"mauves" poems
Driving down a dull grey road
A road leading to nowhere.
A road that has ruby ribbons
attached to it.
Ruby cornfields in a sea of yellow.
Splashes of hollyhocks and pink
Poppies, amongst the green,
Under a brown bridge, blue drink
flows to and fro, side to side
with stripes of white inbetween.
Ruby cornfields in a sea of blue
Lavender, mauves and scarlet inside.
An English countryside waiting for you.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
she wanders through the forests and the groves,
her bare feet scarce upon the mossy ground,
as day sinks into night without a sound
and sunset fills the skies with pinks and mauves;
and like a restless breeze she wildly roves,
a love-lost woodland dryad, summer-crowned
and who could ever guess where she was bound,
or why the sea so whispered near the coves.
her eyes as bright as a white-feathered dove,
beyond the river, near a sheltered tree,
she rests awhile finds lilies for her hair,
their flowery mist no prettier than she,
(enchanting in the hearkened, vibrant air,)
her heart soft-brimmed with longing and with love.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Le Pont sur le Liamone entre Arbori et Vico
Nous venions du «clos d'Alzetto»,
Domaine réputé en Corse,
Passant par Arbori et Ampigna
Sur une route plus noueuse,
Qu'une couleuvre se tortillant.
Le couvert boisé tempérait
Le soleil qui dardait la lunette
Et la nature semblait impénétrable,
Comme dans les maquis
De Prosper Mérimée.
Il ne manquait, dans nombre d'endroits
Faits pour l'embuscade,
Que la lueur d'acier
Du canon d'un fusil,
Lorsqu'apparut un pont génois
Haut dresse sur le Liamone.
La route, pour franchir la rivière
Faisait un coude
Et nous sortirent de l'auto
Saisis par le charme du lieu,
pour jeter des regards,
Portant au **** du cours du torrent,
sur les à pics de la rivière,
A la fois tumultueuse et grondante
Avec ses bassins de granit
Sculptés dans le cours du fleuve,
Et baignés d'eaux vertes sur fonds mauves,
Qui semblaient réclame
leur trophée
De nageurs et nageuses
Pour tenir compagnie
A ses truites fario
Si bien cachées,
Dans les cavités de granit.
Et au génie tutélaire
De ce haut Liamone,
Qui règne sur ces torrents
de Montagne
en donnant,
Depuis des temps immémoriaux.
Un spectacle si rare et saisissant,
Qu'il emplit les esprits
D'une sensation de contempler,
L'un de ces objet d'art,
Façonné par notre mère la Nature.
Et levant les yeux nous vîmes,
Planer l'aigle royal,
Paraissant ainsi saluer,
L’altière grandeur de ces lieux.
Paul Arrighi
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 5:28 AM UTC
for the false, convict, predilection for insane mumblings to cease into a void of hell, Nero indulges in the waters of the lethe, to forget life, the void, god.
to burn our cities, temples, is to drink, but to eat.
eat, mind you, the key to our temples, and dare not drink, least burn thy gods before unlocking their secrets, delectable enlightenment.
eat, and let the void's blackness of death be lit with the magnificent magentas, mauves, and cyans,
hue of inconceivable reaches of the potential of empty.
the psychedelic ****** frolic and feel,
pain sensual and dominating.
to the banks with Nero and his abyss of black,
let the cruel absence be filled with the blood of Nero, and the spectrum of our minds.
eject that horrid emperor for your self and your self's liberation from yourself. the ego, burns with Nero, in the fiery waters of the lethe.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
The American people are lotuses
Grown out of the murk
We’re periwinkle pretty, but we have residue on some of our petals
And one could drain the swamp, but we’d still be in it, withering in the harsh sunlight
They could select only the fairest lotuses to be preserved, but nature would be disturbed, mutated
The indigo birds that drink our nectar would be betrayed
Then they too would leave us
And leave the aphids without prey
In the absence of deep pink flowers nature would start to cave in on itself and white-hot turmoil would fester and procreate
So invaluable to us is our gradient of flowers
They were meant to be part of our roots, their magentas and mauves keep us balanced
Keep us from turning over into the muddy water where sunlight cannot grace our petals.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
we are not alone.
we have the cackling call of the
wise old crow
and the warbling whistle of the
persistent loon,
to remind us of that....
we are not alone.
we have the magnificent trees,
our sisters,
limbs outstretched in a forever
welcoming hug
providing shelter and shade and
authentic beauty just because
they can,
to remind us of that....
we are not alone.
we have the near-unbreakable rocks
and stones pregnant with resiliency
and raw grit, bathed in
curious colors from the
spark of life;
pinks, mauves, apricots, greys
and deep brick reds,
to remind us of that....
we are not alone
we have the playful wind and sky
weaving her many moods and contradictions,
orchestrating the elements while
caressing our skin and kissing our hair
never abandoning and always constant,
to remind us of that....
we are not alone.
we have the vivid green grass
full of ***** and willpower,
fearlessly embracing its
bold freshness and
seasonal rebirth, chanting:
"live boldly in THIS season in
THIS hour in THIS moment
because the only constant is change!"
to remind us of that....
loneliness is not a place
but a perspective.
not a feeling
but a thought.
not a reality
but an illusion.
nature is our constant comrade
showing up every single day of our lives,
regardless of the weather -
to not only breathe life into us
but right along with us.
she is us and we are her,
as we destroy her, we destroy ourselves
as we show her reverence and respect,
we show reverence and respect to ourselves,
and our Creator.
so don’t be a ****
happy earth day
2018
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
Automnes de Luchon
Phébus s'était lové sur le val de Luchon,
Les arbres rougeoyaient comme sous le pinceau,
D'un Van Gogh qui aurait amené la Provence,
Dans les vertes Montagnes des Pyrénées centrales
Non **** de l'Aneto et très près du Vénasque.
Mais tout ce verdoiement laissait place à l'automne.
Avec ses rougeoiements, ses mauves et ses dorés.
Et les fins cheveux roux donnés par des buissons.
La nature semblait avoir changé d'atours.
Pour nous faire oublier l'été et ses douces torpeurs.
Les Erables, les Tulipiers et les Cerisier sauvages se parent,
D'atours d'or ou de rouge sang,
Comme pour les noces des feuilles et de la lune.
Oui, les derniers rayons sont toujours les plus beaux !
Dans les futaies et les clairières pourpres.
Et l’automne tendre a ce goût de châtaignes,
Grillées dans les jardins ou embaumaient les roses.
Et de flambées heureuses et de baisers brûlants.
La montagne est si belle que l'on voudrait figer.
Ces splendeurs éphémères et suspendre le temps.
Afin de contempler toujours ces beautés vives
De la ville Coquette et du val arboré.
Les jardins de «la Pique» faisaient belle figure,
Si près de la rivière aux eaux vivifiantes.
Et l'ancien Casino nous donnait à songer,
Aux beautés d'autrefois alanguies, sous la soie,
Dans les bals bien réglés parés d'un luxe doux
Ou il faisait parfois bon savoir jeter bas,
Les fausses les convenances pour le beau Cupidon.
Aujourd'hui; riantes et bronzées, les belles
Sont sportives, parcourent la Montagne.
Et viennent au «vapo» pour bien se délasser.
Oh; Reine d'autrefois, toujours ville de charmes.
Tes automnes suggèrent des rêves de bonheur,
De vies épanouies et de soins pour les êtres.
Ou il est reposant de venir t'admirer.
Parmi tes fleurs, les arbres et ton air vivifiant.
Paul Arrighi
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
Brides of whitest, delicate lace,
Gowns immaculate, as snow their face
Softest pink, a blush to embrace,
Rose, as rising sun to race
Sheets of white, 'candescent as moonlight,
Waves of coral, leaves and floral,
Rows of candle, as calcic stalagmite,
Mauves 'n violet as wild wood sorrel.
So yon maidens of sweetest spring
Herald the Queen Summer's oncoming
Her nectarous drupe and fruit offspring
The bountiful boon she will bring.
Behold the language of your Beloved
Speaks in tongues of secrets vivid
Of kindness, giving, eternally sipid
Of warmth and fire, of ardour vivid
So when next you spy the verdant maidens
Bedecked finery, blossoms laden,
Whispering, bowing, to one cadence,
Know you see the One true Haven.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 6:27 AM UTC
your furlough, even
across the world
so beautifully ****
made immense by the primeval crush
of light.
there are places in the world
filled with soundless bones,
women in their lifeless braids
and swell sheen of moon
this bane of such swollen river
aching back to its source.
it is that your departure has the
scent of olives crushed against
the squalid home,
and that your presence never
lights an incense,
like death wafting searching
for flesh, or a lone animal
left cut in the wild pursuing rescue
with a hue of damp mauves.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
Gonna
After a second
Examining the rise of her
Breast the darker
Pink of an ***** ******
Extending
The length of a second
The wealth of a lucky man.
Gonna
Just take a look slow all round the peak curvatures
Compare the pink
With the almonds the mauves
And cinnamons drink
Of pallmall nicotinic
Sweats and long pauses
Now
I cull
Annihilate
The culinary incarnate
Etching with a
Claw on rock her
Taste
Pawn her
Platinum diamond
For a soda and chips
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Flowers and candy.
Takin steps to the light.
Version delightful. Make happy.
Pretty please. Write pretty tales fairy. Nice baby nice.
Smooth suplications calm the pulses.
Write pretty in mauves and magentas.orange and blues.
Dont nobody bring me no bad news.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
L'autel bas s'orne de hautes mauves,
La chasuble blanche est toute en fleurs,
A travers les pâles vitraux jaunes
Le soleil se répand comme un fleuve ;
On chante au graduel : Fi-li-a !
D'une voix si lentement joyeuse
Qu'il faudrait croire que c'est l'extase
D'à-jamais voir la Reine des cieux ;
Le sermon du tremblotant vicaire
Est gentil plus que par un dimanche,
Qui dit que pour s'élever dans l'air
Faut être humble et de foi cordiale ;
Il ajoute, le cher vieux bonhomme,
Que la gloire ultime est réservée
Sur tous ceux qui vivent dans la pompe,
Aux pauvres d'esprit et de monnaie ;
On sort de l'église, après les vêpres,
Pour la procession si touchante
Qui a nom : du Vœu de Louis Treize
C'est le cas de prier pour la France.
335
Hear our voice
From the east, west, south, and north
Hear our independence
This July Fourth
Like flowers in bloom
In the night
See the chandeliers
Hang in the sky
With crescendos and
Reds, blues and whites
Explosions and commotion
In the battle lights
In the bomb blasts and bombast
Crimsons, umbers and beige
Like the dawn’s breaking light
Mauves, cobalts and jades
All the high-lights and sky-lights
Caught by the American’s eye
It's In the fodder of the diviner’s rod
In the wizardry of July
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 5:21 PM UTC