"palinode" poems
The water shimmering ripples in the moonlight,
The sky reflecting visions we have seen,
The meadows are concealing our secrets,
And the memories behind the screen,
All the traces have still survived,
On the roads we have ever been.
The misty morning brought us closer,
With your scent still clung to me,
The alarm ring would remind me,
That you were lying next to me,
In the light,the sun would call us to see,
The twinned souls we craved to be.
And everyday, our road would split in two,
Along the distinct patterns and routes we chose,
Miles away we go momentarily,
Yet the petals of the same rose,
Our lives unperturbed by the silence in-between,
And the adios has been our transient dose.
Because i have always believed,
Not much the whispers, nor the feelings enclosed,
But the words in the palinode,
Echoing ,"You are the shadow walking through me,
Traveling with me. Traveling back to me."
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
post haste
ad hoc
ad infinitem
off we go
don't you know
a taste of
high waisted
words
a just and
spectacular
flow
perhap not
nobody
really knows
fire works
sparks and blows
of letters
settin your
world aglow
may even be some
vernacular
on show
word spar
no, no
just emptying
the brain's
word jar
in one
ridiculous
go
blatherskite
wowsers
braggadicio
thats right
words of
nonsense
might
break out
fake out
make out
to be
smarter
than they
truly are
spay my
toungue
and leash
my brain
before
i reign
in origami
crown
and
threadbare
poet's cloak
rockin rolling
ruling
seesaw slow
ride to
insecurity
teetering
on a throne
of mispronounciation
and bleghhgity blah rime
mine
no one elses
you all primed
check my byblow
what do ya know
abnegation
eschewal
abjuration
palinode
retraction
of recantation
no retaliation
just words
in a quick
an flirty show
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.
These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.
Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth assuredly bide.
A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.
Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...
The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!
(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)
For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.
Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.
Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.
A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.
Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.
The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.
Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
I send my poems off
like warriors to war
I send my poems off
like the adventurers of old
I send my poems off
to woo and ******
to dance and entertain.
I send my poems off
to shine light into dark corners
I wish them luck,
as I wave them goodbye
All bravado and
bolstered confidence
Out into a world of
of readers and writers
and now....
when they, my words
are out in space
halfway between here
and wherever there ends up being
You want me to reel them in
to recant...to put a spear to them....
Palinode, be ******
These words...
have paid their dues,
they have flown the coop
I'm not blowing
them out of the sky now.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC