"pendants" poems
Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an
angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and
Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous,
prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats!
Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote.
They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and
revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries.
They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial! Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric,
neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ****** exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features
resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire,
perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed;
born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce,
pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and
pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and
stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride...
Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song,
song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a
child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India,
India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns
and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two
different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
my whispers,
they float over the currents
braving the undulating waves in our overture...
around their necks, hung time-worn pendants
whispers...
struggling to convey my sentence
like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope
like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance
but more like weakened footholds on a slippery slope...
this dream...
only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness
where nothing did gleam
only thoughts heavy but...
oddly weightless
except for...
a repertoire of transgressions...
raucous and obnoxious
mischievous taunts that pull me back
caging me,
enslaving me,
smothering me senseless
that was my consciousness
where second chances exist...
in faint sporadic eruptions
through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist
finally awakened by hastened breaths
heavy and laboured
as like previous temporary deaths
I could hear my heart
thumping...
beating...
fighting...
to set its beats apart
breathe deep...
allow the new day's air sink in
rise fully from sleep
wake up
and...
let today begin
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
Morning Rainbow
Myriad prismatic crystals,
refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
across the misted horizon.
Eyes turned to the western skies,
we suspend our meteorological selves
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.
Synthetic Refractions
A luminary ballet takes center stage
when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
into pre-ordered spectral strata.
If the sky denies us a rainbow,
we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!
Spectral Sound
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
held us captive by their banks.
Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
With songs of wonder, joy and longing.
Before there was music,
bird songs brushed our souls.
Robert Charles Howard, 2019
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
A bracelet of blue upon her hand
Made it easier for me to imagine
The way they loved each other;
I saw his eyes in every rock,
In emotions solidified to glistening bits;
I saw his attachment to her soul
Like pendants hanging from her arm
I saw his eyes in every piece of stone,
Now cracked;
In the midst of the serenity in a glittery blue gem
I saw collateral damage.
I saw hope in her eyes
And dry tears accumulated on the side lines
For she decided that, that is where they belong;
She clenched to a cup of tea
Like they were his arms,
Warm as always,
Soothing as usual,
Just the way it was when he was around.
I saw his imprints on her fingers
I saw him fiddling with her words,
Although they weren’t much,
For some words she decided to keep for him
Some words are just between them…
And those were the words that mattered most.
Dear martyr I saw in stone,
They wrote your death sentence
But I wrote you sentences on my bones,
I dreamt of a country for you
I dreamt that you would be in it
But all that’s left of you is stone.
Bracelets cuddling hands;
Hands that wrote on papers
The future of tomorrow.
Dear martyr I saw in her eyes,
You are safe there;
But it is very dangerous in my mind.
You have drowned in her tears
Rested upon her eye lashes,
You swam your way in between
Her wavy hair,
You have held her hands
With mugs of warm tea.
Dear martyr I fumbled on my papers,
My papers will not fade away,
My words will collapse on buildings
Destroying walls they have built to hide the truth
Unwiring bombs they have planted
As they try rewire our minds;
My voice will be ours
And your voice will rest.
For your place is in the vacancies
Between every piece
Of a bracelet
That had you
Written all over.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Mayan Poetry Translations
The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******
Why?
Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
###
The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—
virgins!
###
Prelude to **********
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!
Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...
Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!
###
The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...
Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,
virgins, maidens!
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, *** marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ****** nakedness
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 4:54 AM UTC
A friend sends her perfumed carriage
And high-bred horses to fetch me.
I decline the invitation of
My old poetry and wine companion.
I remember the happy days in the lost capital.
We took our ease in the woman's quarters.
The Feast of Lanterns was elaborately celebrated -
Folded pendants, emerald hairpins, brocaded girdles,
New sashes - we competed
To see who was most smartly dressed.
Now I am withering away,
Wind-blown hair, frost temples.
I prefer to stay beyond the curtains,
And listen to talk and laughter
I can no longer share.
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Will my heavenly wings be splendid
Will they sparkle like the dew?
Will they be rhinestones and pendants
In my halo all shiny and new?
Will my halo need adjusting
Or will it fit like a glove?
I better get my order in early
To the great shop up above.
Will they likely be tarnished
Smudged, dingy, or singed?
Soiled or possibly rumpled
Without and maybe within?
Might they be too heavy
Or even a little too tight?
I am hoping and I'm praying
They'll fit and be just right.
March 16 1993
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I'm sitting here staring at an empty space
It's not that I don't have things to fill it with
In fact, I have an abundance of things
Thoughts, memories, hopes
But they're all jumbled together
Tangled, like poorly stored necklaces
The chains wrapped tightly around each other
Almost impossible to separate
I could take everything out
Place it all out on a table
Try to gently detach each piece of myself
The problem with that, though
Is that more than a few of those baubles and chains
Were never meant to see daylight
I don't want to reveal the tarnished and rusting metal
The cracked glass pendants
And the lockets never meant to be opened again
Some things are to stay forever
Stored away in the darkest corners of my mind
I have a box on a dusty shelf there
Where they live
I guess I should look for a flashlight
So maybe I can try to sort out the better pieces
I know there must be some treasures there
Maybe I'm just hoping I might have something good left
I don't want to face the possibility
Of finding nothing but debris
Tattered trinkets on a dusty shelf
In the back of a damaged mind
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
there's this necklace I wear layered under countless other pendants that hold memory and feeling
it's supposed to be the symbol "the hand of God"
it's supposed to protect me from evil and give me strength
it used to give women strength and power to be healthy and have fertility
why doesn't it help me find the strength to get out of bed in the morning?
what evil eye has it protected me from?
the history says that the sun and moon are eyes of God, that God is everywhere with us
we can never leave the consciousness of God
it's been traced back to early Mesopotamia but maybe I'm just too ****** up to actually receive some sort of help
why do I even bother?
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Yes, I will eat you:
but you don’t meat my requirements
like you would a person
No, I’m not that scary
once you get to know me, somewhat
the point is, you look delicious
And I’m going to have to consume you
every last little scrap of you
and I’ll put your face in a frame
I hope you don’t mind,
I chopped off your hands
they hold the silverware now
Your eyes would make lovely pendants
and your teeth would make great bracelets
your tears would glaze
Don’t worry, I’d be flattered
if someone ate me
like I will you
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 11:05 PM UTC
I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.
The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.
And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.
But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.
And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.
The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end
And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it. It is done.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
We allowed the lies of our lives to expire, when we used to dance around fires, while the heat of our bodies perspired to the gods without names that we lived to be desired by, that we saw from the rocks and the trees to the birds in the sky, and even though this once bitter soul might try, to figure out the deepest questions, the ultimate, 'why?' He's left to walk alone, in a world that's let its heart die, because we gave into the greed, and negated a need, from every drop of blood that we bleed, to the words of our fathers we didn't heed, so we can beg while we plead, in the dirt, on our knees, breaking pottery, and scraping bone, the only grievance we've ever known, the gnashing of teeth, from the torture we've shown, to those less than worthy for the fortune we've claimed as our own, this destruction we left on the shoulders of our descendants, their discomfort prevalent from the weight of our pendants, that we parade around as we hear a cascade in sound, that cries from the heavens, 'We're broken, please mend us!'. But we neglected the ones who defend us, the ones who turn every trend against us, because our hearts are shallower, and we give in to the devourer, when we should have found a love, and with selflessness empower her, with our mouths, and hearts shower her, with all the grace and emotion, that could prevent a commotion, if only we could for the sake of our devotion, give up the notion that we are owed something, because we crowned ourselves queen and king, though to the table we've nothing to bring, instead with jubilation our hearts should sing, until the bells in every temple, church, and house of our gods ring.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
I have discovered
I am a blackmailer
trying to win you
with extravagant gifts
and pronouncements
black pearls to cling
lovingly ‘round your neck
hummingbird pendants
carved by northern artists
proclaiming you to be
“bringer of joy”
long drives to exotic places
where I photograph you,
protesting at first,
then warming up to it
deliciously engaged
delicious photos
selfishly taken
to delight me
when I feel the need of you
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
Would you be angry if I howled?
You awaken sleeping fires inside me
more primal than modern words can express.
You look as if you are dressed in the moon
with Orion around your wrist and Leo on your neck.
Such pendants chase the pedantry of speech from my mind.
There are no steps in your stride.
You move about teasing laws of inertia,
kissing gravity on the cheek
as if to acknowledge his feeble attempt.
I have searched all of time and space for you
and you have found me speechless.
Would you be angry if I howled?
Threw my head back and let loose my lungs?
There is a wind in your eyes that stirs my soul.
Sentences that made sense not two minutes ago read:
is the moon you pretty as not as... what?
letters strewn across my tongue fall into my throat
you are a category 5 lunar storm
coating my eyes in moon dust and shine.
There is no man in me so eloquent
as to answer the ancient beauty I have seen in you.
All I have found is a cartoon wolf
with his heart popping out of his overalls
and his eyes on fire with the moon.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
the very beginning
of the Big Bang,
did someone wise realize,
he created, eventually,
achingly soft feminine
firm voluptuous,
pendants miraculous,
ultimate fun.
beauty formed in a burst of
magnificence.
Seriously, genius,
the naked female born in an
explosion billions of years ago.
Unending wise, or
coincidence, not ever,
I cup them, in reverence.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
Wake me up after
the comet becomes crater
And the impact radius
breaks the sound barrier
Pushing your eyelids back past
your misplaced judgements
Splintering your precious pendants
to their brittle core
Let me dream a little more,
it's the futile things
that I adore
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
As thoughts come on this day
in the quiet of my blind
comes a lonesome whistle
in the distance of my mind.
Days became years,
when we walked like children
past single bomb shelter
knee tucked isles,
chests in the fiery furnace
thunder in the winter room.
We are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark today,
we will never forget and
in silence a mind wanders.
Among cheering crowds
are snapping pendants,
JFK littered sidewalks and
brown buildings on Elm street
that watch with haunting eyes.
White kid gloves carefully turn
pages at a book depository
while she reaches for bits and
pieces of his mind
A- line dresses mural *******
the anguish of morning pearls.
Stripes and Stars sing denial
the world is debutante numb
rain sounds on the sill
like woodpeckers on tin,
she cries out and over again,
all the king's courses,
all the king's gin can not put
an egg back together again.
They are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark the day,
and we shall never forget
the days became years...
when we walked with the
silence of innocence.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
I'm feeling
Bitter.
And all this stupid
Pretentious hippy
"Spirituality"
****
Is just getting old
Or maybe I'm just getting
Older
And I'm seeing how all these
Burnouts in tie-dye
Appear friendly
But they're not talking to you,
Just your girlfriend.
"Free love, man."
They're scumbags just like the
Scumbags in suits they hate so much
Or the rocker scumbags who are
Mysoginistic
Just like them.
This
Self-brainwashing
Is getting old and I'm getting sick of
Being lied to,
By them and by me.
the truth is nobody knows
What's going on in the universe,
No matter how much of a
Shaman
They claim to be or how much
Peyote
They smoke.
And anybody who claims to
Is
Selling
Something-
Be it glassware pendants
Or ****
Or their throbbing
*****
This hippy ******** is a bastardization
Of an image
Of a faded picture
Of a set of ideals
Thought up fifty years ago
That only ever really worked on paper
Anyway.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
shadows on the water,
locks of hair in pendants,
love still remembered
though the tide is now
withered like summer grass.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
No need
for valentines
She wears
men's hearts
like pendants
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
one last emerald night
at bonnechere park
thin moon piercing through
glass pendants of a weeping tree
the truth is
i still hide your name
inside my lips like stolen bread
beneath our lucky stars
i found the ending
i was searching for
—to kiss the sand on basin lake
while the serrated cold of water
and my heartbeats
slowly dissipate
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 10:39 AM UTC
Welcome darling, to this
sacred twilight shine
Where the moonlight takes rest,
Rejected as it was by the most benevolent sun,
In the twinkle of my eye.
There is a portal here,
an ever spinning vortex
Which spirals out and keeps going
Keeps .
Going.
Until it reaches our throat.
It adorns itself there
Like a piercing,
Gleaming necklace with Context
becoming pendants laced together
Emotionally though…
Haphazardly even.
Until the weight of the pendants
Meets the weakest link.
Triumphant in their failure,
Like speeding wave boats
They crash out of the mouth
And into the ear.
Now you have heard the story of hello and how are you.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC