"panelled" poems
Train spotted on ancient rail tracks
Mucks and grants on submerged pasts
Copper and ***** metal poles point
Upwards in heaven above the panelled tops
Price all the intentional conditioning
A paradise of self sufficiency
A dew of ranting , the metal raiding
Price the substitutional compressions
A timber frame of tunnels
The heightened temperature
Price and tag her beautiful mind
An attachment of glorified plinth
The punch of the chaotic medals
Pride and rearrange her plentiful plight
Show all her cast frame in crimson and greys
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
i may start with the bathroom
large panelled white
a geyser with gasp, gas there
was
plenty of soap/more in store
no charge
lock and bolt the door for quiet & solitude
not much changes then
talk your self to sleep
upper rooms where no
one hears
she seemed brave/ an opposite
to me/maybe/maybe she was hiding
too
we told no one
sbm.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
The painting collided with the steaming floorboards,
a single nail which once held the frame
torn in half like warmed taffy --
a single string, thin like a strand of hair,
dangling in the painting's place,
swaying in the slightest breath.
The wooden six-panelled window trim cracked and whined
but the glass remained untouched,
reflective of the doll carefully decorating the fur-covered bed.
Crystal eyes blink but do not break,
a manicured hand overlaying her mouth,
melding with the porcelain that is her skin.
Her elongated lashes dripped down her blushed cheeks.
She shook slightly but did not move.
Her ears, hidden beneath ruby locks, burst.
A puff of black smoke pushed its way past her curls,
framed by the sound of barotrauma.
Her eyes rolled back, lids fluttered shut,
chin collided with the soft skin of her chest . . .
A slug dropped onto her shoulder,
wiggling side to side with its newfound freedom.
It lost its balance on her delicate sleeve
and landed on my lap in a gooey pile of slime.
There are too many mirrors in this melting room . . .
I can't twitch my eyes without meeting the doll's.
The mirrors shattered as the frames which held them contracted.
The room glittered like the inside of a snowball,
but soon the luster turned to dust,
and the shards left clinging to the frame turned black,
bubbling glass dancing to a lethargic beat down the length of the walls,
trickling into the melted monstrosity swaying like an angry sea.
All the while the doll sat content in her fur-covered bed.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
I love the train, but especially today.
Today it is early in the day and the train is not rattling through darkness like a bullet.
It’s 3:25 and the sky is very blue on the left and cloudier to the right,
but the right is prettier because it has the lakeside, which from here looks like sea glass.
The waves roll in staggered and carelessly since no boats come by here.
We are the ones who get a coup d’oeil at this uninterrupted place.
Trees stand bare still, and the ones which are on the shoreline are washed and bleached,
looking like bones.
Some evergreens come close, but they are a little brown.
Yellow grasses freshly uncovered of snow look rather beautiful beside the blue and periwinkle skies.
I love blue panelled barns and houses which match the water and sky, and seem to remind me of wholesome people.
I catch a glimpse of a pink jacket and helmet as a little girl on a four wheeler waves to the train. How quickly we left her behind.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
If I can’t tell you of your beauty,
I can only tell this page I type.
And so I write
of gazing at you
in the summer evening light,
in that room we shared,
a room where you sat
beside a three-panelled window
of small glass panes,
letting in the presence
of a tree-surrounded garden.
And beyond, beyond
a steep rising of moorland.
The room was heavy
with accumulated light,
a light that lay sculpting
the features of your face
and sitting self. It carved
the very fall of your dress
over your thighs. It caressed
your forearms and your hands
to become a texture like stone,
covering the freckles
close to my gaze when we lie
in love’s tenderness.
I cannot tell you of your beauty
without that shrugging off
you make, as with a comforting shawl
that I might place on your shoulders
with paltry words, uncertain speech.
I hold to that sight of you
in the night time listening
to the rain falling
like a benediction forsaken,
a blessing denied.
We are apart you and I.
And so waking, waking
throughout the long damp night,
to differing degrees of darkness
then the light, and to
the car in the road,
the bird on the roof,
I lie still,
holding memory’s picture,
a photograph brought from
the darkroom’s dull red
light into a bright white day,
and marked by the line of
your loveliness stilled into form.
If I can’t tell you of your beauty,
I can only tell this page I type.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Designer Mandira Wirk gave actress Nimrat Kaur a regal look when she showcased her New Royals collection at Amazon India Fashion Week on Saturday.
Wirk showed 20 ensembles, including Kaur’s ivory drape concept sari with just a zipper, panelled gown with mother of pearls and dori work paired with a sheer cape.
“Her collection is so pretty and feminine,” said Kaur. “I love her clothes. This collection is called the New Royals... it’s bringing pretty back, beautifully enhancing the female body form. It makes you feel so light and pretty.”
Panelled anarkalis, jackets and capes, crop tops, jumpsuits and tapered trousers appeared alongside designer’s signature drape saris and dhoti pants.
Wirk, in a beautiful off-shoulder powder pink dress, said: “I wanted to get pretty back to the runway. It is pretty feminine, wearable and an extremely versatile collection.
“I have done lots of pastels...lot of capes, sleeves. So basically a very feminine and romantic collection.”
The range saw a heavy use modern details like wide pockets and deep waistbands paired with layers of French knots.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
The bungalow stood empty after he died
Garden shoes hugged the porch step
The glass panelled front door showing
Pale translucent echoes of familiarity
Through its six oblong windows.
I was never allowed to visit
After the day of the funeral
Never able to bounce on the
Cream candlewick double bed
Which had been home.
Or to collect cuttings from the
Dilapidated garden, just a rose
Or two would do to recall a day
Of Summer and deckchairs
Tea and cakes eaten with care.
I was never allowed to embrace
Years of happy holidays shared
Breath in the beauty of memory
Deep down where flowers grow
Never allowed another Spring.
Love Mary xxxxx
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:46 AM UTC
where
love sleeps on goosefeathers and moonlight moors,
withering on the solemn slopes of moss and
heather where
hummingbirds climb on raindrops,
sailing on the pattering and
puddling where
fog layers on hillsides, augmenting
the shades of evergreen, folded and
ambient where
light shines through panelled oak and
purrs with the howl of the lonely sun, speckled and
blurred where
you sigh, narrowly, and long for the tides
beyond forty-five degrees (where it's
cold, i think) where
lorries stop to breathe and you
step, i think, to be closer to magic
and further from me.
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
Dawn light rises above my apartment balcony
giving life and colour to my potted friends
(especially the orange of my marigolds)
The chirping of blue, yellow winged souls
resounding in my empty ears
as they hop and dance to the harmony
of my shuffling footsteps
with sunlight as their spotlight
The chug of steam exits my panelled window
my rose coffee screening its scent
onto the projection of my nose
My vinyl records shifted aside,
finding my favourite one.
Sinatra sings;
Holiday serenades,
I pick up my pencil
scribbling away
-- a perfect sunday morning to spend.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies where larks sing shrill
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the grass like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.
Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.
No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
the toils of men in leathern tome;
unread and lost for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.
And through the watches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
and laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 7:02 AM UTC
In the soft and warming light
of the wood panelled room
where family lunches were served
on Christmas and Easter
they were bubbling quietly in July
in a drunken haze of festivity
knowing the simple pinecone smelling
truth laced with second hand smoke
that it would all turns out fine
because they had each other's back.
For today
and yesterday
and tomorrow.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 7:33 PM UTC
At the rumble of a badger's yawn
At the crack of a sparrow's ****
At the pang of his weakened bladder
That's when he makes his start
With the scrape of greying stubble
With the shine of derby brogues
With a perfect Windsor knot
That's how my husband rolls
At the slam of the panelled door
At the echo of a muttered curse
At the march of polished steps
It's only then that I emerge
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 3:56 PM UTC
By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies when larks sing shrill,
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the lea like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.
Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.
No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long-dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
forgotten tales in leathern tome;
unread by men for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.
And through the marches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
the laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
By green and windblown rippled slopes
where cattle graze in summer sun;
beneath blue skies when larks sing shrill
and rabbits by the hedgerows run.
When meadowsweet and columbine
bedeck the lea like ocean foam;
we soft return like shadows lost
to seek our old ancestral home.
Within the tree-lined borderlands
we wait until the day is done;
‘til passing fancies leave us be
and once again our time is come.
When doors and gates are closed and locked
we slip within as night winds roam;
and talk in whispered secrecy
of times in our ancestral home.
No more within cold fireplace
do fallen logs burn bright and fair;
from panelled walls in sullen oils
dark portraits of the long-dead stare.
On bowing shelves of oak repose
forgotten tales in leathern tome;
unread by men for centuries,
hid deep in our ancestral home.
And through the marches of the night
we drift from room to balcony;
recalling days of childhood lost,
the laughter of sweet memory.
Yet all too soon we must be gone
‘ere birds again chorale the dawn;
and disappear like shadows soft
that fly from our ancestral home.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 6:47 AM UTC
I wake up slowly
Realise I'm at the beach house
The St. Tropez sunlight
Bursting through the blinds
A quick dip in the pool
To wake myself up
Then into my oak panelled
Study/ Library
With my Havana cigars
And my 20 year old scotch
To knock out another
5000 words of
My latest bestseller
As my 21 year old girlfriend
Tries to tempt me
With designer lingerie
And brightly coloured
Cocktails
It's not a bad life
BANG
I wake up
And look around
At the grimy walls
That really need painting
The pile of ***** clothes
At the side of the bed
Roll myself a cigarette
Think at least I've got
£5 in my bank account
That should get me
A cheap bottle of wine
And an even cheaper
Frozen pizza
I grab a pen and a pad
I write down this poem
It's not a bad life
Who knows ?
Tonight's dream
Might be even better
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC