"pediment" poems
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.
11.7k
I used to sit here all alone and contemplate on my life and the emotional crisis I bestow upon my very soul.
My favorite spot in the neighborhood.
The wind would blow as I sit here listening to the creak from the metal chain as this tire swing swung.....
Swung me away from this reality as I laid on the tire, eyez facing the clouds, the white swirls mixed in the baby blue canvas as the smell of the tan bark filled the air with its aroma.
Then one day you joined me.
My best friend.
My first love.
That real love.
I held you close and inhaled the scent of your hair. Held you tight because you were mine. In this deep trance called love but at that very moment I was falling deeper and deeper into your spell. My heart pounding.
Conversed about our future.
You mentioned that one day you would want to own the sky blue three story house across the street. The house with the white stairs and the sun face painted in the tympanum of the pediment. We admired it from the tire swing.
We sat on that swing and I held you for hours. I never thought that one day I would let go.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
Palm Kiss,
my spooky little ***** house
at Halloween,
you are amazing.
I am aware of that...
and, and, and
I'll be thinking of you...
at the moment,
I can't.
That's a waste of time.
Our finest words
hit her bathroom sink,
I know you can't see
the afternoon right now...
not with the Hinterland gleaming
a mustard seed slope
with stems of bushy brown
all aglow where
the sun slants into
heaven's gate.
Love has a selective memory
murmuring an opuscule
melody,
when the sky slides into
droplets,
broken- beaded chain
playing in the dripping
golden pediment
blushing red feathered veins
into the autumn leaf.
I will be thinking of you...
though at the moment...
I
can't,
That's such a precious waste of time.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
I write, not to deploy pity or ***** commonplace conceptions
I write to potentially discover the sole rationale as to why I am who I am
What variety of experience and array of struggle has molded my self being
And who is to say that I have or have not become who I was intended to
There is a fine line of losing touch with society's notion of impeccability and drifting towards the horizon of individual pediment in assembling the parts of your inner soul
The pieces of you that may never see the light of day but still continue to participate in your decision making and how you articulate ideas
Every part of the whole is significant
Yet we continue to sprint towards the standards of conformity
Our lives, slowly becoming a smaller line of which we walk upon, holding tight to mediocrity
Because the only thing to do when the curtain is falling is say what the audience wants to hear
And I fear that perhaps I and clinging to the same things I curse over without being aware of it
So, I write, not to deploy pity or ***** commonplace conceptions
I write to potentially discover the sole rationale as to why I am who I am
Perhaps I am who I think I am, whomever that may be
All I do know, however, is I am not who you think I am
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Two hearts that beat as one, Indebted to the journey of finding each other's essences. Follow the currents that redefine our hopes and dreams. Relive the moments that weave the present into the future pediment. Forever standing as one.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 7:33 AM UTC
In sleet and rain of Edinburgh
a cathedral rises from the deeps.
The salt of sea and old coal blur
veil her face in grey-cast sheets.
On her western pediment
within tympanum carved of stone
sits Christ triumphant and in judgement
where he calls us all to atone.
I stand before him, my head bowed
as I contemplate our shared guilt,
with mea culpas weighing on my brow
for the follies fallen man has built.
And so we’re burning Eden down
with flaming swords that we still wield
as once vast forests shrink and brown
and fallow lie once verdant fields.
Where trees once stood, smokestacks rear
their heads belching fumes up high
and in the deeps, the oceansphere’s
no more a garden for octopi.
For in this our earthly commonweal
that was a gift that’s given free
we prove that purgatory’s real
because we ourselves have made it be.
A whisper came from the carved face
to walk into this stony womb
where colored light and incense trace
a path to overcome the gloom:
Forgiveness for our many faults
comes when we change our ways.
There in this temple’s holy vault
I vow to fight Eden’s decay.
In Edinburgh I found Eden
in a vision of what can be.
For we are by no means beaten
and we can do it, you and me.
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 6:06 AM UTC
Run your fingers through my hair, down my pediment neck.
Kiss my face, my lips, and find the moon in my eyes.
Run your fingers down my chest, to the cables, pull them ever so gently, lifting my weights to start anew.
Restart my heart, swinging pendulum, with intricate lyre laced from mended pain.
Feel me, as the rhythmic tick-tock of my body resonates from finial to base, my gears smoothly interlocking in motion.
I am alive, you wind me up...
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC