"imbuing" poems
Step by step a kite ascends to the sky
regains memory of transcendence
of once being the echo of a cloud
sailing speedily westwards.
the kite remembers another life
and strays far beyond it's distance permitted,
when the string rudely pulls it back,controls,
the young cloud, narcissistic
still keeps it's love for the echo, in swirling
wisps of vapor as gently caressing wet touch
The lone woman who suppresses deep inside her chest,
the tumultuous waves of love and passion,
imbuing the emotion sunset spews, suddenly breaks down
the startled sea breeze is the only witness to her outburst.
the sky slipping fast in to the gloom of darkness
stands frozen, silent, as if melting in the pain love causes,
when one bids final good bye to the beloved, vowed never to part.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.
Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',
Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
Blazed is the trail made by their mistakes
The high road created for all our sakes
Explorers of lands that were once uncharted
Now the cartographers of the paths they started
We are the proverbial parchment upon which they sketch
Vicariously imbuing their wisdom within each etch
The end of their journey is where we begin
For the trail ahead must be blazed again
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 12:02 PM UTC
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
The stench of burning flesh and *****
Imbuing the air
Carcasses of infant demons
Putrefying in the crater
Dissected impure angels hemorrhaging
Repugnancy dominates
Shrieking
Quivering
Floundering as they flutter their rotten wings
A profusion of worms
Falling from mouths like a cataract
Smoke coming out of their halos
No longer reigning
In this, their hades
Swollen with beasts in utero
Perpetuating abominations
Soon it will be their turn
To liquefy in the lava
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Wherever you
may be -
be it in strife
or
in gladness
know I am
flinging out
my heart
to the stars
hoping
that, like a
boomerang,
you will
catch it
bless it
infuse it
with all
you can
even if in
pieces
peeking through
the cracks
of your being
and hurl it
over the blanket
of celestial
reasoning
tossing it
like a wish
into the heavens
until it reaches
my hands
safe, sound
and ever expansive
Know
that while I
send my prayer
to receive
that the real
reason is to
have suffused
within you
a breath
of freshness
recharging
the parts of you
that have become
too heavy
to bear
imbuing you
with the sacred
forces of
winter strength
spring light
the balance of
autumnal winds
and the ripe
heady fruit
of summer
Now
as my hands
catch that pulsing
mass of life
and put safely
back into
my chest
I bless the winds
the you
within me
and
fly
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
.
*Musical brush strokes paint
the pink honey moon
full and bright ;
the melody wafts lightly
with a sensual scent
of Jasmine fleur
Lonely hearts sip the sky’s
lambent elixir’s gentle persuasion
from separately dispersed novas
the perennial blossom of the perpetual tide .., .
merely pined moonlight
Immersing wholly in wistful reflection
alight on wellspring emerald pond
Verily unspoken words cavort
like musical rivulets spiraling flow
into the crystalline echo
Luna’s haloed heavenly sighs ,
emanation bestrewn
shimmering through dark nebula
like shooting stars shattered
by the weight
of their darkest radiance,
echoes upon the tide-less mirror pond
the nimbus of moonlight
imbuing all the ways I want you* . . .
wild is the wind ...© 6.17.2015
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
Once across a Caledonia dreary, whose Echo,
Amid the Jötnar, was MAN, I wandered hurt and weary,
Until yon Glare, with deadly Rage flaming,
Lo! I beheld, next to the Iron Gates
Of a long-forgotten Ruin named still
After incorruptible Titanium.
A noble, finely engraved feudal Vest,
Under a Luminary invisible, implacable,
Shone thither with a Glare fiercer, methought,
Than that of the rubies at warlike Valhalla,
Amid Walls time-eaten, kingly Banners, and proud Towers,
And dwelt there in melting Titanium.
Deep memories of martial Woe
Like an arrow piercing my ***** and aimed
Thro' the Night with lethal Glare,
No barrier was there to be found
Between my Past yielding and this conquering Robe
With Runes marked deep in Titanium.
Thus I remembered having once graved,
In revered silence and solitary anger,
Into the Glare, within the Hills, upon the Dust,
The Emblem of the OVERMAN,
Which thou may again now see gleaming,
With pride Superhuman, o'er this garb of Titanium.
My Enemy Wraith haunting me no more,
Into a most profane dying hour,
I walked forth, to wear of the Armour of the Glare the worth,
And felt, intensely, from the Zenith of a most fiery Heaven,
The Rays from the Stars imbuing my Very Gore
With blinding, rageful Titanium.
Hereupon, with Cuirass thus worn, I bethought me of boldly ascending,
With heavy Claymore drawn, in a Guard of the Hawk,
At Ultima Thule, of the Bluish Glare, the Hidden Rock,
And at its scorching Crest, with Blade o'er me flashing, widened my gathering Breast,
The Largest Mirror, the Highest Beacon, aye,
Before the wild Blaze molten down in Titanium.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:12 AM UTC
A blank empty canvas
Pure as the winter's snow
Open as but a vast window
Seeing deep into it's soul.
The mind ticks in emotional frustration
Relics of imagination fly and form
Particles of atomic consciousness
Gathers and flows like an Astro storm.
White wash covers the surface
The first invocation soothing and mild
Then images gather before the eyes
Like a raging storm, fierce and wild.
The pallet is filled with rainbow mixtures
Here one joins to the alchemist's dream
Establishing upon board, paper or canvas
The unfoldment of the creative stream.
Brush in hand, Like an ancient wand
One casts the horizon like a spell
Summoning, coaxing, those tides within
Where the possession conquered, flowed and fell.
Dashes here, strokes there
Balancing the tones within each hew,
The thoughts so fast, mind captured
Projections all of that inner you.
Murky and shapeless at the start
But shadows enhance, inward glance
Light engulfs and shines but through
The eyes captured to the romance.
The artist gallant before his glory
Yet! Never fulfilled by its view
Playing upon its essence and structure
He draws upon images new.
One here becomes the timeless Shaman
Working the magic of natures way
Gathering the similarities and imbuing with fire
Elevating ever the thought to the creative day.
Or like a modern mystic
Grasped tight in spiritual bliss
subduing into but representations
The reflections of the heaven's kiss.
But all in all the artist is
whether by paint, sculpture, acrylic or oil
A voyager of the main stream existence
His vision of his own scared soil.
The goal is not unlike any science
To acquire that bridge of untold reason
For artist down throughout the ages
Have awakened the soul to its season.
The emotions arise, fly, excite
Those creatures of the inspirational mind
Poets, musicians, painter, writers
By what ever character there we find
All artists, All Magicians.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 12:39 PM UTC
It was a kid-glove orange, a
leaf, or a Dancy tangerine
falling from the tree. I didn't
see it. I was watching a dance
of anger on TV while learning
to swing in a way that left me
needing my forlorn hope. The
change did not occur. Outside,
a drunk driver wearing zipper-skin
orange driving gloves swerved
sharply and hit my old, gnarled
tree during imbuing my hearing
with ****** innuendo. He could
not escape his awkward accident.
Much later, I heard that he had
suffered from Saint Vitus's dance.
In time, no one was able to heal
the wounds of my soul. I wanted
this Duvet day to end quickly.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
I have finally found
Something without comparison
The most beautiful eyes
These eyes, have ever seen
Of such a green
As to make the rainforests jealous
And the most luscious of trees
Desire their beauty
And profoundness of expression
Gazing at the very thing that desires them
And imbuing everywhere they go
With that mystical green light
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
To be a man, is to be made not of
Glass or plastic, fragile or manufacturered
Like these young boys plucking
Away at keyboards day to day, acquiring
Vanishing trophies; a man is made of
Steel and stained wood, screws and twine
Make up his joints and bark is his skin.
To be a man is not smell of lysol or
Carpets, but if sawdust and oil, leather and
Soil, for a man is shelter.
When boys pitch canvas tents
In sand, a man plants logs on sturdy
Ground in which his family can reside, his back
The roof under which it is dry and safe.
To be a man is not to bake your mind with flashes
Of light and thunderous noise, but
To create, to be dynamic and soulful, imbuing
Himself into his creation;
To be man is to help and be helpful, to share and
Collect wisdom from others, to better
Everyone.
One day a Man will be honoured to take you
Home, to care for you until the
End of his days.
One day, that man will be me.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
All our lives we’ve been told to keep it low
Keep our dreams out of sight and on hold, and our thoughts dressed up in clothes…
Our hopes were like golden blue bows slipping from our frozen poses...
Our hopes for any kind of rightness peering out
from under our beds of excitement turned to functional poison…
And who are we now? The ones that look dead in a beautiful way… we never got to know us but say we’re okay…
And there’s so many actual dead, but we feel like we’ve lost a million realities before us…
So we say how it’s absurd and grotesque,
Shake our heads, and try to expect less…
And when the bullet finally flies towards us in slow motion; we question its beauty… the cold silver glow of a car window with the hope a teetering feeling is imbuing…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
Can you feel the rumble?
Gathering force in the close distance?
Feel the power of uneasiness coursing,
pulsing
rushing through the very bones of the humble.
Minding the madness in the foreboding future,
do you fear the coming rain?
insane
In vain, in vein is where the worry does bumble.
Or do you stare in wonder of the flashing awe?
Where lightning strikes across the face of clouded,
shrouded
clouted minds of awe-struck and stumble.
These are forces of the fearful foes
striking iron with lighting flashes,
clashes
stashes of memories induced by the low grumble.
But I, For I, Because I am brave and I am strong
I do not fear the thunder but long for its embracing,
retracing,
re-placing my woes and all of my troubles
with brave courage and a strong spirit
and imbuing its strength into my Heart
Mind
Soul
And with a flex of my muscle, let the rumble
Roar across the land, across the sands,
Mountains and valleys, oceans and lakes,
Let my fury strike with the speed of light
and let my courage rain into your soul.
For I, I am the coming storm.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
Swing me to 2012
Don’t just stare at me on a seesaw,
Swing me to 2012.
Let me rock on the dandle board
Teeter-tottering to the new era
Let the Angel of destiny come,
Wing me to 2012.
Fly me to lands unknown
Far away unexplored undiscovered
Hit me the immense cathedral bells,
Ring me to 2012.
Let the tinkling sounds reach and echo
The horizons across hills of home
Grab the golden harp,
Sing me 2012 choral tunes.
Let me taste the fragrance of new song
Imbuing and blasting my five senses
And let’s all join the mirth,
Celebrating the year 2012 apocalypto.
In jovial mood and savage dance
Who knows, tomorrow may never be
Let me brag my past success,
To nourish my spirits elate.
I am a cock-a-hoop, so what
Plow hard and get a life.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 8:21 AM UTC
I destroy as I write
painted movements upon the disease of blankness
fulfilling the open potential
shining through a darkened tunnel
fraught with the weight of culture's phantasm.
A projected collective
imbuing meaning and density leaving the propensity
to do more in the hands of the unconscious.
A generation of dreamers caught in a co-created nightmare
It takes a forceful shaking to wake them into waking, a kind of tremor like the earth is quaking
but stillness
still grips
those who would otherwise toss and turn
You've had your time, now its our turn
Interdimensional investigative procedure
Prepare your resume, for today you will be hired or fired
Welcome to the game.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 12:07 PM UTC
The undetectable delectable soul
Contemptuously consumed
By the indelibly doomed
The spirit a commestible
Ingested in full
By the restless evil
eager for prey
Every morsel digested
In a remorseless way
gluttonous beast desires the taste
The lecherous feast goes not to waste
scrumptious for toothsome consumption
Vicious parasitic imbuing of
Delicious sacrament of ruin
Does not satisfy the appetite of wicked delight
The monster hungers for just one more bite
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC
I don't write because I can,
or even sometimes because I want to.
I write because words surround me
in the air; glistening, screaming and needling
into my being--
infecting my crimson and azure paths
with their ( { ( { electric cacophony} ) } ), ( )
vibrating sacred whispers of musical patterns /<+>\
dripping directly into my spirit aglow with creation,
imbuing a certain serenity of past, now and future cuneiform tattoos
unto my mind--
high as a shooting star gliding in midnight moonbeams...
It's like when a fish stops moving it will die.
Every day it is a glorious struggle to keep up with myself,
these words,
so as not to drown in the insanity.
These words once inhaled by ancestors, whales and grass
hurl through space, time and the infinite creation
slamming into me;
a mercurial, rose watery doorway portal conduit transmitter
typing bebop lightning striking your match stick soul,
buzzing and manifesting rainbow jazz steps connecting us!
Dishonor would chew me from the inside out
should I not comply.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
The incessant turning of cogs in
an instrument ran by heart
Shambles.
Stoic, admonishing words
frolicking about as frail, free-floating petals.
Beneath it all the clamorous tug gibing with the
Very voices you kissed me with.
Cold, but
unwinding the taut flesh.
I stayed
though.
By your darkest demons, caressing with
Silk comfort.
Imbuing them with a dancing light lull:
your Reign of Melody.
To projectile your serenading strums,
To stretch out your fingers jangling,
on all the metal of the strings;
Gnashing the ivory saws of your teeth
you severed my bones.
I’ve become your music to trifle
I’ve become your naive, small bell boy.
“We’re not two, but one” you’d say. When
You knew all along, this song steered and dwindled
into paleness.
Sour hush.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
Your poetry is like cinematography in my head.
How do you do it?
How do you point the formatting like a camera,
like you’re panning for gold,
and discovering something precious
so deep and real
just with the position of your italics?
I told you this,
and then you reciprocated,
saying,
I, on the other hand, use word choice
I listened and heard your intention
I choose and commit to one
like an undying promise
imbuing that choice with all the meaning I can.
You tell me you noticed,
and I suddenly had no words.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
Every moment of my day is painted with a back scene.
One that I can neither see, touch, nor hear.
I make a pledge of truth,
Confined in the sensations of my daily experiences.
The gentle rise and fall of promiscuous tones,
Imbuing themselves from the heart of my throne.
This peak of excitement meets me in moments
Where bliss encapsulates my thoughts.
I find honor in an expansive bubble of of tranquility.
I see fortitude entrenched in the present moment,
Resulting from the expression of my awareness.
The feeling of grace may be fleeting at times,
But I may rendezvous with despair as a sign.
Terror, happiness, contentment.
These are all sign posts acting as a reminder
To see off the transactions I've bought into
With the presentment of my character.
I am a testimony of an expanded truth.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
I recall the day I first saw you, amid the frigid depths of winter, as I sought even a trace of warmth from the sun. My gaze found that warmth in you. When you drew near, you stunned me, clasping my cold hands in yours, imbuing them with warmth. I remember, too, the day I waited in that same chill for one final glimpse of you—only to be left, forsaken, my hands still cold, yearning for the warmth you once brought.
Nov 8, 2024
Nov 8, 2024 at 2:41 PM UTC
From the sea of smoking souls
I am parted to emerge,
imbuing by aether silk;
the space of your sound.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 2:51 PM UTC
when i am with you,
i feel
particles of myself
slowly sweep away
until
i am no more
than an empty entity
of existence.
instead,
i am
a melancholic siren;
consternation constanly emerges
from the salty ocean
i baptize myself in
to rid myself
of the blood of agony
on my lips.
sailors enchanted
by the wicked melody
i speak of;
eyes closed shut,
listening closely to
the languages
my mouth formed;
demise imbuing
their eyes
for this sonata
is bewitching yet atrocious.
yet you pay
no heed
to my woes,
even after the
nights transitioned
into light years;
i call for you,
you dare not
look back at me;
for i looked
just like everybody else,
just another
mistaken identity.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
Take that bold step up to my words
and don't walk away until they have had their fill;
each party imbuing the other,
brimming over with the permeate of life.
Read to your satisfaction; but read!
Free your mind upon these winged lines.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC