"imbrued" poems
The stellular supernal of
Translation exalting the
Absurdist rudimentary
Vale of tears; the place
Death was born blanketed
In twilight's eternal
Oblivion, breaking
Immortality-
The propitiative law
of Medes and Persians
From time out of mind,
'Whom the Gods love die young';
The amaranthine race to
Drink from the retentionist
Cup filled by Medea's ichor
Imbrued kettle readying for
The harrowing of Hell.
Eleete J Muir.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
A thousand waterfalls, or more,
towering layers, feeding one another.
Turbid and deep in the ancient slough.
Across a soak of violet moss,
an algae rinse surveying silent
the ardor of springtime blossom.
Fuschia kelp hewn from amethyst;
the lilacs died and their graves grew moss.
With these sugilite sculptures, the falls were imbrued,
and soon were given unto the same cerise hue.
These tiered creeks, so like a staircase, fell in love
with the bryphophite wash.
And like a pond filled with plums,
the lake birthed from the falls
proved to be dyed the most purple of all.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Hereabouts was inearthed the grief of an infatuate;
Beneath the moonlight and clinged by deception;
Thou, one and only sol in the murkiness;
Pour spilled, imbrued the prediction away from the windfall;
Thou, who laughed there then shivered forsakenly?
presumed a northwind that never tied up here;
Was life span soundless as the unnaturalness of the ambiguity?
conversed without confab, forsaken the anguish each one raindrops;
Hasten the broken heart in the wake of thee;
When silhouette remains anonymous, hence thou stand synonymous;
thence it's tiring to imitate its fascination;
how afflicts sweet taste of hyperbole from a guileless lip;
Thou laud me, when thou stare me in emptiness;
Thou palter me, when thou don't seek about my beauty;
Thou vanished, when thou don't see amore anymore...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Threading tapestries
the tethered sparrow
laments the absent scream.
Imbrued admissions
of his Oedipal anguish
clenched in callous fist
spills claret. Erubescent sobriquets
and uterine trauma
blot leaves, and the pale palour
first kissed, then rouged by rancour,
a blush rose
blooming faintly
in the shade of vitriol.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
“It doesn’t feed you bread,”
My father, trying to help me said,
And through,
I was left all of a heap:
A imbrued with poison sword,
Is better than an imbue word.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
I will be born in fourteen hours
thirty-seven years ago,
from the labour of my mother
into Doctor Lucatelli’s hands.
How could I have known or did I
the amazing wondrous life reserved,
the privileges in store the blessing
of a consciousness that dares.
I will be a happy child, emanating joy,
adults and elders will listen to my stories
imbued with my essence, imbrued in fantasy
sparkling smiles.
In my teens they will compliment me
on my wisdom and gentleness, sense
of responsibility, little will they know
the freedoms I’ll enjoy, the libertine notes.
By the age of majority I will defy
death, a fight to see who’s stronger
needless to say, I will win over and over again,
I’ll get acquainted with myself.
I’ll graduate and find a job, have a kid
at twenty-three, a second four years later
a lifetime friendship with their adorable father.
I’ll be successful in building projects for others.
Until I won’t. I soon will realise what I want
find my courage and decide, to become
rather than merely be, me. Fast-forward
another ten years, see books be published,
indulge in writing poems,
study the universe and the mind,
observe as if it was my first day,
beginning in fourteen hours.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC