"pagoda" poems
in my backyard
beautiful!
with alluring flowers
wild flowers, purple haze
green, with a shade of russet
Nature at it's very best,
the visual perception,
of my garden
brings,
to the mind and soul
a great aesthetic rapture!
This is my pagoda
I come here to meditate,
in the spectre
of beautiful aura
and to be at peace with nature,
Amidst my temple
a spliff I shall spark
with a profound purpose,
to bless my mind
and to bless my soul
with sagacity,
from the universe!
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
i walked in a garden
i saw roses, daisies, bougainvilleas
pagoda and peonies too
and somehow they reminded me of you
the roses reminded me of your lips
how it's so red and lovely
how it curves whenever your smile along with your eyes
how it separates when you laugh
the daisies reminded me of your eyes
how it slowly blooms beautifully in morning
how lovely when it slowly closes at night
how chatoyant it was when touched by light
the bougainvillea reminded me of your being
how you stood strong despite everything
how you stayed lucent and beautiful
how you let yourself bloom in many colours
the pagoda reminded me of your skin
how it's yellowish and eternally beautiful
how smooth and soft it was
how selcouth it seems in my retina
the peonies reminded me of your heart
how it's still exquisite despite of its fragile figure
how it's still eesome even though it looks wrinkled
how it stays strong and pulchritudinous
walking in the garden felt serendipitious
it felt like walking
inside your existence
and i liked it.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is
A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
!!!!!!cities
A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real
Continents wither where the flies glue their
regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)
Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement
The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all
I can
hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)
The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
Watches
Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /
his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome
to:
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
delicately, our dragonfly conversations
dance in Japanese gardens,
where jewelled concrete pagoda’s
stand stilted, like
timeless geometries, in greening water
then wind rustles timidly through
creek beds and pebbled leaves;
bells ring like wine glasses at a dinner table
and we feel our arm hairs stand on tiptoes,
pricked up to weary voices
(chanting monks, those that sit in circles
monkishly chant, in unison
“there are three meanings of loneliness”)
here, chanting also, we
find ourselves again not alone
enchanted in the fragmented daylight.
but then again, I turn, apathetically, and declare
“let us rest
in the immense imagery of our imagination
for it is easier to sleep,
as rain creeps closer to our doorstep,
than to ***** barricades, levies
and trenches around our house”
Oh, but the way the light reflects upon the Japanese trees
is so splendidly delicate,
and our delicate conversations
feel all so perfect…
so now please, time, lose me
in your whisper.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
God visited our house last Sunday
a bright papaya orange butterfly
welcomed Him,
fluttering in loops like a kite
as He stepped out of His car
Embracing our dear friend Jon from
New Jersey
He entered our pagoda
indeed, not as a guest but
as an embodiment of God
The early afternoon was garlanded
in loving, intimate, animated conversation
and a delectable lunch was served to our
beloved brother
This was topped off with nectar sweet
chocolate coconut prasadam
Everything from matters of the spirit
to soul stirring S.R.F. devotional songs
chanting sublimely
suffused our heavenly day
Even the backyard birds turned out
in large numbers
their cocky red, brown and
sky blue heads
peeking curiously through
the patio door
craned to catch a glimpse
of our divine companion
Jon, His mellow, prayerful eyes
blessing all His gaze fell upon
leaned back comfortably in
the recliner chair
like a long lost friend
returning home ~
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.
Dearest,
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.
Still,
I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell
ORIENT on the life preserver
that hangs by my knees;
its ***** canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I'll save myself.
Over my right shoulder
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club,
their faces poked out
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who
have sunk into their carriages.
Without discrimination
the wind pulls the skirts
of. their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.
Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck,
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side,
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together
as fish do,
singing without sound.
Dearest,
see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.
There go my dark girls,
their dresses puff
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.
2k
Red
Fuchsia
Purple
Cobalt
Green
Amber
White
Like stars
Low to the ground
Luminous orb
Under pygmy palm
Tiny Frog
Riding rainbow lit lily pad
Rhine maiden spotlighted
On small rock pond
Reflecting
Pagoda lanterns
On glass bar
Mirrored in pool
Seated reading girl
Nestled near tiny mimosa tree
Shimmering butterfly flutters by
Crackled globe
Casts speckled glow
Towards gnomes seated below
Peeking out through
Bushy philodendrons
Faux mosaic lamps
Cloudy days
Leave dark marks
Empty holes
Longing for lost luster
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
I remember paper lanterns with small red candles floating down the river
but I don't remember the festival or in who's honour they were lit.
I remember roadside shrines and little envelopes of money, not proper
money but a special kind who's name I don't remember either.
I remember the big pagoda but couldn't tell you where it was.
I remember so much about those years but there's so much I forgot.
I remember warm rain and warm puddles that we jumped in with flip flops on.
I remember the little guy on the motobike and sidecar that used to come
round selling soda and taking caps for prizes and the bubble stuff in a
tube.
I remember the paper pucks with feathers in that the local kids would
play with like hacky sacks.
I remember the smell on incense in the temples
I remember the markets. The sights, the smells, the sounds of so many
things never seen or heard or smelt before or since.
I remember Hong Kong
And I'm sure its changed since I was 5 but I want to go back and see
just how much.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 8:42 AM UTC
Meaning
f
a
l
l
I
n
g
like sparrows in silent wind
like leaves in seasonal flux
again and again….
into the violent dirt
inflamed mud
where we pity the worms
and their empires of clay and mortar
a pomegranate a jewelled pagoda
moving and centralised
cyclic and stagnant.
Everywhere, I do not see
directed untowards
magnetic poles.
Agni-metic people.
The sparrows song
in underwater caverns
startles ripened ears
(wrinkled, warn, and walled)
between dogmatic slumbers…
ertras, I can hear you
»»»»» —————————————-» [you]
where?
f’-> : {inside euclidean halls}
meaning, falling
passageways toward
nothing. [frameworks]
-oliver and jonte
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Maybe one day I'll make finger sandwiches
for classy luncheons
in a pagoda in my backyard.
We all will be jolly
and have balloon laughs
as we sip our aged merlot.
And my young children will waltz in
with their curtsies and bows and then
go off again to be with their nanny.
And I will be occupied
with the things in my pocket
so I won't know what the dark is anymore.
I'd rather live in the dark though.
In a raunchy studio apartment
with a semi-attractive but
the most beautiful woman
who is educated
and still knows how to color.
My children will understand what it means
to be alive and I'll let them decide
if they appreciate it or not.
We will feed the ducks every Sunday.
I want to be among spirits not bodies.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
Beijing’s Child points at the white clouds flying, veils in the somber sky, to the moon under the yielding tree’s red lantern, he is absent-mindedly playing with his brown braids. He pictures himself abroad, by other long shores turning the pages of his dear illustrated book when a fired fish jumps up to the skies clad in its rainbow scales, glistering. Under the yielding tree red lantern
Beijing’s Child rubs the green ginkgo Although the snow, winter’s daughter plucks the feather leaves of her silvery coat....
Was it the wind, messenger of the west that brought the Biloba bird until Ta? Under the yielding tree red lantern
He thinks about it sprouting, seed of the past. The Child whose name means pagoda lives over the gates of the shining sun chanting to the elements songs and lullabies,
Under the yielding tree red lantern.
And when Earth vibrates under the storms when the frightened men rise their damped eyes the child wraps his body with the veil of the stars I hear by the mounts his voice and his augurs. But the tree was cut down and cannot offer its sweet sap anymore the red gleam has faded long ago of the marooned torn by time book only one thing remains, and it is a dream.
Because, at bedtime, as the world is sound asleep the child pours a golden powder to the souls. Stay awake at night because the Child of Beijing will enchant you until your morning!
Written in French in Beijing, October 20, 2011. Translated on May 9, 2014 Lyon, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
When will you be home:
When Spring's on,
When Summer's done,
When Fall is all in color,
Or Winter's white enshrouds us?
I'm waiting here alone
With longings to dress you,
Arms to caress you,
Before you leave again.
Yet, you will return.
Are you yourself there,
Somewhere, but not here,
Where family waits.
Let your fears
Drip off your brimming shoulders.
Here start your missions,
End remissions,
Renew your heavy heart.
Home is where you
Learned to walk,
Learned to talk
To eat and read;
All you'd need
When you leave.
Here you feel
Most secure;
Knowing friends are closer
Than they were before;
This side of the outside door.
Here is where the hearts are,
Without the worry
Of hurly-burly.
Who will bring you home?
You'll find shelter elsewhere -
A Pagoda or a condo nest -
But home is where
Your soul finds rest.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Tea With Yoda [50]
Having a Tea Ceremony,
with Yoda in a pagoda,
they say life’s a ladder,
He says it’s more like a totem,
trying to make ends meet for ends meat,
by exceeding expectations & meeting quotas,
trying to make my six senses see as clear as my mentor’s,
a Sensi with stressless sensibilities yet infinite responsibilities,
He’s a mature mixture of past scriptures & vast futures,
the perfect fusion to provide ideal solutions effectively,
to dispel all of the confusing illusions that currently occur,
so that my six senses can make sense of it & see clearly,
& that’s exactly why I’m grateful He’s my mentor,
I clear my mind when I enter his temple & listen attentively,
He’s Mr. Miyagi, Professor X, Stephen Miles, Morpheus,
Gandalf, Splinter, & Obi Wan, all rolled into one,
His composition is awesome so when taking lessons,
I make sure to be free of all distractions going on,
attempting to not take meetings yet people keep calling,
but phone’s off so I don’t see nor take note of the notifications,
I just go off like a boat on the edge of Niagara with no motor,
got expense taste life’s great though no time to be wasting,
gotta find a way to keep speed without delay & without haste,
because patience is key but time won’t wait,
so I stay totally outta touch with the clubs & the whole scene,
so focused I don’t even notice those overblown cokeheads,
light so bright that I’m always getting it in even when I go out,
light always burns but never burns out even at it’s lowest,
heard them mention a question but didn’t return the gesture,
was unsure of their motives plus the question sounded loaded,
goin' all in outta control only thing I limit is my exposure,
on balance with my talents in a pair of New Balances,
meanwhile they’re still trying to gain their composure,
I swear to God I’m not a rock nor in a hard place,
but I do rock Ohms on mountain tops complete with boulders,
shout out to Colorado though I boast low key so no bravado,
soul sans ego, modest & honest like a Buffalo Soldier,
no need to buy game it’s already in the bag sewed close,
& I’m relaxed shoes off spine upright aligned in the Lotus,
having a Tea Ceremony, with Yoda in a pagoda,
having a Tea Ceremony, with Yoda in a pagoda,
they say life’s a ladder, He says it’s more like a totem,
trying to make ends meet for ends meat,
by exceeding expectations & meeting quotas…
∆ LaLux ∆
@aaronlalux
from THHT3: Dark Lights & Bright Shadows 9/9/19
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:12 PM UTC
Tibbets.
Shadows fell at eight fifteen.
Shadow of a 'little boy'
As if a camera exploded.
Flash it went.
Pagoda tall standing, once upon a time.
A desecrated ground, unholy.
No fiery fairy tale in this place.
Death's location
Eerily sensations surround.
Destructive force hit home.
No eagles fly.
In this eerie place.
A silent world sleeps.
As mother weeps.
Not by choice.
Living screams a revelation.
A human created Armageddon.
Piles of smoke seen at the scene of evil.
Mega-mushroom killed the skies.
Most of humankind in this land felt its force.
Death as it cruised it's certain course
Zombies walk.
One or few.
The activity of war.
Now won.
Revenge bit back.
Severely.
Buried deep in the victim's skin.
And still the fever grew.
Under skin of souls.
Almost peeled.
Severe pain as landscape diffused into the land.
Creature of the bomb demonic.
Silhouetted dead men.
Painted standing structures.
Such sickness in a place laced with fractured glass.
Ultimate act of war.
Bring on power of peace.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
When one leaves,
They never really do.
They are present in the void
They have left you with.
Sometimes, you think you'd be recovered from a heartbreak.
But when I saw the picture of the pagoda I took on that day,
I saw your face.
Memories resurfaced,
the sewn heart has a few stitches loosened,
and what if's appeared once more like how they did on that fateful morning.
We weren't close,
I admit we never were.
But you affected me greatly,
and I wish I'd done better.
Now I can only look at you in photographs or in memories and dreams.
Suddenly, reality seemed less of a reality compared to the dreams and photographs you were in.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Pagoda, Pagoda,
My humble terrace by the sea.
Wayshrine for the hopeless
and the seekers of eternal ecstasy.
Why do they mistreat you so?
Ever accepting of our whimsical, hedonic presence,
you gave us shelter from the slobbering pigs and their execution sentence.
And still they ripped your gleaming limbs from you.
Those who claimed to love you.
Pagoda, Pagoda
so far from the corporate machine
living in an emerald midsummer dream
we must have lost our way along the chemical shores.
When the harsh confines of reality glared at my salt stained face
you treated me to warm freedom and a welcoming embrace
despite my turning a blind eye to your pain
and the savages who left you discarded.
Pagoda, Pagoda,
you were left hastily deserted
once summers tender muscles were exerted
and the liches stretched their frigid claws once again.
Now just an ashen memory
while we count the hours in this glacial penitentiary
and wait for the beacon to bless us with its lazy gaze
and the return of our boardwalk paradise.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
cada vez que paso por la rue des arts y abril
hay un olor a cigarrillos "fontanares"
fumados detrás del paredón
agachado debajo del cielo
con las manos como pagoda nerviosa
abrigando la brasa pálida contra la luz del día
y cada vez que paso por la rue des arts
veo a Ana en el campito detrás del paredón
con sus ojos llenos de abril
de amistades furiosas
de color avellana violeta
ojos llenos de peces
algunos arden como soles
otros llueven
esos ojos
parecían dos árboles recién talados y tibios de pajaritos
que habían dejado apenas su madera
heredera de plumas
que sostenían el aire y nunca terminaban de caer
y alrededor de esos ojos
había un lago del mismo color que las perlas de mei-lan-fan
la favorita de mis miedos
las perlas que mei-lan-fan criaba en la cabeza
para que ciertas noches haya luz
como hoy
que paso por abril
con el alma doblada debajo del sobaco como los estudiantes del alma
por la ciudad sin ojos que no ven a ana
no ve sus pechos frescos que empiezan a asomar
y tiemblen como temblaban entonces
mis siete años de edad
turbados
por tanto clarín desnudo
tanta gloria
tanta desolación
tanta triste alegría
¿qué ser?
¡esos campos de nadie que naides se atrevía a oír!
¡esas primicias como miles de legiones
arrojadas contra uno!
¡esa belleza
conmigo adentro
sin victorias!
¡los carros
las mujeres
los hijos
arrastrados de un país a otro
de tu hermosura a mi agonía!
¡a todo ayer que pasará!
¿y cuando moverás tu bondad o tu desdén para venir a la rue des arts
donde una vez fumé "fontanares"
para retrasar a la muerte?
802
When your dance a bounty, yet sing
they fail – I have learned to love,
worrisome mother and adorn you:
such a kiss is planted
a rose on the plump cheek of children.
your girth measures unflinchingly,
the laughter of the world around you
so small, kept in a dark, blinkered box.
your parasol smothers the light
cast unswervingly on stone.
who has long kept you in the caliginous womb,
with all the light that spangles through?
who has snuffed your little arms
and dressed you for everyone to see?
when you are quite flamboyant for
everyone to feast on,
what word passes on as salutation?
when you are festive enough to revel in,
what pagoda tries itself to the life
allowed to gleam proudly?
women, men, children, and all -
frolicsome around the darkled bough
smitten by the frayed sight of believing,
sifting from the way our hands
craft things the dispensable glee
of glasswork: the world is Murano.
and my eyes have seen all flourish
in a darling ebb of curbed felicities – the diaphanous
clangour of steel and shadow.
the slain orchestra of frogs in the crush of rain.
the detriment of the Earth curled like an infant
in the womb of the dark.
- oh trees and their wondrous life of green,
begin to question the wind and its tourniquet;
shadows drunk on turpentine, the spry wilt of hours:
what is their final duty?
if our laughter is slain in the perils of night,
how are we to become them?
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 3:30 AM UTC
On the branch of Time our hearts tremble many times and then fall back; our proud destiny holds down like the roaring flames of stray comets! We will be dusted as the eternal part of the Universe! The Tree of Life may still survive in this way; trembling above a twisting price insecure We carve the gallows of our existence if bitterness settles on our eyes! You are an amphibian and many times stateless! Neither in redemptive serenity nor on an Odyssey trip can you find peace until you get to know the One-One who truly loves you!
Well, as a diver, you often ponder the sins of your selfish hatred! You leave me foolishly guilty, let the eternal, found moment come on while you accuse yourself of stupidity: you would already need a sure point of rest so that you can gain not only crying self-confidence, but also karakan courage! You would call the eternal Beloved; a personal good friend you loved for yourself and who could decorate your crypt-dark home with your golden heart in the eternal May!
In silence, waterfalls rustle from the eternally hesitant wells of your eyes and everything will be flooded with self-forgiving, unconditional Grace! And on your tormented face the flame of offended Love burns as if oppressed by a heavy dream; my unexpected insomnia encourages killer vigilance! “Many times I still allow myself to be loved as a deceitful child so that the aggravated insult can sleep in me; his half-nailed man sneaks into his unhappy little snail shell if he doesn't dare risk it!
"What is Life for if you do not sacrifice to do something noble ?!" "Your conscience is still sounding, albeit fading, and when will the fleeting pagoda of Peace be yours forever ?!"
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 2:14 AM UTC
*
*Under the shade of Summer's pagoda,
are mirages of our myths
The warmth of our loyalty stays
all winters of the heart
as our memories produce
the purest of snow silks...*
*
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC
Santa's are red/ the snowman and his carrot nose/ the undying lights/ the glittering stars/ the tall trees like a Chinese pagoda/ avidly awaits the emergence of Gods gift/ blood of Christ/ sacrifice/ sin atonement/ and king/
24/12/2019
Glorious Christmas
|Justice_Eberechi
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 3:37 AM UTC