrendered.
I want to speak with the angels. visibility should have no viewing hours. the angels send me away.
night terrors that only occur in gated communities. present in children susceptible to imago.
the angels need pictures of the poor.
the poor my contraband.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
In every movement that I make towards you
In whatever decision, relationship, or mood
I realize I’m as close as I’ll get
When I’m no longer satisfied by anything less
But you aren’t forward or behind
You’re sustaining the movement itself
I wear your signature on my every breath
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 2:35 PM UTC
To the pills I taught myself to swallow,
To the realities I was forced to receive,
To the innocent child I was fated to outgrow,
And to my phases that I was asked to forgive,
I am grateful.
It is through you that I have become
The monster I needed to be...
Yet we’re still each other’s prey.
Though I can still see faces in the clouds,
Hear stories only silence can utter,
Have instant regrets of waking up,
And be lost in my own labyrinth,
I am grateful.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 7:09 AM UTC
a non-person interacting with a baby I began. I am bright
but want to be distance.
inspiring kindness
busies
the kind.
the photo captures nothing
that is not
aftermath. you can keep
your
to god I tell my secrets.
to be my father
I fight his.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
#cocoons as windows
disguised as tea, disguised as silk
that protective solid, a one-way order
no outside touch
outside, morning
organs ***** larval, the sticky crevice
recalled from leafy fluids
making sin from sin
corroded sins
untouched, unwatched, remain concealed
remain in another forgotten cocoon
yet they still yield silk
another silk
of morning sweaters, coarctate, twig solid
offering cocoons of another casing
another skin, another order
resisting order, reminiscent
hard, evolving, exarate, growing teeth
to touch and tear at exoskeletons
another fluid appetite
cocoons and fluids
the remains of caterpillars and wings
every secret allowed, accumulating effort
and one-way mourning
morning as a window
mesh-like, yet opaque, and exquisitely final
morning: everything to the cocoon!
I facilitate my order#
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC
Dreaming of leaving the Beehive
Life in the hive was a lot of fun,
For all the little bees when they were young;
But as Humble passed the Pupa stage,
He was told he had to act his age.
It was time to find a job! Go!
It was time to imagine becoming an Imago.
He didn’t want to say goodbye to his youth,
But he had a plan, so he needed to make honey.
It was a plan that would work, he was sure!
It was his plan and it was a plan he could stick to.
He would get a job and move out of his home.
He would bee a comedian!
Wouldn’t life bee funny…
Oh no…
Humble had been chosen to become a drone;
But never a clone!
For as we all know,
Humble was a unique bee.
He saw his future away from the hive.
There is a whole new world out there,
Just waiting for me to bee brave and go and discover.
He was only waiting for his time to fly.
He had always wanted to fly like the others,
Because he wanted to fly into the arms of his lover,
But he could only ever hover.
His life was quite nice, but there was a price;
He could never go beyond the edge of the pines.
The boundaries made him feel trapped
And he needed to fly past his past.
He needed to see the future.
His wide open eyes and wide open mind,
Needed to see what was out there;
The love he knew he was destined to find.
It was time for Humble to meet her.
His wings had finally grown big enough…
It was time for Humble to take off!
It was time for Humble to learn how to fly…
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC