"naiads" poems
Lawrence Hall
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Ella’s Unicorns
There is no reason why pale unicorns
Should not cavort in frosty fields at night
Or dragons play around the moonlit pond
Annoying the naughty naiads bathing there
For startime is the magic dreamy time
When flowers and leaves are given whispering speech
And laughing faeries flit from tree to tree
In games of hide-and-seek until the dawn
The world would be strange without unicorns
Cavorting in the frosty fields at night
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
When I think of all the tears and turbulence life has
given me, it sometimes makes me hard for
me to forgive this world
I usually would find peace in the solitude
and my waters would be still. I'd
honestly prefer that than to
feel alone amidst this
sea of life
But now, I've learned to dance with the
naiads by the Springs of Many Lives.
With her hand in mind, the life-stream
strums and begins to form rings
Each ripple made is a bond that
grows stronger in time
Each one beaming
with many hues
Now I see, the true beauty of life.
The waters will run hot, cold and
warm. We all will dance
different dances.
But the Naiads show me the beautiful
bonds I have made with my fellow
Kings and Queens on HP from all
walks of life who wear their
crowns with pride.
That is a life I yearn for.
For my diadem to be made of
pure starlight.
For me to have such understanding
makes me shed true
tears of joy.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
Idyllic love poems wander the hills
with a pining goat herd playing his pipe
and singing mournful song
echoing down the quartz sculpted gorge
beneath waterfalls
where alabaster-skinned Naiads
lithe and languorous
bathed in crystal brooks.
Romantic poems lounge on sofas breathless
wearing corsets and crinolines
desperate
and untouched
*********
strands of hair
John Donne’s love poems
are wet
with wit.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
There walks no Daphnis with his mournful song
Blinded by the vengeful nymph, whose love was unrequited
He does not wander in the hills above this place
Playing his pipe and singing of his sadness
Aphrodite can punish him no more
For he is gone to the quiet land of shadows
Taken by Hermes, herald and messenger
Of the mightiest of gods, to cross the river Styx
His soul guided by his father’s loving hand,
to Hades and the final still of time and season.
In the quartz sculpted gorge, beneath the waterfall
Naiads lithe and languorous once bathed
Alabaster skinned, in the crystal brook
Auburn ringlet tresses were shaken free
When they stepped among the mossy rocks and ferns
Their peachy cheeks flushed vital rose
Their strawberry ******* raised and glistening
Their teasing laughter that once echoed in these dales
Through verdant pastures and the bluebelled wood
Is heard no more, for they have passed into memory.
It is silent now, the Jackals are not howling
The threat of Wolves and Lions gone
This pastoral world of goatherds pining
Is but a world of dust and dreams.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
When the torque of speech is such
that stapled teeth would seem a wiser lot.
When thought is but a hemlocked lash
of passionate disdain..
..then to the water I return...
A sack of cats for Naiads, hatched
about the reedy bridge, I’ll give
my all to them.
To cross their palms with lighter steps
I call to them from oily depths of
worn illumination.
Here, patience sees them come..
In winter cools of briny shift
to press their vagues upon the lips
of tinkers, by the flotsam slum..
..As Canton sirens pilot tension
through the gentian-violet haze,
so distant trains commemorate
a quiet absolution.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
Born at the age of sixteen
To again experience the cusp of noon sun
At the bottom of orangeade syrup
Indelible on your tongue, permanent
In a mid-summer twilight
At the touch of sweat skin and wet ears
On maple arms and black foot night
Singing to the will o’ the wisp
(Leather bound a thought
They will read it, perhaps pay
And take pleasure in your hymn
As verse of summer knows the animus
Which lightens the load of e’ryone)
Ineffable are his hands on terra cotta walls
A hot whisper in the ear and cotton lips
Which press the skin on beachy nocturne
To the ocean, the unforgiving expanse
That vomits all my woes
Which I throw back into it
To again experience the cusp of heat
And boiling blood and salty extravagance
The emotion at an apogee
That makes the world a rumination of wonder
(Not to live without fault
But to thrive in its decadence)
The heat of twilight cakes my legs in shorts
On yellow sunspots, glowing in his amber eyes
Soon, to appear on the cusp of gothic moor
During the late ombre effect of dusky sky
When its nighttime cataract reveals, the moon
A pitted moonscape
The moor is silent and whispers to its dwellers
If I were to find him there, in the fresco
Etched into the crystal caverns of night
Would he respond in the marsh
With the crickets between the reeds
Or the owl on the ground mole
As the whispers of naiads?
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Can you see? Can you see?!
Where the Faye roam free,
Where the earth and the sky are one in the night.
Can you see, can you see?
Where the Faries fly free,
And dance in the light of the moon shining bright.
Can you hear? Can you hear?!
The laughter of the lutes,and the songs of the Stars.
As they pull you to their world, too enchanted to run.
Can you hear, Can you hear?
The songs of the Sirens trying to beguile,
And the tunes of the Naiads calling you to drown,
Into the depths of the water, of which they both ware the Crown.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Nothing can be said from the lip of the sun,
To array with full redress the wind-flayed waters
Of the river-run and the naked broomrape of Spring,
Absolve naiads of their blued minstrelsy in venous scream,
Or pour a yellow songbird from the gold-rimmed cup of war.
Nothing is said in the liver-spotted ground of rain-ghosted gardens,
Where love’s monument is a blot of dried flowers and grayed thorns.
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 10:44 PM UTC
From the sky you fell
To this humble
And earthly hell
To the water
You began to swim
Like a naiads daughter
From my lips
The worlds fall
Unbidden like a kiss
Like gentle rain
You turn into a storm
And bring much pain
I watch you roll
Across the sky
Taking toll
On earth and heaven
But as you thunder
You miss the chevon
You hunger and thirst
But you lack love
Which is worst
An angry hand
Raised to the high places
You no longer command
You fell to my home
And you cry
But you are not alone
Though you know
You will never return
You must go
Fairwell demon friend
When you find home
A postcard send
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
The sun hides his face behind gray morning clouds,
Like a tot playing hide and seek.
And at times from around those silver-lined borders,
His beaming face will peek.
He spies me there as I wander below him,
Lilting along my way,
And at once tucks his face out from sight again,
It’s a little game we play.
The westward wind is at once cheerful and lithe,
He tosses my hair to the sky,
Strumming the treetops like a God-made kazoo,
With notes that are cool and light.
The trees all awake to the sound of his tune,
Tossing gracefully to and fro.
Maiden dyads and naiads waltz gracefully on,
Swinging in time with their boughs.
The gravel laughs heartily beneath my worn feet,
In a voice that is deep and merry,
He tells the sweet tails of his long-forgotten trails,
And the travelers they have carried.
He can outline the best and the worst of mankind,
All the forks which have marked their paths,
Of the men who showed courage ‘gainst nature and foe,
And of the burdens on their backs.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
5/6/2016
The doctors- they told me, said I was sick. But I told them you were sicker. That it your illness- it's too much. I tap on the wallpaper and hope you understand where i'm coming from. I adjust the tin bars that won't move on the window plates. I wanted to thank you for coming over to visit me firstly. Secondly- I want you back. I guess directness isn't the best way to someone's heart or maybe it is. I don't know why we parted. You, you are so sick- a sick little girl, you need a nurse or perhaps some care. I never realized this- I only did now and now i'm locked in this hospital, i've caught it myself. I'm as good as dead now. I am sorry for being such an important part of your life- maybe if I wasn't, it wouldn't hurt to see me like this. Maybe if i wasn't i would stop disturbing you- leave you alone. But i need you back- I don't know why we left eachother.
-and why?
Why not? You don't remember all the good parts of us? Do you remember how the Blackgum trees in the park smelled like after a good rain while we walked through them and tried to get a good bench by the reservoir, you know, the one that always smelled like pondweed? I'd told you about how they're called Naiad weeds. I told you what Naiads were. You remind me of one, all pink faced and watery. You were always sort of ephemeral and wavering like water.
-why are you telling me this?
Because it's you. You're wavering jumping pondwater and you're the kittens that old woman who lived near you kept. We used to feed the ones that wandered near your terrace. I thought they smelled bad, but you said to not say that because it would hurt their feelings.
...
No- please don't touch me.
...
It's as if a corpse touches me when you reachout that hand.
...
Don't touch me! with your fetid finger, your moribund edge. You make me want to cry, you make me want you back with me- mostly you confuse me. How could you have so much respect for life? It was my favorite thing about you. You should've been a ****** Aryika. somewhere, in India. How could you care so much about a life, from a person's to a cat's feelings and even to a little mite's? How could we have sat and listened to Chopin's Mazurkas during that one big hurricane with my old battery powered radio, and how could you have made me cake when everyone forgot my birthday? How could you? How dare you. How could you have so much respect for every life except your own?
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Naiads of the Spring
Whose dance is hypnotising
Fill the air with laughs
Naiads of the Spring
Sweet and playful, yet so kind
Share beauty of rain
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
Two strangers waltz beneath moonlight
where life is full --
swells high with the fish
in midsummer:
_...on little nameless rivers or hidden brooks on whose banks Naiads might have sunned their white, wet limbs._
Jun 16, 2025
Jun 16, 2025 at 9:10 PM UTC