"periapt" poems
i.
Like a dozen saint's
Echoing in ethereal song;
The ringing of her voice
Awaketh me in the dawn.
ii.
By midday, her company bringeth calm
Her tranquility is serenity;
She's the thirst of mine tongue.
iii.
The church in the sun
Unrevealed to humanoid tradition's;
The periapt glued to mine synapse
O' how the firmament is glorified by her winged extension's.
©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication-filipino rose
©Lonesome Poet's Poetry
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Faded Magnificence.
Faded brush strokes and overgrown pots,
Hint to magnificence lost to yesteryear.
Garments preened and tailored to perfection,
fashioned upon the season to which they adhere.
Scruffy untamed edges gone awry,
A once was glory now hidden beneath the brambles,
scruffy untamed edges gone awry.
Suffocating elegance under weeds and ivy,
despair now heavy on the eye.
The sunny yet sharp disposition of the dandelion,
entangled yet proudly rearing its spiky crown.
Assuming nobility amongst the weeds,
refusing to have its regalia pulled down.
The cobbled path barely visible from the weathered door,
A secret path known only to the past.
The dainty old lady aged and weathered herself,
has given up the ghost, to the weeds which grow too fast.
Her hands tremble as in vain,
she tries to snip and trim.
Desperate measures to regain the beauty from her mind,
with unhelpful uncoordinated limbs.
Each day committed she treads the garden path,
into the gardens midst.
Wrinkled eyes adoring the last upstanding rose,
who continues to persist.
A full can sprinkled each day by trembled wrist,
intent on feeding it with love.
Scarlet periapt resplendence, which once the garden
in its entirety was reminiscent of.
Brambles snag her petticoat,
Tugging at her frail frame in a tug of war.
Yet refusing a helping hand she proudly remembers,
how beautiful her garden sang and the melody of both their core.
The old lady existing for these moments,
to which they are juxtapose.
Existing upon each others love,
the old lady and the garden rose.
©Helen Mackenzie
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
sleep hangs in the air over my head
until it bolts and breaks the steep drop
from the window down to the city below
where light swarms around the sprawl
brilliant enough to cut through the thick cover of night that settles over it at this time
argus eyes Newark as it refuses rest
turns up its nose at the inclination
struggles under the spread and smother of last phase
pearls its flare as a periapt
and loudens its whirs and sighs
from public transit and its smoking tires
as halogen headlights bleed well through highway treelines
so I'll stave off another tryst with sleep
whatever romance tossed to Jersey's smog-laden wind
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 2:09 AM UTC
The periapt otiose stone helotage that the tactiturn builders
Rejected at Golgotha, bode the heart of Heaven has now
Become the corner-stone henting the regal worm of worms
With temerity of the spire of spires; And they look ignominious
Upon the necromancer that they pierced testifying a vision of
Living beings, a saviour, an insuperable scorned man,
The maxim of kings, the miracle man of blood and water
Invidiously feeling despised crying out loud;
''Eloi, Eloi, Lema Sabachthani'',
Whom the ill-starred crucified and divided purloin his robes
At the rolling of dice. Yet still God raised from death much alike
The Nazarene himself had disintered Lazarus, resurrecting after
Four days his friend buried at Bethany; alike too Tabitha
Which (Simon), Peter, presented before the widows and believers
commanding alive in the name of the Almighty Holy Lord
From the clutches of the darkened Sun, clinging to the
Dark side of the moon within a star-less sky
Annointed the way to the Father.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 9:35 PM UTC