"masonry" poems
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
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Butterflies turn to moths in the drapery of your stomach.
They spread,
And the feast begins on the fabric lining the masonry of your summit.
Your satin sheets,
The place you come to cradle dreams.
Who knew,
Were vulnerable to these wing'd beasts.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
‘Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.
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ONE by one lights of a skyscraper fling their checkering cross work on the velvet gown of night.
I believe the skyscraper loves night as a woman and brings her playthings she asks for, brings her a velvet gown,
And loves the white of her shoulders hidden under the dark feel of it all.
The masonry of steel looks to the night for somebody it loves,
He is a little dizzy and almost dances ... waiting ... dark ...
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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
1224
Like Trains of Cars on Tracks of Plush
I hear the level Bee—
A Jar across the Flowers goes
Their Velvet Masonry—
Withstands until the sweet Assault
Their Chivalry consumes—
While He, victorious tilts away
To vanquish other Blooms.
2.9k
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
There was a big boom once
Population dynamics are intrin-
sic functions of gumption
and big booms echo in eternity.
I look at the industrial revolution
through infrared filters
to parameterize the haze of our lives using
a kaleidoscope landmarking
technique andor technology
where the function of plutocracy
(and it is taking shape)
while it resonates on post-reformations
and pre-modernisms
How do you like them schizms?
Living the religion of
capital ~ ism
and paying homage on prayer mats of
blood ~ sweat ~ and 1, 2 many beers
through our blue collar dollars and
masonry jars and crossroads guitars
(and between the bars)
of our own creation.
Now moving toward remediation
and un-plebiation.
I cried vermouth and reconciliation while
they expunged truth and trylobytes.
The inevitability always bubbles up.
And in the trailer park of our lord: 2017
Ricky and Julian and Bubbles
pay homage to a great poet lost: Mr. Lahey.
(within the mystery of our own creation)
Thus we toast to: The Theatre of Life
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC
Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philae, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.
Your hair is my Carthage
And my arms the bow,
And our words arrows
To shoot the stars
Who from that misty sea
Swarm to destroy us.
But you there beside me—
Oh, how shall I defy you,
Who wound me in the night
With ******* shining
Like Venus and like Mars?
The night that is shouting Jason
When the loud eaves rattle
As with waves above me
Blue at the prow of my desire.
2.2k
Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
Extreme Poetry
Fights, fumes, resists, entices, twists, endures, seduces
Rhymes at times
Or so rarely you want it to explode, implode
Or just mellow out
But you don't stop reading
Unless it bores
Or you're just too tired
Ditties and sonnets
And ABAB and the like are all very well
But real men and women go for
The rough and tumble of truly free verse
Where words are the masonry
Spitting at you in spurts
Confounding, astounding
Welcome to consternation nation
Where assonance bucks up against alliteration
And the inevitable invasion of syllables and vowels
A perverse form of Password that traipses over diction when it wants
Because there are no rules in Extreme Poetry
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
Eulogising was a challenge
under constant bombardment
from falling masonry.
But the gathered crowd deserved the effort.
There was Honest Bob,
whose cut-price bricks
had won the tender
and built the edifice behind us.
Slick **** the concrete king
fresh from an industrial tribunal
and ready to pay tribute.
Fat Larry, the glass magnate,
dodging the shrapnel
from his wind-shattered panes,
just like the rest of us.
I raised my voice
amidst the crash and crumble
to praise the architect.
There were those who had forgotten
the terrible designs
that had been *******
by her dogged determination,
Her clarity of vision
(here, I was interrupted
by three roof-tiles in succession,
smashing at my feet),
her strength of purpose
(nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering)
and her shining conviction.
But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass,
we could all acknowledge
her unforgettable legacy
with pride and gratitude.
Champagne, truffles,
and off we all went,
helicoptered to who knew where
happily leaving others
to clear up the mess.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
sneaks in stealthily
to palpable emptiness
takes a look around
ah, all the familiar sights
it's nice to see the old place
the stains on the walls
clean spaces once protected
shielded by portraits
decor of dust and cobwebs
the smell of yesteryear
peeling wallpaper
ageless soot on masonry
hearth tools left behind
creaking floors whispering names
echoes of her heritage
broken windows breathe
as she groans for visitors
she still has her charm
this old house out in the woods
this home built by rustic hands
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
Climb, claim your shelf-room, far
Packed from inquisitive moon
And cold contagious stars.
Lean out, but look no longer,
No further, than to stir
Night with extended finger.
Now fill the box with light,
Flood full the shining block,
Masonry against night.
Let window, curtain, blind
Soft-sieve and sift and shred
The impertinence of sound.
Now draw the silence up,
A blanket round your ears;
Lay darkness close and sure,
Inverted cup to cup
On your acquiescent eyes:
Dismissing body's last outposted spies.
1.8k
Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
get lowered.
The jesters
cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.
I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
steam trombones
There
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
forever deceased.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 8:16 PM UTC
1135
Too cold is this
To warm with Sun—
Too stiff to bended be,
To joint this Agate were a work—
Outstaring Masonry—
How went the Agile Kernel out
Contusion of the Husk
Nor Rip, nor wrinkle indicate
But just an Asterisk.
1.7k
Anxious for my
Afternoon embalming.
Flushed free,
Laying down the masonry
Of trees yet
To be.
I must confess I want a jack and ginger.
My favorite manieur de mots,
Your offspring making
Silk of my spit.
Two book wormholes,
Circumventing travel,
Welding my smoggy sand castle
To the grey island you anchor.
Would you care to
Fatten up Elpis
With me?
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Gargoyles surround our city of masonry genius and a haunting practicality is displayed in its omen simplicity.
We know that fairgrounds can be fountains of doom – obscure environments where innocence may collide with strategic and predatory wiles.
So we must ring the bells in the high towers and allow the town-crier to proclaim his message without hindrance, from ancient waterspouts.
Close the gates of the country manor and focus upon the sophistication of the dance, where captivating etiquette conceals her heartfelt fornications. Will you approach and indulge yourself of that which is available? Come on. You know that you want to.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now that I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
Like Nero fiddled on his harp
When Rome was burning
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.
The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.
Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
The inner city is relocating
every day there's new direction,
sash windows replaced by double-glazing
robust masonry sandexted,
the muffling of the bespoke past proceeds.
Yet Parties and boom music,
testify to weekend strain,
Sometimes we get more than we need !
How I have longed to reside in Catsfield
nr Pudding Hill Lane
amongst the 888 parishioners
and live with a Battersea rescue cat
a victim of London neglect,
someone's got to live with Phoenix rising, I suppose.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philae, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.
Your hair is my Carthage
And my arms the bow,
And our words arrows
To shoot the stars
Who from that misty sea
Swarm to destroy us.
But you there beside me—
Oh, how shall I defy you,
Who wound me in the night
With ******* shining
Like Venus and like Mars?
The night that is shouting Jason
When the loud eaves rattle
As with waves above me
Blue at the prow of my desire.
1.3k