"ornament" poems
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn,
More coiled steel than living - a poised
Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs
Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce,
a stab
Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing.
No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states,
No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab
And a ravening second.
Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained
Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats
Gives their days this bullet and automatic
Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth
That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own
Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which
Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it
Or obstruction deflect.
With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback,
Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk,
Carving at a tiny ivory ornament
For years: his act worships itself - while for him,
Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and
above what
Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils
**** and hosannah, under what wilderness
Of black silent waters weep.
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What I am,
Is not what you are,
Because unlike you, I never was human.
Never was able to really feel emotions, which you all adore,
Been called a demon for that reason, a monster which was deserted,
Emptiness, calm and drenched in the sorrow of never fitting in is what embellishes me, an ornament of true, cruel sadness, undetected.
And yes, I don't understand you, perhaps I don't even want to, knowing what humans are like, I accepted my fate of being alone,
I let my fingernails grow long and sharp to at least fit into the picture of a monster you have put me, because what else do I have left ?
A heart, perhaps which desires to take those under its wing whom suffered the same tragity, orphans with no place or rejected, abused.
And a body, carrying a thousand marks done by a knife, or these nails, in a cold desperate wishing to be normal at least for a day, to not be alone and deserted, with no one left to talk but a silly pen, a pocket watch which is about to stop ticking calmly, gently very soon.
An ember of light, triggers some emotions at rare occasions, which fade into nothingness as the day begins to face it's end, ah, phantoms
So, what I am,
Is not what you are,
Because I am...
A demon.
~ Umi
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:
The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions
etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas
her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
two fingers clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion
the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment
the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Moons fall,
Eggshell snow,
Blurred illumination,
Dreary lights,
Twinkles disintegrate,
Blazed sparks fade,
Faint complexion,
Awkward tree,
Ornament shadows,
Fuses burn out,
Connection lost,
Spirit dies out,
Yuletide lie,
Imperfection.
My eyes are dark as Halloween night.
Suns shine,
White angel,
Luminous site,
Multicolored pigments,
Rosy cheeks glow,
Rays seep through,
Vivid hue,
Elegant she,
Majestic gleams,
Beams strike around,
Fascination found,
Neon dyes around,
Joyful cry,
Pulchritude.
Her eyes are bright as Christmas morning.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -
this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.
Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Over there I see
what seems to be
a little mushroom.
Or is it?
It's not very big
and it's not very special,
actually a little plain.
Right?
Wait, what is that?
That looks like a door,
and is that a shed?
What's this?
That there must be
some kind of hinge,
wonder what it's for?
Can I open it?
This special mushroom,
it even has a chimney
and a set of stairs.
Oh how sweet!
There is some
tiny furniture
and a tiny clock.
Where'd you get this?
Inside there are
two grey mice,
A tiny baby and a mom.
They're very cute!
Now, let's close this
special mushroom home
and leave the mice in peace.
It's a lovely ornament.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 5:15 AM UTC
Grumbling engine underground
Again
Rotates and repeats.
The echo
The steamy yawn
Mellow fiend unseen
Creeps
Bearing teeth in metallic joints.
A fat snake's yawn
Blows and bellows quietly.
Uncoloured ornament at ten feet
Floats through that crawling wind
Full from everything it could eat.
***** sand in the far east
Rustic in the sense of dripping spit.
The blue walls painted over the white plain
Are scratched
White walls slain.
Drilling ripple
In the black pool
Ink
Coloured the lonely riddle.
A cold under the sun
Blinds our noses
Disguising away our senses.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC
~
*I know your glow
it moves on tracks
of never-ending light
illumine, my dear glimmer
an ornament of love
spiraling along
flightpaths to each other
one maybe a failure in flickers
yet another a successful sparkle
drifted down gently as snow
about the tactile lanterns
of your hands and face*
~
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 7:35 AM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
text message to make me laugh
hot and sticky outside
I walk you to your work truck
you kiss me
the sun rises
hazelnut coffee
the leaves are changing
so is your mind
we share a bottle of beer
you kiss me
hung-over
the sun rises
so you close the blinds
hazelnut coffee
he adds sugar and cream
I think about calling you
instead I tell him
I just like to be alone
the sun rises
a little later than usual
hazelnut coffee
my bra is the only ornament
on your Christmas tree
I am thinking
about how good your hands are
at unwrapping
the sun rises
reflecting off the snow
hazelnut coffee
January like a blanket
I drive to find your arms
we watch too much TV
but I never think
to say I hate TV
and I love you
remembering that I like
hazelnut coffee and sun rises
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
.
The table lamp
The single book of verse.
The ornament standing alone.
The photo in an unforgiving frame.
*Or just
the dust*
gathering comfort
in a bitter room.
© Pagan Paul (2016/17/18)
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC
you’re a bad girl
a party girl
fuelled by drugs and alcohol
an ornament
forgettable disposable
just another
one night stand
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 11:18 PM UTC
In the stillness of the night beyond one can see,
When the expanse holds the stars for my mid-summer’s dreams,
Where only the presence of the birds of the night calms my spirit
And in such stillness fear preys my soul.
I could only find my wellspring of life quenched to aridness,
And only as a mirage such life exists in my being.
I find my thoughts confined in my deeds of shame or rather
Those that the enemy claims, and so
I find my cries being droplets that befriend my cheeks,
To cease and move on is as building a home as a house of sticks.
For in this journey of mine, the storms rage and roar and in such stillness
I only could hear them call-in thy gentle whispers they are as frequent
As the leaves that drop from a tree in fall.
In the stillness of the night- whom do I call?, when all lifelines
Seem to be on hold.
“Hello it is me speaking-do you recognise, Please be patient, please Hold”.
My mind is in ruins; behind cages for life in the desert has no patience.
Only it persists to feed on my soul and lives on my very last breath-
It is to my wonder that life is not the breath and the heartbeat,
For they continue to live even when life is gone.
I look up to the hill for whence my help cometh from,
Such knowledge is as vast as the sky, when only sand dunes are before my eyes.
However, I look up to the hill from whence my help cometh from,
For in such a hill rest my soul and life that has been redeemed.
Rest the life that is orchestrated and moulded into a perfect ornament.
In such a hill, rest a life that is of harmony, that is of melody ,
that the angels stride before because of its music.
In the stillness of the night, when the stars are shining and the moon
Is half asleep. When the flow in rivers walks in silence and only the insects sing.
I now find my thoughts confided in you saviour,
Even in the valley, the arid deserts and the stormy seas.
I find that you are my source of being-even far beyond what I can see.
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
The dead see darkness only
"Darkness"
Decomposing teeth taste stale air
Acrid,
Rotten,
Pungent
Odours of parts decayed
The dead never die
They are inanimate, like a ornament
Still,
Frozen,
Angelic
Peace forever frozen on their face
They sleep on a bed of maggots
Digesting them over time,
The screams never heard
But they reverberate through
Oak,
Earth,
Grass
Above saturated with their terror
Slowly dies,
The eyes closed shut,
Darkness is the keep sake,
That hides the horror in there still formed
eyes, but everything decays over time
Flesh,
Muscle,
Brain
Turns to dust, that which was there,
Still lives on in a vacant skull
The horror lives on energy
Of life, trapped in
A void,
A prison,
With no bars, never to be free
The dead don't die, the torture in death lives on inside..
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Green glass
but it's French
which makes it
verre vert.
The French should like that.
They appreciate
their jeux de mots.
Not a statue
of a man
but it could be.
Not a piece of art at all
except
I have made it so
by saying it is one.
Its qualities
are visual
and tactile at once
the material heavy
(over a kilo)
not so much transparent
as translucent
the colour
from under the sea
the surface curved
smooth
glossy
the shape functional
admirably suited for its purpose
its name
embossed on the back
(or the front?)
giving a clue.
L' ÉLECTRO VERRE
redundant insulator
from an overhead power cable
found object
(objet trouvé)
from the garden
of friends
in the Alpes-Maritimes.
This souvenir
potential paperweight
ornament
sculpture
is more than all of these.
Souvenir after all
is French for memory.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
Come, my Lucasia, since we see
That miracles Men's Faith do move,
By wonder and by prodigy
To the dull angry World let's prove
There's a Religion in our Love.
For Though we were design'd t'agree,
That Fate no liberty destroys,
But our Election is as free
As Angels, who with greedy choice
Are yet determin'd to their joys.
Our hearts are doubled by the loss,
Here Mixture is Addition grown;
We both diffuse, and both ingross:
And we whose minds are so much one,
Never, yet ever are alone.
We court our own Captivity
Than Thrones more great and innocent:
'Twere banishment to be set free,
Since we wear fetters whose intent
Not ******* is but Ornament
Divided joys are tedious found,
And griefs united easier grow:
We are our selves but by rebound,
And all our Titles shuffled so,
Both Princes, and both Subjects too.
Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid,
While they (such power in Friendship lies)
Are Altars, Priests, and Off'rings made:
And each Heart which thus kindly dies,
Grows deathless by the Sacrifice.
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Get in your feet!
Pick up the pace!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Move your feet one towards the other!
Don't let yourself be slaughtered!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Run, with your numbed legs!
Run, with your shortened breaths!
Run, run while you still can!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Don't trip or tumble over!
Or else it'll be over!
Look straight ahead! Don't look back!
Run, Runner! Run, Runner!
Oh no! He took his last breath!
Oh no! He tumbled down!
Oh no! He's coming! He's coming!
Run, Runner! Dead, Runner!
He took him by his legs!
He fell unconsciously!
Oh no! What will He do?
Dead, Runner! Dead Runner!
He took his head as an ornament;
He fed his carcass to the dogs;
He put his shoes as a souvenir;
Dead, Runner. Dead, Runner.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Cramped, lost, and crying in my own worn out body.
Consistent loss of hope to become somebody.
Can it end?
Will it end?
Short is this vivid pain,
too long is this bright ornament,
until I finally see the point of it.
No longer numb yet still caught in a gasp,
until I finally connect the dots and filled in the gaps.
Sep 25, 2023
Sep 25, 2023 at 10:12 AM UTC
Anticipation rising
as our holiday nears
My gosh, Eid ul Fitr
is already here
In the early morning
on your way to groom and a bath
I know it's so because
I too clean up to be on the same path
Squeaky clean
the skin on our faces shine
A gigantic goal accomplished
oh we're feeling really fine
Who needs Christmas when we've got Eid
a festivity that includes all Muslims even those in need
Decorative clothes we wear while extending our hearts to each other and offering a good cheer
it isn't hard to tell our love of our religion is near
From the same community we come, it's known we throw a fun-filled Eid party
"Because this is my holiday" and our festive spirits aught to be really hearty
Allah hu Akbar, the accessory and ornament of our special day
along with a duo and nearly two billion others, you'll hear me loudly say
When little girls, Atefeh's and my enthusiasm about Eid blossoming as we sang an Eid song perhaps trying to compete
"From sunrise to sunset, no food did we eat. All praises are due to Allah, our fast is now complete."
Mehdi whose thoughts of his beloved in the distance too busy with his boys climbing trees and ducking low
a long time friend of two families to witness a wedding and a start of an Eid tradition that brings the community together, what a show
So here's to Mehdi and Atefeh, Eid enthusiasts among a few
showing you gratitude and appreciation, for we've heard it said "It takes one to know two."
by: Najwa Kareem
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable time
And nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament;
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried;
Go get them where he earned them when alive,
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
The critic bite or cynic bark,
Quarrel, or reprimand;
'Twill soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark.
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That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater being wooed of time,
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present’st a pure unstainèd prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed, or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarged.
If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
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She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
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I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in bed watching the patterns reflected moonlight made on my ceiling when I heard the faint beep of the kitchen microwave. I smelled popcorn.
I decided to fill up my water bottle and see who was up. I slipped on a thick, terrycloth robe I’d gotten from Lisa last Christmas. It must weigh 15 pounds and it’s so warm and heavy I seldom wear it.
I silently glided into the main room. Leong was standing at one of our two large picture windows staring out at the night. Her left arm cradling a bowl of ultimate-butter popcorn. Anna told me last night that Leong and her long-time boyfriend, who’s back in China, had broken up. They’d been together forever and had been expected to marry.
A bright half-moon was hanging high over campus, an electric ornament on a velvet background, its moonlight glint painted the world, like ice on mountaintops.
“I heard about your breakup,” I said, “what does it mean?” In Leong’s world, who you dated was of family interest. That person had to be approved, their bona fides proven - they had to fit into some long term plan.
“It means I can’t be tamed,” she said, with soft bravado. After a moment, she spoke again, more seriously. “It’s better this way - for now - someday..,” she trailed off.
I understood. All of our hopes are resting on someday, like so many wagers at a casino. I imagined some gambler, stepping up to a betting window, in an old black-and-white movie, saying, ”Gimmie 5 bucks on Someday to win.”
Something in her voice, a brittleness, precluded further questions. I looked at the clock, it read 3:47. I gave her a hug and yawning, filled up my water bottle from the refrigerator's filtered tap.
“See ya.” I whispered and headed off, back to bed. With any luck I could squeeze another hour's sleep out of the morning.
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 5:04 AM UTC