"opals" poems
The descending sun,
A tranquil withdrawal -
An end,
Yet also a beginning.
A delicate watercolour on canvas of sky,
So lovingly crafted.
Soft dusk reveals tiny opals of constellations,
The moon smiles a spectral lustre.
Yet only almost-content;
Your absence leaves me hollow.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
**inspired by
Lidi Minuet
and her poem
"HATCH"**
I found an egg of crystal
it had a little crack
though beautiful as opals
integrity it lacked
I asked the Lord to help me
"whatever should I do?"
He told me to go and plant it
when the day was new
and so I looked for soil
but no soft could be found
so I planted my wee egg
in hard, forbidding
ground
I watered it with tears
for others suffering lack
and after a little while
the ground
began to
crack!
a tentative green sprout
pushed up its tender head
it grew up from the rocky ground
I had thought so dead!
I continued watering
I knew naught else to do
and a tulip flower appeared
the lightest
eggshell blue!
I watered then in earnest!
I wanted for to see
that flower strong and healthy
and what it'd bloom to be!
slowly the petals opened
and lo! there fast emerged
a'singing and a'fluttering
a little crystal bird!
out of the light blue flower
the creature dipped and soared
it was then I realized
my hope had been restored!
flying 'round my head
its feathers sent off light
as brilliant as a diamond
shattering the night
it was only then I realized
as the darkness fell apart
the soil was life's hardships
and the
egg
had been my
HEART
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/17/2015
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
Sunshine radites though her hair,
Soft moonlight liummantes through mine
Thus the moon chases after the sun
Eyes of steel emeralds,
And pale opals
The best perhaps ever mined
Blackbeards most precious find
Moonlight dances along her skin
And fire on mine.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
-
*****************
(haikus)
***********
Wine glass lay empty
toppled on the ground...its edge
smeared with red lipstick
Luster braved the dark
opals, sapphires couldn't hide
a face...so lovely
Stilled...supine...voiceless
stripped of fame...name...evil game!
success? envy? shame?
Opals, bright sapphires,
graced her neck...muted...like the
doe-eyed beauty...dead.
Sally
Copyright April 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"She's finally here!" Sue claps as we all rise
from our seats and walk to the Ballroom.
There they are, atop the marble steps!
Queen Donna and Dean of proud Vesian,
both dressed in bright red. The couple faces
each other with loving smiles as the cacophony
of cheers and claps echoes through the great
Luciuscemi Palace.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
From afar, I study Donna's beautiful gown;
the shade of wine, made of velvet, her sleeves
long and puffed. Her bodice embrodiery is
extraordinary; patterned with red Rose of Vesian,
but since her marriage, she added a white
one. The embrodiery comes alive under the
light of chandelier; glittering with intricately
cut rubies and agates and sunstones for
Donna's red roses, emeralds and peridots
for the coiling stems and thorns, quartz
and white opals and moonstones for
the white roses.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
Her hair in a curly updo, ringlets framing
her wise and kind face with a simple white
diamond tiara resting upon her head; a simple
rose chain and earrings to complete her look.
In contrast, King Dean wears a deep crimson
coat of red and white roses brocade that falls
past his knees and above his ankles;
slits on the sides and on the back as well,
I imagine. I can see the black lining
underneath that fine coat.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
Against these turbid turquoise skies
The light and luminous balloons
Dip and drift like satin moons,
Drift like silken butterflies;
Reel with every windy gust,
Rise and reel like dancing girls,
Float like strange transparent pearls,
Fall and float like silver dust.
Now to the low leaves they cling,
Each with coy fantastic pose,
Each a petal of a rose
Straining at a gossamer string.
Then to the tall trees they climb,
Like thin globes of amethyst,
Wandering opals keeping tryst
With the rubies of the lime.
3k
Pain–––
fields of charcoal grey
the country littered with snow
wishes in the amber mist
opals in the dark––
make me bow
make me cry
make me return––
glass in shattered voices––––––
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 9:49 AM UTC
I have a Crown that waits
In glory up above
A diadem of diamonds
And other stones of love
My blood it is as rubies
My sweat deep blue sapphires
My tears are as a topaz
Peridot, turquoise.
There are Opals in my charity
Pearls in my patience
Beryls in my honesty
Fire agate in my faith
Emeralds in empathy
I run from greed & vice
Moonstone in great mercy
Chrystophase in Christ
All these stones, and many more
Will never fade, grow old
They will be set in Floral Designs
Bezels of purest gold.
I design my diadem
With care, tender and great
To gain these stones I must allow
For vagaries of fate
There is mention of a mansion
That will be an estate
But I look forward to that crown
**TO CAST AT JESUS' FEET!**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 11/21/2016
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Make my bed the mantle and crown
My women studded gems on the eider and down
I'll make rubys and jets and opals my pets
A sticker the slipper that wicker wets
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 2:25 AM UTC
The opening act is immorality.
Observe.
Intervals divide not naturally
but with intent. To lack, in lacking,
I express- without, of course.
Provisions lessen, starve to death,
caressing apathy.
Run.
Run away from conception, direction.
Consume nothing.
Act two is speculation.
Time expands naturally.
The godhead splinters
vomiting seedlings of Betlahm.
They breed, inhabit the womb
of the earth. Servants die
monarchs are imagined.
The crown, christened
with black opals and painite.
Louder! Louder!
Our crescendo nears!
The springs of fertility
ovulate nourishment. Absorb
these eggs and conceive
not Theseus, but Artemis
Scarcity ceases to be,
and oceans of wealth
are now begging for disposal.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Snow cone twists
Far ivory countryside
Season’s change exists
A stern mother nature’s pride
Foothills that resemble cream pies
Coating pointy flakes a mile high
Birds take cover
To find a feathery mother
Try to resist nature’s feverish fight
And hide from the silvery night
Moon beams its pearly opals
Thru rainbow colored window chapels
In the nest
Little birds try their best
Huddled up
Till daybreak
They might delight
In the white sparkle sunlight
Snowy course
A bitter adventure for the strong farmhorse
Powder puff
It kicks it up like dust
Spring a strong sense
With snow that is no longer dense
Temperatures waver
An ice storm disfavor
Crystal drops
From frozen tree tops
The chirps begin
With a little more earthly spin
Melting snow
Begins to flow
Moving water a strong force
Becomes quite the
Snowy watercourse
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
The lone hungry coyote
Sends up a wraith's refrain
Sun melts in a crucible
Of purgatory pain.
The badlands. No man's land.
The sun bleeds crimson, rust.
Rattlesnakes and scorpions
Scuttle in the dust.
While the sky is falling
Making russet snow
The hills and rock are singing
The agony they know.
Unforgiving desert
Makes the bobcat scream
The moon face is crying
It's tears moan and gleam.
In a dream you take me
O'r the Martian scape
Your hand locked round my mind
Preventing my escape
Turquoise/silver stars
Fall onto my path
Just like Armageddon
Or its aftermath.
Black opals flame the hills
The brutal badland's tors
To hush my ragged breathing
Now... forevermore.
Soul Survivor
C. Jarvis (c) 2014
March 16
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
pineapple light sparks
flowing life reflecting on
opals deviation
lunar queen goes for a rest
amber king dethrones her
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 2:31 PM UTC
opals
found underground
their colors well cloaked
until the miners dig them out
when they are exposed to the daylight
they reveal a number of hues
which so dazzle the eye
magnificent
opals
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
i.
the grey ghosts
water to the sky,
pond to the
breaking air,
the blues are
cloudy
islands and
stars, lily pad
gold-green
dream of monet-
light.
ii.
love drifts,
scurries over
the water like
a dragonfly,
her wings the light
flowing, melting
in its breathful
streams
falling
falling
in the delicate
colours of
spring with
its tide-like
ebb and flow.
iii.
i held you
close and you
were the
aching spring,
the bright
opals of the moon,
i held you close
and all i could see
where the blues of
the pond, the
snake-silver
stream of starlight
and flower,
you were the
aching bronzes
of the rivery
pools, the still
water's paradise
of blue and white.
iv.
capture me
in the cloudy
isles of
the bright
lilies,
i am the melting
light, the frail
bloom with its
zen-like peace,
church of quiet
air, hopeful stream
of ache and light.
v.
ghost-enamels
of impression,
silently, the sun
sinks and the golds
of spring blossom
like a spell.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 4:08 PM UTC
torrential teardrops join pavement
transforming surface to sheets of glass
patient trees plants flowers quenching their thirst
stray animals bemused hovering with caution
only to find shelter in the rustic shed
the good samaritan leaves scraps
through the makings of savory soup
passing cars washed in rain
will sparkle come sun
lounging indoors focusing through drenched windows
raindrops like opals
pattering on copper roof
cascade as peaceful shower
fairytale sound, sight and smells
invite nestling with a book
cup of tea and scone complete the pallet
with glowing candles
a sanctuary of chopin preludes
surrendering to peaceful sleep.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 9:13 PM UTC
On a porch swing that creaks
in the likeness of ancient knees,
I think about the last time we kissed,
how it felt
so much like losing a tooth.
The moon smiles crooked, slanted,
a tilted guillotine
scarring the darkness to blur
the trees that rustle like fluid opals,
fluttering like thousands of white flags.
I was broken before you found me,
a rusted hinge stuck half open
letting anyone trespass. I imagine
you walking up the drive
in your lacey, white blouse:
a ghost of Alice lost in the madhouse
of a world fully armed by spades,
all pointed like a thousand fingers
at your collarbone. You would have
gladly bore their nick for me.
The moon is the Cheshire cat, questioning
why I imagine such things.
A dog barks at nothing down the block.
A rabbit’s outline slinks into a gutter.
Am I crazy to have loved you and sever us?
The moon blinks. We’re all mad here, I think.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
I see the sky crack open
And try to paint it closed with starlight,
But lo and behold it does not wish
To mend itself tonight,
And as it falls so gracefully,
I watch the sea lap at the city's ticklish toes.
Serene as ever, but still deep with mischief,
The sea plays with the city until it is bright with light
Of laughter and joy
Until it decides if it should sleep this night.
Sonewhere in the distance sits something,
What? Nobody knows,
But it sits there in waiting,
Like a sanguine sentinel, somehow hopeful.
And mark my words,
The cracking sky opens, opals
Pouring from an endless beyond
Just to shake hands with a never ending sea.
It is how the sky reaches out to the sea:
For once, just once,
I wish it would reach for me.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
Pineapple light sparks
flowing life reflecting on
opals deviation
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 1:47 PM UTC
Celestial, indigo
sparkling stars of fire
molten rings of planets round
the silent sailing clouds
float across a sallow moon
hung in a sky of glittered jewels
diamonds, opals, pearls
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
And she had opals braided in her hair
And amethysts for eyes,
She had an emerald tongue and lips of ruby,
But coal, was her heart.
The one who tries for a diamond will get nothing but cold,
For diamonds are beautiful emptiness.
And the one who tries for the flame,
Is wise enough to know that the coal,
Will ignite.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
Legs pinched and yellow as ginger root
My hands like yams, and belly,
The whole of me looks plucked from the underground,
Topped with a thin sprig - enough hairs to count in an afternoon
Face pink as potatoes in the kitchen,
Eyes plain and brown.
A trip to the market yields a bag of onions
and whispers of the monster woman.
If I am a monster, I am a recluse
Curled around and polishing the opals that grow fat as melons inside me.
Cut, I do not bleed.
My veins only hold the roar of a thunder storm
Field mice find homes in the folds of my ankle.
The weather cannot be contained in my blood alone;
My open mouth stumbles like rain drops thucking in mud.
Angry, I howl sunlight.
I used to be a school yard socialite,
But was always twice as wide as tall,
And a careful turn would tumble three of my comrades
It wasn't long before they turned on me
Back then I thought that children were the cruelest creatures
All rocks and fierce joy,
But the mothers watched with condemning eyes,
And snarled.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
I will one day become a grandmother in a wooden rocking chair,
hair dusted over by the willowy waltz of passing time. A cataract memory,
mind sheltered by the wedding veils of unblemished maidens
long after the receptions have ended.
My granddaughter will see right through my fossilized transparency
and she will smile, for she will only see my frosted forgetfulness,
eternities buried within my scattered steps
as I remember how to walk each morning.
She will never understand--
not until my fragile bones find home within dampened earth,
that her grandmother was a poet.
That I, of countless melted birthday candles and weary stumbling,
was once seventeen with poetry embedded in my irises,
pounding to the cadence of my pulse.
Once, I was a poet.
I ran barefoot in the neighborhood streets,
aching soles on summer concrete, finding solace
in between the sidewalk cracks of smaller worlds.
Once, I was a poet,
and I found comfortable silence within the rhythmic thumping of typewriter keys
past unspeakable hours, graceful ink spilling symphonies onto paper,
every rejection letter promised potential,
every love an image to be painted with the soft brush of syllables.
She will notice my hands tremble.
Here, grandma, let me help you, she’ll say.
Celestial, it was, the pitiful gaze of the naive.
I let her pour my coffee, observing slim hands move with ease,
peaceful, calm, the apricot sunsets I used to chase
at seventeen, forever engraved on the backs of my heavy eyelids.
Once, I was a poet,
and I wrote of my lover like someone handcrafted
by the calloused hands of an existing God,
how easily the blazing fires of youth melted
into promises creased inside sealed envelopes.
I do not recognize her anymore,
the reflection who pours my coffee today.
She has my lover’s eyes, his unforgettable opals of poetry
that are nothing but faded recollections
of the muse I used to be.
***My darling,
I still see you. You are still here.***
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 11:20 PM UTC
Isn’t that glimmer visible?
That wonderful sparkle, like a fly to the light
A shining diamond, an alluring sight
Seeker and seeked and discovered overtly
What fun is its commonality?
Must you spend a two months salary?
But see the gem in the rough
Weighed far less in value
But nonetheless faceted
Judge it harshly shall you?
The trope of the diamond
Has been pried from those eyes
By the multi-facets and spectrums
Of transient angles, translucent drums
Milky or lustrous, a separate conundrum
Choose the opal, akin to the human soul
Shimmering subtly and brightly
Gently and ever-changed nightly
Like the starriest coals
Trill and hover ever-so lightly
Discovering the treasures in the rough
That others could never trust
They’ll lie in waiting, perhaps turn to dust
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 11:52 PM UTC
a good too many
snaps and cracks
from the skeletal forest
a gentle brushing
from an acrylic wind
that promenades itself
on marble toes
that crack and shatter
in gouache throes of
violence that
gilds the branches in
flowing starlight
a craggy ribcage
of sprouts and succulents
that paint a scene with
watercolor irony
an eager scrawling
of earthbound rabble
that hops freight trains
and skips life away
a conflict of self
flourished in opals
and ravished in
scented velvet
a good too many
fears and
desires
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC