"intimations" poems
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
(Inspired by article below)
I.
Continuity
your filibuster egg of sand
dazzled curiosity
with creaky shell of hints
heaped upon the tedium
of knowledge's unfurl undeterred
by encyclopedic impatience
Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed
economics shooed paper strings of
revelation like anarchy-powered
taxes summoning a foreword
to anachronistic campaigns
of environmental friendliness
II.
Meanwhile years
have been filed down to flashes of
chronology for continuity's organic rebus
However long it took
the economic karma to fall into the
abodes of hedonistic pharaohs
it was instant
Skin that ruled behind the constitution
of allergic breath
bailed on the bones against their most
sublime intentions
Limbo-treading landlords
huddled in their mummified freeze
after breadline bashers scolded them
with the spoils of a new brand
of pyramid scheming
Robbers of the coffin palaces
stole the intimations of identity
theft from today
Immortality and freedom
were compelled to share a meaning
like estranged siblings
or bound dynasties
I(a).
Abydos
how you coyly toyed with us
with a diversion bordering on monolithic
04 23 14
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
Even the leaves of the locust were yellow then,
He walked with his year-old boy on his shoulder.
The sun shone and the dog barked and the baby slept.
The leaves, even of the locust, the green locust.
He wanted and looked for a final refuge,
From the bombastic intimations of winter
And the martyrs a la mode. He walked toward
An abstract, of which the sun, the dog, the boy
Were contours. Cold was chilling the wide-moving swans.
The leaves were falling like notes from a piano.
The abstract was suddenly there and gone again.
The negroes were playing football in the park.
The abstract that he saw, like the locust-leaves, plainly:
The premiss from which all things were conclusions,
The noble, Alexandrine verve. The flies
And the bees still sought the chrysanthemums' odor.
2.2k
"Ah, young Sir,
indeed it is in your lines on your smooth palm
as I indeed felt the moment
when I saw your noble face
and your inimitable manner…"
"What is it? What is it?
O speak your mind, young gypsy;
speak the truth, speak with no fear"
"Ah, young Sir
this curved line that runs
across your gentle palm tells
you must certainly have
some of the blood of the Caesars
running through those bold veins of yours"
"Ah, true, true indeed
sometimes I have felt it too"
"And, young Sir
this straight line that cuts that curve
on your most delicate palm
ah – it indicates even some lineage of prophets
and a history of past holy men
which line now culminates in you"
"Oh, indeed, indeed
I have had such intimations indeed
at the House of God when I kneel
in holy prayer;
and I have had such whispers
and stirrings within my *****
indeed…indeed…"
And when the gypsy is gone
it is then that the young man
of such esteemed rank and high nobility
and of such holiness
he feels his gold ring also gone…
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
You are cyclic like
the change of seasons
in your reinvention;
robust is your passion,
a mountain brook
that embraces hills
plains, fields and ravines
without any restriction.
Instantly you would imbibe
any message, air, wind or water
sends through flashes of intimations,
nature's child you are, a woman
in sync with the moon in your veins
and the sun that seeks you from my *****
I only follow the music your heart strings play
that in my psyche resonates, every moment,
it makes easy navigation in this planet my right.
You and I move through the waves rowing
shoulder to shoulder, singing spiritedly barcaroles.
The feminine in me is under your tender care,
I let my masculine self be in communion with yours,
all merging in harmoniously, resulting in only ONE.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
She made me cup my hands, softly
over her heaving full ******* a gesture,
a tender moment when she received
the first intimations of her motherhood,
we were awaiting, this moment, any time
she never had known a tenderness like this.
Just then I heard the billowing black clouds
loudly blowing their auspicious conch shells *
announcing arrival of good tidings
impatient clouds, at that time burst out
in torrential rains, cooling the heart of nature and us.
the seed I planted in her, fecund earth, lying in wait
with her life blood and hopes
she too was lovingly watering it,
only a mother knows how to do it the best,
the water flowed through two streams
the milky way and the holy Ganga river
fiery star dreams and watery abundance
the mother's wish embrace ice and fire
in measures varying according to emotions.
Lifted my eyes to hers which were flooding
in a happiness, words find difficult to express,
like tender vines her hands circled my trunk,
we, man and wife who sowed our seeds
together in self oblivion are on immortality's steps!
wind, water, earth, fire and space, from you comes
our descendants, with eager eyes and singing voice!
This union, is a ritual divine, what hymns of Vedas
extol as fire sacrifice, to transcend the limits time set for us.
Now she is the enchantress,moon coming out of clouds,
we merge in a passionate kiss, our boat moves in to the
cosmic stream, a flow eternal,without beginning or end.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC
The intimations of our golden youth
Are whispering the dreams of manhood-
Subtle ways of ageless yearning
Which in kind with ambient stars
Quarterly describes, in subtle play
The chiming of a universal soul
Whose consort is a universal heart
In man or woman, ever yielding scales
From pole to pole, the hermeneutic art.
Sweet songs of knowing, harmonies in time
Resolved, upwelling, urging on the climb
Of sacred being, born to unify…
Conceived of ash, from ash to mount the skies
On wings supernal, loft on fiery reins
To ring the victors’ anthem and the aims
Of truth and love for life’s enduring worth!
O fair noblesse and sweet repose
Of sacred care, always we hold you dear
In trials of election and sojourning.
Your constant grace, deep from within, unfolds
To free the tortured thought and lonely fears
Of desperate nights and homesick yearning.
At last in you we find the kindliness
Of heart, whose honored worth is bright as gold
To phantom souls and this, too darkened, world.
Your equipage and host of tenderness
Wrought pure intent, more sure than has been told
Of truth by men, the best of mind unfurled!
Let none forget, in U we find our rest
From whom we’re born, to whom we must return
Our hope of innocence, in us the best
Of love, whose lamp has ever inward burned.
Mystery of love that sends
In timeless whispers, on the mend
Of heart and mind, eternal tides
Of being; faith unto sacred faith
Raising up the ancient gates
Where mercy ever abides.
Patiently, your mourning dove
Has preened the pinions of our love
Recouping every bit of life’s content.
At last, what awful beauty drapes the sea
And broods the dark on holy wings of peace
A train of captives, born to pure intent!
Still working yet upon the day
Though battered in the idols’ fray
To overcome the world and show forth
The proven heart, all worthlessness disposed;
Not trusting in those shadowy ways
But piercing what, upon the naked eye
Has taunted love, too dimly beheld.
While alone the thought matured
One social pact allied the tortured doubts
And rose upon the gate Beautiful
Acceptance and cooperation
Our universal worth, more brightly lit!
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Phantom posture cocked
its spear and stuck it
to another friend
like an unglued Quasimodo
The incense of a level-headed fate
tosses its burn from one context
to another
breath
consumption
sarcasm
And all that remains
are matchstick stumps as clues
to the promise of origins
birth
a dance
and a sprain
Feral intimations of mortality
eating on bonds like rust
And I can't even ask
for a turn without knocking
on the ignorance-enforced door
of self-promotion
Violation via Wolverine caress
Feel-good stories
strip-searched
by a generation *****
for conspiracy theories
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
A gesture's worth a thousand words,
intimations of the body articulate:
my gas-passing interrogatives,
your inquisitive belches, remember?
At first, such unspoken jokes seemed crude,
though useful. So we refined them,
and from trees at night mock owl-calls homed you in.
Do you remember eyebrows, intelligent as lips?
In time, I developed tics, snarls, an expert shrug,
a professional groan. And I grew to resent
your sighs, your phony, irritated coughing fits,
the critical commentaries of your silences.
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
When the time comes
I will leave you
locked in the closets
of your heart
There will be no words
of consolations
No letters left upon the desk
inked with my explanations
I am sure it will be the dark of night
when whippoorwills do call
For they cry into the dark
but nothing replies at all
By the time the sun stumbles in
And you reach for the sky and yawn
The dew will cover the grass but there will be no footsteps left upon the lawn
What happens after that I really
don't want to know
I will be hitchhiking down the road
keeping it on the low
Don't blame yourself for my failures
It was just that I ran out of time
And my feet were really telling me
they were sick of all my lying
So goodbye , farewell , Godspeed ,
live long and I hope that you prosper
It's time to end the intimations
and all the pain I cause her
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
I lay here,
Intimations of wonderland
Flowing around me.
Close my eyes,
And reminisce.
My life,
My weekend,
Heart racing happiness happened.
And now,
Alone in the presence of my unforgiving mind,
My past pushes forward.
1 memory
And laughter pushes away
Creeping sadness,
And I think to myself,
Yes.
This is a wonderful life.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
There is a certain elegance in lines,
a grace that attracts the eyes
to that which is cloaked within the
echoic mystery of an ever clever guise.
All that is knit
from the fabric
of a most frantic
illusion in space,
borrows movement
from a riddle,
poised in a mostly empty place.
It enchants the mind like a diorama
hung
upon the
fiber optic
sky,
with pictures of the thoughts behind
the artists telescopic ><><><><><>< eye.
Our surreal desires are drawn boldly
from the breathing palette
of a bright reality,
with living loving strokes
that portray our very substantiality:
and never will it betray
the flaws
in neither an other worldly
symmetry,
nor the immense complexity
of some alternate geometry.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Sidestepping shadow-plays
boxed in bonus-sized portions
for garden-varietal religions,
I've had these scuzzy intimations
great big (voids) lie behind
most altruistic inclinations
and the biggest news is,
we're still expanding
with-in-exhaustible potentials
to be eternally filled greater.
Now I'll admit to being
hampered in my cognitive
capacity for meaningful
pattern recognition
by my debilitating
predisposition toward
concentrated forms of myopia,
ergo, I can't shape
a formless mess into anything
but incoherent flimflam.
I've tried alleviating this
condition with meditative
concoctions and palliatives
of sensory deprivation,
yet I fear I'll need
a silicon-chip-enhanced head
before I can glimpse
the cosmic legerdemain spinning
its paradoxes of endless
surfaces but no top.
If I finally do, I'll smile big
as a great-white gull winning
his first demonstration hand at
the three-card monte of not-to-be
reconciled contradictions.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
the clock nears three AM,
and the "five minutes to" alert
pops up,
long overdue,
uh oh,
a task in need of completion,
a guilty conscience,
a simple love poem
needs to be written!
more than most,
perhaps, best,
can't be sure,
but more than most
is holy satisfying
for me
more than most,
a standard met,
perhaps understated
yet, highly realistic
for is real
not
the edge that love needs
to transcend long beyond,
far after,
initial heated intimations,
the noisy, now ancient,
initiations
real,
that place where
fantasy connects
skin and hair,
bare shoulders,
that more than most,
I kiss with simple pleasure,
best described as,
sustained, sustainable,
better than
better
real,
is that not totally,
more than most?
I love you
more than most,
for to claim,
more than anyone,
who can tell?
so now
you sleep,
your blonde tresses messes
my damp pillow,
and i am satisfied,
content to claim,
that to love you more,
more than most,
is ample, profound,
real,
and by that,
indeed,
for that alone,
is excellence unsurpassed,
a measurable measure,
that satisfies my task
well
now can rightfully
deactivate that alert,
that "to do,"
done,
unto and until
some sleepless night,
when again,
it self-actualizes,
self-activates
while smiling down upon you,
more than most,
certain,
almost positive,
but never sure,
come morn,
that you will love,
this poem,
more than most...
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Along the quiet street
Within an evening calm with the intimations of a natural love that is here
Or could be here
Or
Once was here
--
A surface--- beautiful
Calm and tranquil with intimations
--
Imitations of solace love and care
----
He
(Does he walk with a dog?)
,
Does he walk with a girl in a dream in his head?
Does he walk with a vision of war and its fear?
Of a nation at war with a world in a war
With each and every person?
--
His mind
Like a bull whip rips thru the scene
As he tries to see things thru to the core
To the most meaningful reality
--
*he is a man
A human being*
---
Gentle angelic
The wind
He
,
Soothes away the ragged edges of his feelings
Smiles at the dog and the girl
........
the 1000 movies dance in his head
..
All the same as the one he is in
-
With his knife in his pocket
And the armed drone airplane overhead
Wondering
"Am I alive or already dead?"
But of Final Victory fully assured
..
Fully at peace
He knows what shall endure
The love forever his and ours
The love forever his and ours
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
I like to visualize my death
not as a grand moment
fraught with TV-script intimations
at sudden illumination
while I’m encircled by a non-weepy
sprinkling of the usual types:
one surviving relative
curious to see what I’ve got
left to inherit; one forgotten
friend dubious I hadn’t
died quite some time ago;
and one vengeful stranger
anxious for the shock
when I hear her unmask.
No, I envision my death simply
as the lonely release
of a hardly noticeable puff,
its minute droplets lifting
to mix with every other
ever breathed, and to bid adieu
to my residue of befuddling
puddles flecked by unresolved wants.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 2:32 PM UTC
"Quiet river,
are you aware,
of an inaudible-
murmur,
like a chant incessant?"
"It's in the nether depths
of the consciousness,
the undying quest
of the inner being,
to discern
where this
swift current takes"
"Intense
invisible current,
the life force of all movements,
what inspires you to swiftly pass?"
**"A relentless quest,
in the core of consciousness,
to embrace eternity,
awaiting
in the blue ocean bed."**
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 7:36 AM UTC
LORD GOD i know it's been a
while since my knock
knees bruised the floor
sweating hands prostrate
still trembling. starving, LORD.
sated, LORD. please, thine
cut-and-dry intimations intimidated
by each opaque insinuation;
JESUS CHRIST Gag Me.
i am tangled razor wire
twisted desire LORD GOD i
know it's been a while.
Oct 3, 2024
Oct 3, 2024 at 9:31 AM UTC
A normal day
another office journey
punctuated boredom
with smiles of recognition
and then there She was
with your boots, your coat
with you hair and form
a glance
a refusal to believe it wasn’t so
told me it was you
so I looked again
and in love
She looked
(but she didn’t look like you)
She smiled
(but she didn’t smile like you)
She talked
(but she didn’t talk like you)
and when I left the train
I left her too
- she wasn’t You.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
The solicitous Self,
with and in each exchange
of conversation's
volley of commiserating
commissary verbages
words of curbs and gutters,
owns not its guilt
knows not good will
nor for those whom shatter
in our drowning hours, unstill...
The Self is begging
for your idolatry's bastions,
wants you to find it beautiful
and superior
above any other
attention and ingestion
gorging and hoarding
the tid-bit compliments
the cloud nine glances
succulent smiles / flirtatious lick of lips
the audience pumping up
its hot air ego-balloon
to beach ball widths
a deadly kind of perdition
for you, character fool
careless and distracted
blase' as a toad on a stoop...
It is a ****
the amorous Self is
harmless, the beginning seeds
and whimsy / at flowering
in your hands:
fluff and puff intimations
child-like glee / pleasing / blowing
nonpluss dandelions
nonthreatening
in ruminations
N' stuff...
but like any ****
when it spreads and takes hold
the real estate of your time and soul
it chokes and feeds
off your serene prosperity
of peace of mind
of identity
a thief of your ideas
makes your dreams its own
It suffocates all others
behaves with dismissive airs
like you it becomes
you, who has watered
this pest and catered to its musings
like a sudden sunrise it appears
out of the blue appealing
a dandelion, quaint & demure
yet alluring
The ********** that is the selfish
solicitous thorn
knows its own nature
far too well
hides its hideous
kink so none can warn
it is a war
with Self
the attention *****
Self being compelled
as all else
a parasite to its growth
a virus and its host
what she now only has to give
in return:
assuage
her malingered spell
she breeds in you
a ghost of once you were
wastrel grime
wasted time
an empty shell
Abhorred.
Careful what the Self
is selling
the solicitudes
of obsessions
Possession
Suffocation
not much else...
No succor for the Self.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.
***
Published by Penny Dreadful, The HyperTexts, the Anthologise Committee and Nonsuch High School for Girls (Surrey, England)
Also published by Michael R. Burch writing as Immanuel A. Michael and Kim Cherub
Keywords/Tags: Listen, heed, prophet, crying, wilderness, voice, prophecy, black, white, gray, moon, wind, speak, speaking, speech, instruction, teaching, warning, omen, illuminations, intimations, ears, hear, judgment, bell, toll, tolling, peal, pealing, tone, I, Am
Note: The poet as a “madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness” is likened to John the Baptist, foretelling a momentous “second coming”: his own, with no other Messiah in sight.
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 3:28 AM UTC
Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ****** The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my *** in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.
Intimations of Fairway Play
I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.
I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.
I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.
I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.
I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.
I'd rather shank or stub my ****
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.
Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.
Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all **** off.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Not just another dead word from a
book
But a magical word...straight out of
childhood
Gathered from a fascination with
looking at maps and Atlas books
And globes of the World
All the different countries in all their
different colors
With all their fantastic sounding
names
All spread out in wonderful greens pinks and oranges, yellows reds and
purples
And then... that wonderful blue sweep
of the Pacific...the Pacific ocean.
Through the eyes of a young small
child
The wondrous...sweet Blue Pacific
ocean
So vast and so full of romance
With its mermaids, its whales and its
dolphins
Coconuts and palm trees and
treasured islands
Its flying fish and grizzled pirates,
Its blue skies forever smiling
overhead
The surf rolling up onto its sun kissed
beaches.
.....There long ago I glimpsed the lovely
blue of her blouse
And the wonderful patterns on it
As she lifted me up and spun me
around
Just like being up on the swing boats,
And she laughed with her laughing
smiling face
And her laughing smiling eyes
And I laughed too, out loud and
unashamed
This was how it should always be
And I didn't want it to end
Wanted it to go on forever,
It brought me a Bluey Bliss
And suddenly all this world it was a
magic place.
She was like Life or Love itself
Wanting to embrace you and kiss you
And sweep you off your feet
Life, it held so much promise and
beauty
So much wonder and mystery
Yea! all was magic in those Summer
months
The coloured pictures in our comic
books
The kicking football on the lovely
green lawns,
The fluttering and flapping of the
clothes on the clothes line
Were like the sails of a Great Ship...
Sweet dreams and sunbeams as we
ran out to meet the tide.
And still she calls to me today, wild
blue ocean
How I love... like that sweet feeling of
blue
The sight of her on a globe or Atlas
still
And that name like some ancient
spell
It sends me up into the sky
Delights, makes me feel so peaceful
The sweet blue Pacific ocean
You can...can almost taste it.
Sweet intimations of a world that
came before,
A world underneath...that still lies
there...somewhere
Whispering like some sweet lost
Atlantis
Forever calling you back, calling you
back home.
I'm afraid I can't be more specific
About the wonderful, the beautiful
...The Blue Pacific.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 10:55 AM UTC
The Olde English poem,
The Holy Rood,
Was mystical and new.
The courtiers liked what they heard,
The troubadours sang out their truth.
Then Beowulf gave it design;
A plot with characters,
Some nearing divine,
With beasts and bravery bounding;
A new literature was sounding.
Soon Canterbury clopped along,
Lyrical poetry became song,
And morphed into Paradise,
Lost and found in common meter,
With angelic imagery, good and evil,
Undone in metaphysics.
Round the Lakes the poets roamed,
Windermere, Grasmere, and Dorothy's home.
They walked in beauty, day and night,
Warned the world was too much with us,
That nature was our friend.
Gave intimations of our end,
We still need listen to.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Intimations of intuition
Liberally surface.
Faith and I
Are on speaking terms.
Ekstasis wraps its arms
Around me and eases
Into my body.
I seem transmuted.
Come Here by Kath Bloom
Is mentally playing;
She sings of love,
And even though I have no lover,
It still soothes me
Like the generous breeze,
And uplifts me
Like Sol's glimmering solace.
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Originally written 1/15/14
Revised in 2014
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC