"oracular" poems
You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the ******
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk
of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk
in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break
tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.
What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall
like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.
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Sometimes thou seem’st not as thyself alone,
But as the meaning of all things that are;
A breathless wonder, shadowing forth afar
Some heavenly solstice hushed and halcyon;
Whose unstirred lips are music’s visible tone;
Whose eyes the sun-gate of the soul unbar,
Being of its furthest fires oracular;—
The evident heart of all life sown and mown.
Even such Love is; and is not thy name Love?
Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends apart
All gathering clouds of Night’s ambiguous art;
Flings them far down, and sets thine eyes above;
And simply, as some gage of flower or glove,
Stakes with a smile the world against thy heart.
5.3k
The picturesque glow from the full moon enkindles youthful swooning and yearning; orotund voices rising above prattle conversation yield celestial affirmations in conjunction with analogous, supernal relations
Full acceptance of the shimmering stars sacrosanct messages coruscating through the sky - fulsome oracular expressions instilling mesmerizing past-life recollections.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
In the deep of time indigenous tribes
surfaced a red earth with protruding plateaus
and burnt canyons along the Cimarron River.
The ancient Anasazi settled
at the core of this mesa.
Scattered ponderosa pine.
Yet, their sudden demise echoed curiosity.
Navajo sensed a struggle of two infinite worlds,
a quivering inundation.
Circling its haunted ominous shape,
a skull with one eye, the apparition of light
rose into a blue desert sky.
Violent storms crackle hot lightning
strikes in a sulfurous summer-
an oracular hothouse.
Navajo talk of spirits or the gateway
to fire. Heaps of iron and lodestone
lodged in the cap. Only two
brazen, cat totem poles guarding its passage.
Standing among the mesa
to feel the verve of the earth.
A New Mexico sun beats down
burning the drowsed terrain.
To see the legendary shaman glow
in his ephemeral blue nimbus.
Bathed in gaudy turquoise.
Sensing the dark encroachment
of a ghost. Near the bony hills, soared
a turbulent black bird in full flight,
upward.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The doctor of Geneva stamped the sand
That lay impounding the Pacific swell,
Patted his stove-pipe hat and tugged his shawl.
Lacustrine man had never been assailed
By such long-rolling opulent cataracts,
Unless Racine or Bossuet held the like.
He did not quail. A man who used to plumb
The multifarious heavens felt no awe
Before these visible, voluble delugings,
Which yet found means to set his simmering mind
Spinning and hissing with oracular
Notations of the wild, the ruinous waste,
Until the steeples of his city clanked and sprang
In an unburgherly apocalypse.
The doctor used his handkerchief and sighed.
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There was an Old Lady of Prague,
Whose language was horribly vague;
When they said, 'Are these caps?'
She answered, 'Perhaps!'
That oracular Lady of Prague.
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i can't know
my artifice of kneeling doesn't change the fact
at Delphi
gasping words
from wide silken eyes
mating doubt and trust
in seizmic gnosis
fissures claim
even olive sky
freefalling streambeds
tossed
chests of gold heave
spill with ******* lovers
mingle debts
and portents laid
denuded
over cool marble
shimmered under earthquake suns
===
ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα
Hèn oîda hóti oudèn oîda
"I know one thing, that I know nothing"
Socrates, paraphrased from Plato's Apology.
===
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
She abides in her circular chamber,
prophet to the oracular God.
Perched delicately a top a three-legged mount,
engulfed in a haze,
an hallucinogenic cloak.
A mystic figure,
clutching branches of laurel in her Delphian hands,
a bronze bowl of water cradled consciously in her lap.
Her hair as dark as the fates she acquaints.
A cape of red flows like the blood
of those who perished from her
manic counsels.
Aberration is evident in her dazed eyes.
At times her body thrashes
with apparent anger and confusion.
Her limbs then go limp.
A painted smile bleeding across her face,
delirium manifested.
A warning set in stone:
“Know thy self.”
Pay no attention to the opinion of the masses:
advice to be heeded.
The hollow-horned shivers
from head to hoof.
Sacrificed for knowledge of the future
yet unknown.
Her hysterical beauty sanctions
the nonsensical prophecies.
“My wife is with child,
if I contend with the enemy,
will I return to my family?”
She stares into the water,
her face distorted,
for the reflection she sees is not her own.
"You will go,
you will return,
not in the battle you will perish."
Her red cape became
more prominent in colour.
Her ambiguity brought a child
into the world
without a father.
"You will go,
you will return not,
in the battle you will perish."
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Abandoned
And befallen - gods
Trespass the moon
So black
- in a fresco of silence
Like a solo drop
Of dusk - godly foibles
As if dying
In lowly fables
- shredded
And camouflaged,
Nocturnal truth
Of infernal desires speaking
At a remove
From the earthly soil
Thus spake
The spell of oracular lies
As the gods fumbled
In celestial fuss to reverberate
In teardrop shadows
- unfettering hundreds of lives
From the fiasco
Of unholy war as lowly
As godly disdain
Forbidden far from the heaven
Thus -
As the fresco of silence
Smacking
- of an epic delusion
Dies a demise
Of godly death
And the fiasco ends there
In godly foibles
And in godly disdain...
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:36 AM UTC
Primitive of my own experiences,
I will stand in a sea of bodies,
All hot and compressed,
But the energy of the people, like heated atoms,
And the music, bringing forth the collective feeling,
And the simultaneous death-defying appreciation, and nothing but,
Will bring chills so intense to the skin under my sleeves that I will shiver in that sea.
I’ll feel the ground vibrate
And I’ll know every word
And I’ll forget everything else
And dance like nobody’s watching
Because they probably won’t be.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:09 PM UTC
A drowning man, starts to swim,
by the frantic prompt of a defining moment;
may reach the shore, or sink without a trace,
that moment brings the liberation of spirit.
In such moments one finds ,
poetry knocking at the mind's door,
recognizes the oracular power
emotionally charged words attain;
listen to the revelatons
forget or cherish it for ever
what does it matter,
the oracle has embraced the light,
relieved from the burden,
had elation beyond words.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
outstretched,open,eager
smooth home wet
collection palms
grace
timid
napes waxing
for
accurate devotions
broach bearing
pink garden
oracular bemoan
sudden winter spring
erupts cold
reds glory on her neck
the sad glimmer
of shimmerlips
i want
those they(soft oral)
***** spun dangerous captivation
midnight dawns magic
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 12:22 PM UTC
face down
back of her head
before me
the part in her hair
almost
oracular
jagged line of white scalp
a lexicon i alone will never know
i palm it and push down
activating some strange fate
and with much trembling
i carve up into her
unknown rune
lit
spell of ruin
flushed
consumes our us
the crush begun
quickened flesh fiends the bone
and wipes the faces
we wear
inside the creases of us
lies bending curses that will purge
diagonals crisscross
ivy writhing
growing bolder
a swarm of form
shape-shifting tor
torn and torn and will
no more
And we
both become
transfigured
spent
two loosed beings again
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
*The hint of mint,
on her lips, had an offer
to which my tongue,
quickly said 'yes'*
The scent
of an unknown flower
on her flowing hair,
took me from there,
to the mountain slope
in my mindscape,
beside which
I had painted,
her picture to make it,
perfect, against
gentle foaming light.
The moment was
tender, pulsating,
her hands were,
creepers coiling around
my trunk, in a flurry,
not to swoon, soon.
Isn't it the moment,
described always
by poets, all through
ages, as the feeling of
wafting above
the fluffy clouds?
But hey, I never
thought, I could be
swayed so easily,
like this: made
of sterner stuff,
could withstand
the onslaught of
such moments,
I thought of myself.
**But, eyes don't see,
ears can't hear,
nose looses its
sense of smell,
I feel a thrill beyond,
the prompting
of five senses,
to get in to the
flow of the nature's
immense will
to find the reason,
of my existence,
and vanquish,
the fear of all fears,
and be immortal,
liberate both of us,
from the mortal coil,
with the oracular,
power love fills,
in our beings
in such moments.**
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
a transmitter roughly
feed a rat or pump Mother with a nailgun
brained easters confetti eyes and shredded vision deserts.
frosty spectacular
oracular suffocation push & bringing in the changes
hyper-faced you got crushed by this crushing rock.
heady aches binding teeth like a calf and its mother frozen in mud....
I have taken your teeth with the seeds of an orange fruit
I am ingesting your breathe like a poisoned candy sweet
I devour your voice into thick and rot
I turn you green and black and blue
you can no longer be the only you.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
I admired you once...
a kind of strange, not-yet creepy stalk...
like the view from the corner of the eye --
always wanting more...
But I watched you change --
from animal to human...
and suddenly, you weren't so oracular --
something more mainstream...
Like vise-versas of one another...
You dove into the depths of fame --
as I dove into the depths of shame --
and neither achieved what was sought...
Still, a dark lady...
who I'd love to watch further...
But nothing like the start --
Nothing near the finish...
I wonder...
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
I must trust that
Every flaw is a blessing
And with each set of imperfections
There will also be a set of advantages,
It’s the process of efflorescence
That creates such a painful dichotomy;
Blossoming is like an upward spiral of refinement
Extricating iniquity, thereby, heralding excellency.
The ego is a feeble sense of self-identification;
Therefore, I must aim higher,
Or aim to fail instead.
If forsooth, I fail to aim,
I will
Inherit
Defeat by default
(Witherance in its wake).
Words become a lost art
In my odyssey; Without integrity,
The highest divine is futility.
Of Truth in this heart of mine
Acquisition always lies in action,
Motion creates energy
And energy is limitlessness
In what it creates & magnetizes.
When the static rises
I will relinquish my fears
Unto the Deific Divine,
All that quakes my heart,
All that thunders,
What Makes this Mind’s Sky tremulous
Shall be purged & undone
By the Holy Dove.
We all become deluged by darkness
& vexation, at these exhalations
Oblivion seems legion,
We lose our ability to hear
The voice within;
Yet, these oracular undulations,
Are our beckoning The Empyrean
For salvation.
Believe in The Arbiter Of Fates,
Fathom that His fatidic waves
Augur redemption to those
Iniquitously ordained; enclaved,
In the Visage of Shadows
You will come to know
The inviolable promise, that sacrosanct oath
Of aeonic, sempiternal, everlasting love.
(Se' lah)
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 7:11 PM UTC
I am in search
In search of eureka
In search of satisfaction and joy
In search of wisdom and knowledge
That I joined the caravan to the Ireland
To behold the oracular throne of the Irish kings
To have a taste of their satiating dishes
And kiss the Blarney stone
And receive the gift of the gab
And also “The gift of the magi”
As received by James and Della
And make meaning out of the voyage
Contributing to the welfare of my nation
My people: their quests and aspirations
And represent them in the orifice affairs
And put the gift of the gab in good use
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
there was sign of life.
the modest gathering of juvenile boys, unbeknownst to man, tread across our barren land with their threadbare sneakers and sentimental minds. the youth spoke of our unspoken parlance. entranced, they were, of our melodious style, our sultry sways and intrinsic device. preserved ponderously was the allure of the oracular clouds and the virtue of the boundless sky. beheld from this came an admiration that stretched far beyond the comprehension of a closed eye, an admiration that could be felt. it was the youth who asked to see that of what could stop them. it was within the life of us that we could present nothing.
how far they might go.
be well,
bcb
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:54 PM UTC
grapevines and honey?
O, spinster!
I will endure the sea!
war? let this come too
we feared the news from abroad
fates upon the shore
so rare a breast, mine
the vistas bellow
I wove a tapestry of chance
and we could have enjoyed the mad labyrinth,
but instead we are lost
the first swan shall answer my questions
(living within the flames)
with a budding springtime hypothesis
it will warn that you shall win me in two days
and marry me in six
small hands will appear
waving on these hills
those little men
dulled by their own brightness
having stirred behind the curtains
the sun sets in one direction only
and if the seed is lost
it is too late
the sky, now empty
looked weary
and faint with fear
I spoke to you of
Love’s Sincerity
but it was worse than before
I said that I felt formless, but
my heart went along
shaping itself instead
while under the sky I talked to you
but I have not even the vaguest
little smile to share
your attempts deserve far more
but your beauty made it impossible
the field mouse heard the thunder clap
and was sadly
in the end
betrayed by a water sprite
my nation’s flags are all in tatters
come along, we’ll go together
Mar 16, 2022
Mar 16, 2022 at 1:03 PM UTC