"ornamentation" poems
No amount of camouflage on my face
or ornamentation upon my skin
can hide the insecurity I attempt
to keep hidden deep within.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
It seems to me that the smaller the monument
the more likely it is to survive
over time
to be passed over by water
or vandals
but with brevity comes the issue of remembrance
Over my father and mother
and dog Chipper
lie several rocks
just rocks without any label or ornamentation
Which begs the question
is a monument a monument if it bears no explanation
and the monument's creators have passed
and with them the knowledge of why it was placed?
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
How beautiful is the life
With all its vibrant colours
The colours which define its creativity
Life is colour,colour is life
Shades of translucent rainbow
Casting his grace on embellished life
The allured tints of the moring sun
Captivating the vivacity in people's life
How abhorent the nature be
Enchained,restricted without the colours
Blemishing the ornamentation garnished from heaven
But suddenly the grandness breathed for its life
As colours started to play an illusive vibe
Awakening the sluggishness in one's life
Unfolding the colours honesty with ecstasy.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Shrill, elegant scales,
swirl to form the mighty beast.
Fire spectacular, crimson sheen
splayed; a dire circumstance,
flowing around the base.
Attempt to merge within the vision,
the whole shape recoils;
not in fear, but in haste,
for the contents under pressure
would destroy,
a perfunctory account,
of the grandeur that must lay beneath.
Away with form to a single point,
free to contemplate the burden...
reduced to the atom, where I split
and split and split,
and swirl in to the mighty beast.
From the vantage, I show my crest,
my tongue a serpent's, my eyes glow
and cut across time, my wings an ornate fusion;
in this context simply ornamentation,
but none have gotten so close as to reduce to
an atom, and follow to a single point...
so I let out a mighty shrill sound and burn my surroundings...
spent and swirled,
a reduction comes after a sword strike,
a critical blow...
pierced heart.
No Matter, I swirl to a single point.
Lay eyes upon me again,
my metamorphosis shall rise,
and for that blow, I shall unleash new form,
and let forth a deafening call
to my ancestors, for the strength to endure.
I swirl,
and swirl,
and swirl.
http://www.robross.ca
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
The same old, same old
A story retold
with different settings each time
but ultimately identical
each story indistinguishable
so I'm skeptical
when you say this time will be different
because each time it's the same crime
anger and bitterness entwined
making a swine of you
and I'm pass the point of wanting to rewind
this story does not have a linear start to finish
But rather a never never ending circle
a pattern stuck on repeat
recycling itself on to its circular life
the external of the circle may change but the internal is still the same infernal circle.
immortal in its own way.
yesterday's sad melody,
with new ornamentation
but same motif throughout.
Ergo,
the same sorrow that swallows me up so I may wallow in this hollow feeling,
feasting like a beast on the self pity
that's festering away in the ruins of my broken mind like an unnatural disaster.
and I don't want a plaster to fix it
cause as soon as I put it on it'd only be ripped off again.
Useless and pointless against the repetition of unending pain
the same old, same old
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
you love
oh so many people,
but you only love them
by half-measures.
you've never been able
to be so exposed,
to love someone wholly,
to risk that you would
give someone your
all,
your end-all, be-all,
and find it
unreturned, simply
kept upon the fireplace mantle or
perhaps on the bookshelf,
unimportant ornamentation.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
passing by the roadblocks
of those utterly devoid of inspiration
I grind my gears in frantic agony
through artless days and pastel nites
the last drops of forbidden nectar looms
far back on the parody of my tongue
and I asleep in the drivers seat...listening
to the horrid sound
my gear teeth clinched hard
to placate the need by the promise
of gold plated plastic ornamentation
fulfilling the impossible climb
the austere instigator of forgotten melodies
slides closed the gateway ahead
in clear violation of the unwritten laws
that govern all worthwhile endeavor
now those gates wreak of cynical deviance
nirvana open to all who seek to reach the peak
so far beyond impossibility ...wide open
by bane of fence.. no recompense for that gate
with my tongue overhung from morose overdose
in failed attempts of finding the trace
of even the most scant memory
now lies frozen in the throes
of twisted convolutions
while my nostrils fill with acrid smoke
as gear teeth commence to melt
suspended halfway up the impossible climb
I am pushing hard the acceleration
aided by the rigor mortis of my seizure
asleep at the wheel with all wheels grinding
while those below the uninspired guardians
stare up in unimpressed confusion
where fire and smoke screams of agony
as the dream possessed begins to melt
reaching critical mass of inevitability
caught between the high mark of false sanction
and a bottom of craggy rock distortion
like a monsters teeth and open maw
awaiting with patient disregard
at the wheel the visionary sleeps
amid symbolic ritualistic boundaries
od'D on the wreckless need
for heights not guaranteed
but out on the windswept plains
of wordless twists and rigid tongue
the flaming mass shudders to that
unrelenting silent rage of aberration
then begins the tumble to the patient maw
the message flashes through
the sudden adrenaline flooded brain cells
like the flashing signs of hiway construction
last message passing by
in bright flashing neon
tomorrow will bring inspired risktakers
who now know the starting pattern
because I can say I made it beyond
all odds where none before have gone
by passing the dreaded roadblocks
at the far end of human imagination.
I od"D on the wreckless need
for heights not guaranteed .
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
The collie, fur grayed and patchy, lopes away from his house,
Ostensibly bound for nowhere in particular,
Knowing only that it is that time, his time,
And, as he wanders away for to await that last solitary purpose,
Meanders past a pock-marked and rust-patched single-wide,
Occupied by a young woman (a girl, in truth)
Nursing a newborn, child whose father
Is one in a wide range of unpalatable options.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
They walk, the residue of some boy meets girl,
Along the quiet main street of an equally quiet town,
Utility poles garnished with benign, contented snowmen,
Low-hung five-pointed auguries strung with tinsel,
Brobodingnagian candy canes swaying rhythmically in the wind.
They have arrived at the unspoken yet mutually understood conclusion
That they have taken their particular accident of birth and geography
As far as such a thing may go, yet they walk hand-in-hand,
Fingers intertwined, though tentatively, in some interim rationale.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
On a hill above town, there is a rambling, low-slung edifice
Multiple-winged single-story octopus of a house
Well appointed though sparsely and diffidently decorated,
More hotel than home, decidedly transitory in form and function.
In one of the rooms, dimly lit with little ornamentation
Save a Charlie Brown-esque tree squatting forlornly on a bureau,
A woman is reading softly, almost mechanically,
As if it is a story she has read out loud countless times before,
To a man who is heeding, perhaps, though it is clear
That the act is more essential than the words on the page.
They have a daughter who would be there,
Sitting in a chair or on the edge of the bed,
Hands clasped, though in service of or supplication to nothing tangible,
But she is home with her toddler, a whirligig of a child
Who has found some hidden presents
And is tearing away the wrapping from the boxes,
Laughing unrestrainedly as he showers himself
In a red-green-gold ticker-tape maelstrom.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
My heart is a glass ornament,
You are an ice pick.
The shards beneath our feet-
They are the pieces of my fragmented dreams.
I do not know reality,
My silence is my pain.
I find no comfort any longer,
I'd rather sleep again.
Show me ice cold solitude;
A blanket of neutrality.
Pause the sorrow and the ache,
Capture me in one clear burst of illumination!
A foreign land,
A foreign fate-
A catastrophic end.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
You were the first
without knowing,
burst my balloon
with simple harpoon
And opened my eyes.
To a world in disguise.
I soon realize the lies told.
and began to swoon for thou.
I let you graffiti my brain
the pretty words like concrete
permanent imprint, dominant in nature
The ornamentation of my determined mind.
Black and Blue,
my undoing
my favourite viewing
to which I was glue to
It was a slow grow
didn't know any better
until the letter came
your name centered in the
middle
Like a benign vine,
dining with a glass of wine.
Sent icy shivers down my spine.
entwined with flames,
sent from cloud nine.
But that was then.
and this is now
I have since moved on.
I no longer fawn.
But I can not forget thee.
when you still fill me with glee
So I thank you,
for my change is thy's work.
For being the first.
and I will never forget you.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
Would he still feel comfortable
in brooks brothers felt trousers or those loafers
with golden ornamentation or with pale white
business cards being traded between moisturized
fingers. With hands clutching a cold metal
pole on the subway and swaying to coltrane
from his headphones would he still trade glances
with the woman in good humor whites with two
black babies and a clear tub of windex and fresheners
and rubber yellow gloves. Or just stand tall and straight
and rigid and lifeless and keep his eyes
on the black floors and the loafers
and the illuminated emails shining from his palm.
With a newer suit and pay raise and the snarling of his new office and the desk with his middle aged secretary, would he still treat her kindly and keep her father's cancer in mind or instead, (next month), ask for a younger blonder girl from a better school (and bigger ****
after the man finally makes his seven figures.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
when i die i want my body laid in water
a wooden boat
simple in design and lacking any ornamentation
i want to ride waves on my way home
i want the water to be cold like the death song in my last breath
i want a single, burning arrow to cut a yellow stripe in the dark sky
and then i want to burn
a warrior's death
a viking's death
a star's death
i will die a king
and i will burn a supernova splash of color into the sky
for the people i have known
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
As the twilight starts its dance with the shadows,
My limbs silently break from their tin man sentencing.
Hanging from the ceiling in ornamentation,
Only to be ignored. That is,
Until everyone goes to bed.
I'm in the child's room overlooking the balcony.
Just before he goes to sleep
He lays there staring. Paralyzed.
For he knows I am alive.
As the shadows creep further
Through the windows my body
Becomes the more freer.
He thinks I can't leave my perch..
I wait until his eyes are closed.
It never takes long.
Just wait for that little pulse of his to stop galloping.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
Large black eyes like oil pools set in faces snow white...
Perched in twisted branches and silence, risen above the mist,
and the twilight has still not quite faded into night.
I've been dreaming of Owls in the trees,
I know, I can feel that they are not only there watching me...
So I seek the meaning while believing,
in listening to what speaks to us while we sleep-
even if only deriving the message from imagery,
I recognize the language, dreams are our subconscious synergy.
The delicate and intricate ornamentation silvery and fleeting,
They are this darkness's filigree.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
I used my raging rhetoric to explore him.
high flown style; he told me he could read me,
and how my story could never bore him.
Without answers to the questions I stated but never asked-
He crossed the threshold, plunging into our heaviness together vast.
My excessive use of verbal ornamentation aside...
I was touched beyond words, beyond the flesh, and past the bones and organs inside.
He didn't play me, but played off of and on still my notes instead,
He fingered every key, playfully- black and white, day and night, dark and light
and then turned to me and said-
He said nothing, I don't think-I couldn't think
I couldn't hear,
I couldn't hear passed the piercing ringing interrupting us from inside my ears...
It's 4A.M., Now with eyes open to the blank black locally programmed T.V. Screen,
That faceless man telling me about the required weekly test woke me
from my sweetest dream.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC