"inlaid" poems
THE PAWN-SHOP man knows hunger,
And how far hunger has eaten the heart
Of one who comes with an old keepsake.
Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets,
Scarf pins and shoe buckles, jeweled garters,
Old-fashioned knives with inlaid handles,
Watches of old gold and silver,
Old coins worn with finger-marks.
They tell stories.
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I look again upon the sky as I have done so many times before.
To see the change of natures' palette as sun sinks beyond horizon's floor.
The blue of daytime sky and the wisps of white and mottled gray,
give-way to golden inlaid mauve upon red curtain as amber fades away.
Hues of golden yellow that were present short moments before,
now lost beyond the silhouetted landscape as if cast to distant shore.
Flame upon the heavens, cloud lit as if scattered, precious jewels.
Colours of natures palette so vibrant, disobeying all artistic rules.
silhouettes of birds in flight etched in black upon the fading light,
All traversing in rapid beat of wing, to seek shelter from the night.
Trees and distant vistas mere shadows where sun did slide away,
as palette welcomes the new nighttime bidding farewell to passing day.
Aug 16, 2022
Aug 16, 2022 at 10:32 AM UTC
A bird in an aurulent billed mud-face,Living as a four foot two inch dragon in a San Franciscan cave,
Lifts off from a hot breathed murmur of Gideon.
Even in night the whole grandeur of movement
Soaking in red beeping heart-pangs
Fasten to the thrusts of his arms.
This post of vainglory was the opening of the year.
In July's open pores,
On a spatial plateau of Dodonian oak.
The Penguin
Unveils his weakened voice.
Flattening into a wide arrow
Draped from Carina he
Sails Westward. Barefooted through the Anavros
Molting under deep helplessness and melancholia.
With his inlaid eyes faced askance
The penguin broods
Among the day's songs
Cast into the poetry of the lyre,
Stretched upwards from Paradise Bay to Colchis,
Where his ebony wings
Soak into the palms of Peleus
Suffering only where the arrows have flung.
Downside up, with children in a pocket of blood,
Among supergigantic siren songs and muse poems
Sewing teeth into a spot of Earth
Races towards a column of toppling strakes.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
If I could love, I would take the best of marble and dove,
And craft her eyes like inlaid tombs in stone skyward flight.
Just so, the Egyptian khamsin wind, by way of Rhodes,
Alights with evenness on the trullo stone of Alberobello.
Just so, the weighing of the heart lies between marble and dove.
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 9:27 PM UTC
When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime’s last summer psalms, we call it night.
We’re moonbathing and Sunny’s features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We’ll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons.
Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it’s right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent.
Unfortunately, the university isn’t a hotel. It’s more of a competition, like those survivor shows.
We’ll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we’ll return to the performance.
Sep 21, 2022
Sep 21, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC
sticks and bones
remnants of an ancient
peoples
their song's spirit
traces over the land
indigenous man
your culture inlaid
in hand painting on caves
and dot paintings
painted on bark
tools of stone
fire stick
by creek waters
the midden mounds
bear testament
to your occupation
of these grounds
sing em
sing em
aboriginal
your heritage
stored perpetually
in this place
your foot treading
its vast expanse
generation
on generation
celebrating the corroboree dance
in the enveloping wings
of kookaburras
and in the bounding
of the ochre kangaroo
this land is the realm
of the original man
sing em
sing em
the history
of aboriginal clan
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Crowns embellished
with ebony bewitching.
A sliver of gold
pierces the veil.
Stalemate defined
by velveteen seas.
Eyes of steel incandescent
under the blacksmiths hands.
The finest sapphires inlaid.
A woman in hand
the mightiest of weapons.
Snowy mountains nourished
the victory of Man.
Gravid in mysticism
keeper of seeds
bloomed the Kings strength.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Sitting in this dusty old attic
listening to the shingles flapping in the wind
I flip through a dog-eared book from my childhood.
As I skip through the pages,
I look up and notice the fine inlaid
carpentry work of an old chest.
Going over, leaving prints on the dusty floor,
I lift the lid. With reptilian slowness
a lazy fat spider edges away.
Inside this trove of ancient treasure,
magnificent finds of days gone by.
Mementos of a honeymoon, a parachute jump.
Gramma's best biscuit recipe. A photo of
Sam the hound with spittle running down his jowls.
A picture of a babe at his mother's ******
A permutation of these tucked away articles
give meaning to a life well and truly lived.
Closing the pages of these treasures I
wander away to watch my grandchildren
make memories of their own.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, **** and ***
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Sickened he was by her bad word choices, special need for
incongruous expressions,words spelled the way she likes,
blanks that can never be filled, invented quotes, fabricated realities,
thunderous **** repeated in intervals, as if each an inlaid jewel,
and then, having no fixed meaning for that favorite word of hers,
nothing more than an intention to denigrate ******
and women as a whole,
a subconscious compulsion, strangely included, her's also in it's ambit.
He understands her compulsion for such expression thus--
fulfillment of some innate need, an expression of her own worthlessness,
resulted from some grave injury of the mind that happened,
sometime early in her childhood, one could guess.
He took the decision to mark her "UNREAD" for ever
with deep anguish of course,after reading her many fine and sane pieces.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
He sits cross-legged with fingers poised
His needle threaded with fine silken cord
As a bright new pattern takes over all thought
He starts a new coat very soon to be bought.
In each and every coat that he’s made
A customer’s future has been finely inlaid
For the tailor is also a very wise man
And he makes people happier whenever he can.
This maker of scarves and coats of all sizes
Won praise from the King, who gave him nice prizes
The new coat he’s making is for the King’s son
And he’ll sew in much wisdom and lots of good fun.
When the day comes that the boy takes the throne
He’ll be filled with such wisdom as never he’s known
The tailor talks not of such things, he won’t tell
He just smiles to himself to see all that is well.
©Joe Wilson – The Wise Old Tailor 2014
Written for children to enjoy
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
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His Feet are shod with Gauze—
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
His Labor is a Chant—
His Idleness—a Tune—
Oh, for a Bee’s experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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Stunning she called the morning to gather it was her reflection that made all luminous and she
Turned from side to side all quarters of sun and shade settled in precise conforming feature it
Had no deviation it had no desire but was content to be her blossoming statement where her
Hair softly flowed down the sides and back was illusion and reality colliding slipping into a soft
Dark unspoken richness that defied appropriate telling her forehead was the first mold God
Used to make the first Angel from this creation dreams were first formed they arose mist like in
The quietest indulgence of the mind the eye brows were the seeding place of richest
Placements on fine porcelain it would begin the guessing of wonder how can such creation be
The eyes were jewels not mined in any worlds that we know cheeks aglow from fires deep
Within jungles unexplored by man the nose pristine you have to venture forth to rarest tents
Where nomads set in the midst of tapestry where inlaid golden folds lay with purist
Silver and emerald cloth and distilled breathing of goddesses and gave them a fitting that
Staggered the thoughts of those who came to look on these sights her lips were desire
Encapsulated in pink the entering of layers rivaled one another one on the top and between
Teeth a mix of ivory and pearl to be exposed was to lose ones breath and cast away
Reason briefly the chin the master stroke the line flowing from the ear was the perfect order
Holding all in eye appealing perfection the neck was enthralling understated composure
Shoulders rounded joining the graceful arms that premiered as musical a ***** that completes
Everything into perfection curvaceous loveliness man proclaims his strength woman surpasses
Him through soft quiet femininity that even assures his success through these powers that rise
Not from pride but from gifts that is profound and indescribable not better than man but the
best of man resides in her heart of hearts
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
I used to swear I was born in the Shire
right next to Bilbo Baggins.
Not because of the allure of being a hobbit, their squat bodies and hairy feet.
The shire was refuge from the eye of the witch king.
I would rather be an elf like Legolas with a bow of rowan wood
Arrows fletched with swan feathers, twin gold inlaid swords, and eyes keener than a hawk.
My weapons in this world are a bleeding tongue and rusted teeth
Maggot-filled reasoning, an understanding that middle earth is no more.
The Shire never happened for a ******* child.
The witch king came and raised me proud.
Fantasy is all I have left.
What could I possibly have for you?
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
460
I know where Wells grow—Droughtless Wells—
Deep dug—for Summer days—
Where Mosses go no more away—
And Pebble—safely plays—
It’s made of Fathoms—and a Belt—
A Belt of jagged Stone—
Inlaid with Emerald—half way down—
And Diamonds—jumbled on—
It has no Bucket—Were I rich
A Bucket I would buy—
I’m often thirsty—but my lips
Are so high up—You see—
I read in an Old fashioned Book
That People “thirst no more”—
The Wells have Buckets to them there—
It must mean that—I’m sure—
Shall We remember Parching—then?
Those Waters sound so grand—
I think a little Well—like Mine—
Dearer to understand—
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Errant, vast, my expanses
in the depths of hypnotisms
so ancient… still so spicy…
Reverberation of distant essences
is the adamantine wake
of dreaming satellites.
I collect rainbow sparks,
exalted
by craters of inlaid borders.
I would feel a silky tinkling
echoing in my throat,
but without a key,
the unknown does not reveal the intent
of me put down on this world...
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
Rolling thunder, closely followed by lightning.
A storm is near, all normalcy goes out the window.
The droplets make a soft pitter-patter on the
Stark, midnight concrete.
Inlaid with the tears:
Of college students,
Business professionals,
Homeless wanderers.
The salty droplets create a ripple effect in the water.
A man driving
We are always in a rush
He hits the puddle who hits
The little old lady
Our destinations become blurred
As the torrential downpour ensues.
People, including me,
COMPLAIN
GRUMBLE
No eye contact walking warily, wayward down the street.
But sometimes, maybe,
the clouds in a storm bring
Peace, maybe
Clarity, maybe
Presence. It may be.
Sometimes there’s a rainbow
Look for that.
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
Just an ornate box, covered in dust.
Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks
The box was rather gaudy
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.
We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..
Ten years it stood there in our room
An enigmatic guest
And often I would ponder it
while I was getting dressed.
Until one dark December day
In the Millennial year
Curiosity overcame my wife
And she succumbed, I fear.
My Darling, being curious,
Solved the riddles on the side
She was just prying up the lid
As I ran inside..
A disembodied Banshee screamed
The air was thick and red.
I rushed to close the box back up
in existential dread.
Still, the world seemed little changed
As I sequestered hope.
The radio said by 5-4
George Bush had won the vote
I think on all that’s happened since
As things have gone to Hell
****** wars in foreign lands
Discord at home as well.
Since then twin towers crashed and burned
And Wall Street did the same
Do you think it could be possible
Aunt Pandora’s Box shares blame?
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
Lackluster in appearance
Nothing much to gaze upon
If you were drawn to something special
This box would not be the one
Next to the box a note
Placed on the note a beautiful key
Inlaid with the most precious of jewels
A mind could ever dream
Riches beyond all measure
Cloud your every thought
If the key it holds such treasure
What could be inside the box
As you unfold the note
Taken aback by what they wrote
If this key in the lock you do use
This very same key is the one you'll lose
So you sit and ponder the question
So long and hard you feel you could cry
Is the treasure in the key you hold
Or what is hidden inside
As the key slides in the box
You hold your breath then deeply sigh
An empty box before you sits
All except for the note inside
The note you remove and read
It all now can be plainly seen
The treasure you seek is not born of greed or pride
The true treasure in all is the treasure of life
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
My mirror's broken.
I want a new one with You've Made It
spelled in lights across the top.
I want the holograms
of tiny clapping hands inlaid
along its sides -
applauding when I give the nod.
I'd like a slight distortion, looking
younger, better kept ideally;
so I see me but
with all this potential in repose.
It should say I Love You somehow -
any time, whatever state,
for simply being there.
I would stare and I would stare
from follicle to freckle, plotting
every facet of the features
glaring back at
mine, mine, mine. I want
to share myself with something.
Let me care completely
for some imperfect reflection.
My mirror isn't cracked or
anything like that it's just I can't
quite catch the little twitches
twinkling my eye.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
The crucible was a battle
fought by two sinners
both likely to sell the other out
or to shoot one another.
One wore a necklace
of tight inlaid shininess and red.
It was laced with a satin bow
and imbedded with an insignificant little ruby
tied around her neck,
her lovely ringlets hid in the sunshine.
She knew her life was sacred.
Mostly she was right,
but christened in her own right,
it was never suggested to her
that there was any other way around.
The darker side was originally ambivalent
to the nature
of the afflicted golden ringlets.
Thrashing and fighting it,
he, the darkness,
was finally struck with love.
The ambivalent subsided beneath
the imaginary plinth he prayed at,
and there he prayed.
Retorted only through silence as most gods do,
God responded.
Each time the ambivalent shook
and chattered his teeth
as his fears were becoming
all so real.
Waiting to hear a sound
And nothing was there.
He understood the emptiness.
He was truly suffering,
but ultimately obliged to the goodness
of every single perfect ringlet
that made up the woman’s hair.
He knew the repercussions
of going on in other fashions,
and chose instead to end it there
before he had her locked in all their passions.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
Nature’s lay idiot, I taught thee to love,
And in that sophistry, Oh, thou dost prove
Too subtle: Foole, thou didst not understand
The mystic language of the eye nor hand:
Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the air
Of sighs, and say, This lies, this sounds despair:
Nor by th’ eyes water call a malady
Desperately hot, or changing feverously.
I had not taught thee, then, the Alphabet
Of flowers, how they devisefully being set
And bound up might with speechless secrecy
Deliver errands mutely, and mutually.
Remember since all thy words used to be
To every suitor, Ay, if my friends agree;
Since, household charms, thy husband’s name to teach,
Were all the love tricks that thy wit could reach;
And since, an hour’s discourse could scarce have made
One answer in thee, and that ill arrayed
In broken proverbs and torn sentences.
Thou art not by so many duties his,
That from the world’s Common having severed thee,
Inlaid thee, neither to be seen, nor see,
As mine: who have with amorous delicacies
Refined thee into a blisful Paradise.
Thy graces and good words my creatures be;
I planted knowledge and life’s tree in thee,
Which Oh, shall strangers taste? Must I alas
Frame and enamel plate, and drink in glass?
Chaf wax for others’ seals? break a colt’s force
And leave him then, being made a ready horse?
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I think I may have been cursed
To hold you up in a pedestal
Inlaid with silver and gold
Sharp and blinding and beautiful
I think I may have forced myself
To fix my eyes on you
That when I dare to look away
I only see black and gray
You are becoming more perfect
In the widening gap between us
I think I may have been cursed
To be the human to your sun
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 9:27 AM UTC
The house is now silent,
as if always it was this calm -
all asleep, all tidily done -
and in a thoughtful gesture
she reaches for the quilt,
grabbling for the needle minder.
In her mind, a coloured trickle
of threads draws upon the
inlaid tree branch - oh, the blossom
would happen before us,
would we look it trough her eyes
- as she picks a flaming orange
for the feather stich
and an ocean blue one
for a stich of satin feeling
and - there!, it starts showing,
the bird she nested for so long,
that bird bursting into songs
- now and forever catching your eye
here, molded by her hands.
It is so late, now.
Slowly, the unfinished quilt
is folded, threads and needle kept away.
The bird in esquisse flutters in her heart,
watching her stepping down
into the dark frown of the bedroom.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC