"islet" poems
Backdrop of hues from heaven's palette
Two silhouettes stood hand in hand
A pair so in love on their deserted islet
Only witnesses were the sky and the sand
Two silhouettes with roles of lovers
Frolicked forever in the setting, evening sun
Only they'd know what laid under covers
Secrets of pure passion in their blood did run
Their merriment presented bare in a playful dance
Two silhouettes engulfed in their own private universe
Kisses and embraces offered in a reciprocative trance
Dark lips matched the other's voiceless whispers
Two silhouettes then dissolved with the set of sun
Strained my eyes to unravel this sweet shadow clad mystery
Last few moments pierced through like a shot from a gun
Because I realised that one was you while the other wasn't...
me...
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
You swell some strain on me,
You, middle kingdom!
Eradicating small detachments,
Of both sailors and marines.
They were ranked on islets and reefs,
With an integer of nine –
There in the island next to me,
I’m sure, you know who Spratly is.
Always wanting such detachment
To be eradicated by your own;
Now stationed
On a World War II era landing ship.
Your toy-ships came near me,
With 9-kilometer of the LST.
“It’s there illegally,”
How adamant that be!
I’ve tipped you off already,
Surely will I stand firm!
Then, you’ve countered me on! –
Opting for the ******** of more skyscrapers;
Those that are on stilts;
Now nearby two Reefs & a Bank? –
Nearby my darling Palawan Island!
“There is no room at all,”
For the negotiation on some point,
You’ve declared.
Oh, here’s my friend, U.S.
Left us with course of action to try;
Everyone calm down,
Be less provocative.
For often, he flies over;
Probing some stuffs.
You are the biggest offender, my friend;
In this dispute, you show no sign of slowing;
Or backing, down.
But hey, I won’t give up!
(9/9/13)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
i.
Off to Fuga island
Next to the pamalican;
Then to Bucas grande
In the turquoise shallow end's.
ii.
Next, the Mactan
Wherein the grain's art caramel tan;
Then to the land of Coran
And Cebu, where the shore meet's the dawn.
iii.
Hiding safely, on Bohol isle
There art tarsier, and thing's of wild;
Diogo islet next, an uninhabitable place
Me and mine Reyna shalt explore it, with tribal paint on face.
iv.
Off, to the great Santa Cruz
Ourn feet, in the pink corraline sand;
Zamboanga City, the southern region
Of this Filipino relic strand..
v.
Whilst next the Sangat
The western part of this expedition;
Whilst doing all this sight-seeing
It shalt be with mine Jane nagley, in earth's natural kitchen.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
In my world there is a gem...
On which there are two
predominant facets.
It has never been just me,
or just you...
It is us...
Marooned on a little cast off islet.
If I could take just one sip
from the fount of transitory courage,
I'd take the leap
into waters deep.
So I could pave the route
for our safe passage.
To freedom and love...
Without restrictions or restraint.
If only we could...
We'd harness from the infinite palette above
and with it,
boundless magic
we would paint.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Willie sat by the side of
the river in a philosophical
mood under a weeping willow.
Midway, between the two
banks, was a small island
only paddling distance away.
Debris from a previous flood
had accumulated on the low
foliage of an uprooted tree.
A funnel of cold air from the
ten arch bridge made a wind
sock of a plastic net nitrate bag.
In all his time, Willie had never
ventured on to this little islet,
even wondered if he should flag it.
Off with the shoes, rolled up the
legs of his trousers and slowly he
negotiated his way over the stones.
On exploring the land mass, which
was an isthmus of a mere ten square
meters, he decided to return to land.
Just before his disembarkation, he
noticed a large denominational euro
note caught in the gills of a dead fish.
Eureka Eureka money and food all
in the one catch (was his thought as
he made his way back).
The sodden state of the 100 euro note
was what guided ******* wise decision
to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union.
In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant
teller, everyone was admiring *******
dead fish.
Eventually, at the desk, and known to
those working therein, a 100 euro note
was not his norm and created suspicion.
After tendering the note attached to the
Trout, that had apparently been fowl
hooked up the river by Johnny Logan,
The lady behind the desk called for the
manager, who immediately held the note
up to the halogen fraud lamp.
Willie had never encountered anything like
this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a
month to his savings account.
He enquired of the manager as to why he
was holding his fish and 100 euro note up
against the bright light.
The manager responded, “ It is the policy of
all banking systems to check high denominational
notes for visible water marks “ !!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC
Bruised and beaten in the salt swamped oceans
burnt to crackled skin, unbarked, floating
highways in the waters racing, warm
blanket of currents, tossed in the tide
of reaching places, far off shores
infested by man -eating sharks
piranha fish, electric eels, the boat of misery
finds its channel to freedom
on some strange islet that leads
to unkempt land.
Not wanted in their own country
scratching for existence
watching nirvana on Channel 52
each scampers in the dead of night
to find a home in other unwanted countries
abandoned on the beach of mercy.
The war on poverty will rage
around polished tables of policies
and the rich will get richer
while the poor get children.
We are driftwood dressed in a society
with new bark-like skins.
Author Notes
immigrants.Watch as the world disintegrates into driftwood.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Deep beneath a pillowed sky, there
A restful restlessness abides
Nestled in a perennial hill
Whose sentinel trees raised their hands,
White with subtle deference,
They do not usher the world flowing ‘hind,
But show me an islet high above time.
I sat there in ponderance at the stagnation of clouds
Holding on one end a gold string of a kite
My thoughts tethered to those ghosts,
Those wights, sitting amongst me, those by-gone eras
And down, on me, some vague horror weighted
To them it was the Stones that made them feel dated
I thought I could feel slippage, some loss of traction
They? They bore a whole lifetime without
Satisfaction.
The breeze smells of gossip and Jaeger on their lips;
Everything is on point: dances, romances, localist quips.
Whoever would have guessed
Memories ablur could be the most vivid?
Such, I suppose, is an art form insipid.
I had to step away from this field of time
It had overtaken, that shadow of mine
All the trees now, bow and they bend
Prostrate, like a weeping willow.
When they step out into the world,
A bath of gold in the dusk of their lives
Shall fall before their feet, denude from their shadows
To run on ahead.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
I used to wander feeling blue,
Underneath the sky's hue.
As I walk the sky falls true,
I'm at sea limbless and fugue.
Suddenly it all turns green-
An old mango tree I've seen.
A sense of tranquility so serene,
A stark contrast from the marine.
I must have flown from an inlet,
From drowning I must've willed it,
Surviving alone on this islet,
I wear a regal cloak of violet.
I dream of a house colored red,
Ghosts appear, I hide under my bed.
To retreat into my scarlet shed,
This travesty is all in my head.
Sometimes I miss my grandmother,
Younger days with fried chicken supper,
Some mismatched candles I offer,
She would like a splash of color.
All these colors come to fruition,
Whirlpools of colorful emotion,
It all spirals down to destruction,
As I drown ghosts of hallucination.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
I crashed into love
My ship had been lost at sea
Map was torn to shreds
And my compass had mislead me
Lied to me and abandoned me
Brought me to the wrong island
To hell and back and back again
I was trapped there on that Purgatory Island
Afraid i'd never make it off at all
I escaped-
Returned back to my ship at sea
My anchor was lifted
I let the ocean carry me away
Simply drifting through
A torrent life
Aimlessly floating by
Island after island
Too afraid to land
Too afraid it would be
Another perdition in disguise
I closed my eyes after staring
So closely and longingly at the clouds
How they danced in the sky
A song of freedom and carelessness
While I was chained down to earth
My heart anchored in the lonely sea
I closed my eyes to escape reality
To for just one second
Feel as careless as the clouds in the sky
I let my ship be wrecked once more
By a tiny islet alone in the ocean
Such a hard ****
Such irreparable damage
From such a tiny island
I felt helpless
Distraught and terrified that
My carelessness brought me back
To that devilish island
I was shipwrecked by love
Afraid and alone
I had no clue what to do
Other than brave it out
And step once more
Onto a foreign land
A tiny island
Not even on a map
A tiny beautiful island
The more I let go of fear
The more I longed to see
The deeper into the heart I went
The less afraid I became
I didn't want to leave
And to this day I remain
Home on that Heaven Island
The sea no longer calls to me
No temptation on the horizon
No doubt on my tongue
The angelic land is home to me
Holds me in a devoted embrace
My Elysium hidden away
From erroneous judgement
A tiny islet in the sea
Yet home to a thousand Nirvana's
Just for me
Jan 8, 2020
Jan 8, 2020 at 11:46 PM UTC
“Beyond this of my coastal lugubrious ,
There was a time I held her hand,
As I slowly watched her floret,
Her beauty adorned like petals cockled,
I grew intoxicated with the scent carapace,
As we quivered within a new romance,
Becoming immune to its constant presence,
When the wind shifts it drew her aura near,
I had to stop and hear the pounding of waves,
Only to find it was the beating of my heart,
Our love was of genital flames that night,
And I loved her even more at the dawn,
My heart now bears an untold story,
Like a ship at sea that longs for land afar,
A great untruth my lips have borrowed,
Boundless treasure now edging my heart,
Your love had filled my cup up to the brink,
Yet I grow thirsty in this silence tween me,
Now not a drop of love for me to drink,
Love now has left me again on this my,
Lugubrious Islet”
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/11/2018 ©
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
"Odoriferous fresh gardenia flowers fragrance was she,
Her beauty will be cultivated forever amongst and beyond,
How does one know if it is love it is more than just a word?
It is a feeling soul bound that fervor’s beneath the skin,
So how do I know it is love if it isn't as the words are procured?
A sense of rising tide a rapid undulant river of a woman,
One cannot be a troglodyte in life when love arrives,
My love has arrived I have felt all the above and much more,
Sheer thoughts of her sends a billow enliven rapture within,
A rush with consternation render’s fervent fracas of piquancy,
I have heeded in life these depictions of the fluttering gusto,
As long as I live this tectonic emotion of this naiad will remain,
Restraints of the days is this prologue to exodus to enclaves,
I turned my back on the capricious sea the euphoria and somber,
Where with a strain and a ****** on the banks of islet sands,
Beauteous day slips in night as the sailing foam drifts afar,
Although I am where I am I will never be perniciously charmed,
Stars will burn for all time as I lament in demanding sadness,
Cursing as a cavalier of false hopes with untethered regret,
For I am not a troglodyte of ages but just an aesthete in love,
Beauty is Culture!”
By Andrew Guzaldo 03/02/2019 ©
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
My mother,
is strong like an island.
Her stretched islet arms
merges with my waters.
She comforts me,
when my sea world is rough.
She stabilizes me with grace,
giving self a place to land.
My mom,
strong as rock loves me.
And I love her.
StarBG © 2017
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC
"Bring me to elysium as I feel warmth of within,
I beseech your lips your voice your integument,
How can I alone bare cumbrance and stifle burdens,
Fresh outdoors my islet will cool my burning desires,
I wish to be her fantasy and make our love complete,
I want to eat the sun as it searches your body,
That redolence exists within intangible feelings,
Tangent the wallow hunger inside depths of your soul,
Echoes within call to me as waves to the shore,
I travail as she groveled into my percipience,
I would no longer stay defiant to your touch,
Touching upon your impetuous palpable body,
Apprehensive of what your loving me might doth,
The ichorous in her eyes that echoes within,
Bellows in a delineation of abyss of passions ardor,
Deliquescing into each other’s arms unfolding in,
Elysium amorousness”
By A. Guzaldo 06/12/2018 ©
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
“Coastline and the ghost mirage as I sometime see afore,
Seashore of such perfections that linger into the morning,
Shoals in the distance I imagine things we once dreamed of,
I beseech to thee come and join me from this place of ours,
In my alluring may you fall on me from wherever you are?
Secluded aft the deep inside where emotions stay hidden,
Occulted enigmas of love and secrets can no longer obscure,
Reverberated nucleic flow deep within my soul where you remain,
Dubious poetry gives a sense of affinity to ones love torn soul,
Celestial cosmos and is a sense of beyond the feeling of pain,
As the ocean once whispered its breath sand across our bodies,
Perhaps best to have you belong in my unknown sentiment in life,
Perhaps one day we shall meet on an islet that we cannot assent,
You can whisper your words of amenity as you epicarp my agony,
Cosset fervently in your arms as I’m washed of my indiscretions,
The last cinders of the autumn air will spend nurturing the winter,
I as a sybaritic will follow you in this our silent observance,
By Andrew Guzaldo 03/03/2019 ©
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:49 PM UTC
The persistent air pushes upon the pebbled shore while the sun warms every breath
How manly of me to ponder of every man’s proper dream even when there is no man left
He silently thinks to himself as the tiny stones stick to his feet upon every stealthy step
I will travel to bear witness to this mistress from the bare islet.
Lady luck will guide me to the lovely lady if love is luckily true
If the spirit of the island is in the land she will lead me to something new
An experience so inexperienced even the experienced never knew
What terrible terror for the townsmen who never truly took to
A relationship
Yes, that’s what he forever never-forgetting wished for
A beautiful girl in her beautiful world to walk with him on the shore
A soul to simply grow old with and solemnly swear to love to the single core
A hope filled heart hopefully was all he needed for the other half to adore
The man curiously gazed up and saw he had completed the end of the coast
He had been walking all day wondering about a woman that he barely knows
To him she seems like she is standing in his way but to her he seems a ghost
He looked out at the riptide, smiled, for he maintains the memories he had engrossed
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
I checked into the lobby of her one room apartment,
darkened corridor filled with paintings of Jesus.
The fountain throbbed in the hall of this hotel,
shuttered windows,
subtle innuendos,
three knocks.
The night was hot and black,
clothes stuck to our shirts.
The story is about summer and you,
and her dark little island of a room,
and all of her crooked roads,
that had their footprints in my odes.
She was born under the star of Venus, three stars above me.
Her light blue eyes, filled with humbleness, softly saddened.
Her painter's eyes, mercury mouth at the biblical times.
Hair that was colored like wine dark sea fell down on her breast,
on lips that looked like bare roses,
blushing with blood, eating themselves with desire.
I was a wounded soldier, long afloat on a ship less sea.
Deserted and displaced from the war.
A war between the black and white,
A war between the man and the woman.
Utopian infant, Eutopian mother.
Born into this life, thrown into this world.
We entered the darkened room, and purposely didn’t turn on the lights.
She through her house keys and bag on her bed, lit a cigarette.
Offered me one, however he took some of my own.
Looking into her eyes through the smoke, where the moonlight floats.
Lit lamp that was hanging from a distant boat.
Now I saw, there was a painting by Arnold Bocklin hanging on the wall.
spoken word:
A small rowing boat is just arriving at a water gate and seawall on shore.
An oarsman maneuvers the boat from the stern. In the boat, facing the gate, is a standing figure clad entirely in white, a lone loon dives upon the water. Just behind him, there is a festooned object commonly interpreted as a coffin. The tiny islet is dominated by a dense grove of tall, dark cypress and willow trees. The Mephistopheles is just beneath him. As siren grabs him from the of the edge of the boat, underwater.
And she wraps up my tired face in her hair
And she hands me the apple core,
Two birds in a cage, drinking lovers wine and eating bread.
I'll stop in the middle and skip things between me and her. (It comes to us all, soft as a pillow)
The oarsmen has gone
And the loons have flown for cover.
And me I am on trail, in the funeral of my lover.
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 5:02 AM UTC
“When a poet will romance a subject,
One will never die for their words will perpetuate,
The way he or she carries themselves about,
Of one's eyes of their hair their skin all components,
When someone is irate at the subject,
And that leer of resentment when troubled,
As subject sways with authority from a kiss,
Without their body touching someone else's,
How the habits never wrinkle pages of a book,
Poets in love will find all the words of significance,
The Poet may see subject as they were on an islet,
On a waterfront near a small town of recollection,
Their words of passion penned on longing paper,
They will know when and why you can't sleep,
Poets die but their words do not they live eternally,
Explicitly graceful from the ink drafted on paper”
For a POET MUSE KNOWS”
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/05/2018 ©
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
When the river was young,
he'd often sit on its banks of sugar sand
smoking a cigarette
lazily watching
the slow, languid, eddied
swirls that Time made
as it made its way,
rather clumsily.
Sometimes from the far bend
a tree branch would come afloating
like a bad memory,
twisting and turning in the current
with some silly bird trying to balance
and figure it out from all angles
Random voices from the far shore
cicadas chirping in the lazy afternoon
from the thick undergrowths
overhanging the flowing waters
an occasional splash by some bored fish
a silent bubble bursting
cackling waterfowls
And yet he would hear his own breath,
joining in...
The waters were slightly warm then
and gentle
and caressing
when he went for a dip
and a few strokes took him
to the little islet in the middle
and aimlessly back again
to break out in little goosebumps
from the cool breeze on his wet skin.
The river's old now
muddied, wrinkled and scarred
no more voices from the far banks
no waterfowls cackling
not even lazy cicadas
only his own breathing
heavy with the sighs
of longing.
of loss.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 6:26 PM UTC
I know where I put them
that small pile of lovely
underthings
in the back of a drawer
Stuffed away
from my every day
not fit nor fitting
anymore
for an evening
or...
Can't bring myself
to throw them out
Hope is something
you just don't...
'Cause ya never know
when life might pick you up
spin ya round
where it left off
so long ago--
or something like...
that
But anyway--
I came across them
...on that first
truly warm day of spring
splayed across the mountains
of New York on my way back to PA
Driving through those
Scalloped edges not quite yellow
shy of green
Lace in layers
close to shedding heaven
or from storm's
oblique winds shredding
that sheen on the foothills
from the humid cool
of earlier that day
Spring knows
right
where she put them
Spring knows exactly what to do
with golden light
...and songs'...
preposterous possibilities
of bloom
Frothy silver
creeps amid the white
reflecting light
in every threaded islet
between the mountains' stream
of silk voile
sheer
and overlain mauve and pink
Those French knots and ribbons
thrill the edges of the road
reaching through the heated veil
longing for the gauzy air
Dogwood hands
sooth the swelling
clouds
above—so pleading—
Please...
to touch that dark
of naked woods
below
...where I left them
...apparently
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
“Perception lost in this coppice of desolation,
That has been enthralled into my soul,
I no longer know where to find her,
I harken her voice in the gusty gale,
In my hours of sleep I feel her under my skin,
Now months seem as years ephemeral,
As time passes its cataclysm is episodic to you,
As I sit here in a trapped incubus of remorse,
I no longer hunger for that daily bread of entity,
My starvation is deeper and more adherent,
Feeding on the memory of her and love once was,
Meander fragrance of her ascends through psyche,
Captive in this refuge of love once past me by,
Dream journeys lead me to the islet where we met,
That day I remember her smiling beautiful face,
Seems if it were miles and miles away yet so near,
As she moves on in her life may she be strong,
May her prowess be all that it can be afore?
May I take the pain of a broken heart instead of thee?
Initiating in the new dawn my desolation shall begin,
To once again start bleakness in sunrise refuge”
By A. Guzaldo 06/27/2018 ©
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 7:16 PM UTC
“If there is one thing that I can tell you,
Let it be you are at your home on this islet,,
Your body is your only house your temple
Your dreams sit along the shoreline waiting,
There’s no pleasure in the impassable coppice,
There is elation on the lonely shore afore thee,
There lays a civilization where no one intrudes,
By the briny ocean and its symphony as it roars,
One must never love a human any less,
But nature is to be cherished even further,
Where the love all blooms day and night,
Be not afraid of the cacophony on the island,
Sounds and sweet air that will not hurt you,
At times sounds of a harmony of instruments,
It will allay your mind into the calm of the night,
And awake to morning an exhilarating new sunup,
Sweet spring flower and the sea that surrounds us,
At Symphony Island”
By Andrew Guzaldo 10/23/2018 ©
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
"As you are concentrating long and adamantly,
As the gust sails of life’s empathies upon us,
That billow through our daily lives my dear,
Those elations we have to decide for imminent,
If this is the sail of misery you bequeath to me,
Than please my dear leave me at the shoreline,
The islet where my roots are that embrace me,
With the wind sand and my tranquil waves afore,
But remember what you have done on this day,
I shall lift up my spirit here among what I know,
And I will set out to another land an islet of my own,
If of every hour of a day realize that I am your destiny
With all the implacable palatableness and love derived,
Each day a flower for her from the valley of flowers,
As our lips clung intensely to seek one another,
To share two lives as one is everyone’s fantasy,
An endless undertaking of understanding and reverence,
Both must understand the different aspects of one another,
It is a dream of allocating one’s life but remember always,
Choose the sweetest drupe from the top of the sapling"
BY AG 06/14/2018 ©
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
I experienced experience
I witnessed experience
Swarming like wild bees
Swimming from the brooks
Of outer Marina
Racing into the fountain
Of Islet of Lagos.
Our Lagos,
Their Lagos.
Diverse religionists
On spiritual missions,
Raising up hands in supplications
For open heaven,
For praise and worship.
Some on mundane missions.
Spivs, urchins alike
But this congestion suffocated
Spaces wept for control
Sea breezes searched for outlets
From outer Marina
And wants of oxygen waves
Hands for recognition.
Both faithfuls, penitents , miscreants needed air for survival.
Protestations appealed for audience.
Legs spent and tired ,
Craving for rhapsodic attention
Where are more seats?
Where are more spaces?
Helpless ushers uncaring.
But from the stage roars
Songs of inspirations ,
Songs of supplications
Like war cries.
Sounds from desk to dawning,
Music from dawn into deskiness.
And seat glued me till cockcrow
Night broke into day.
Fading music expelled adherents
Out of arena.
A loud silence now reigned.
Freedom from the fangs of stampede.
I experienced experience
I witnessed experience
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC