"prussian" poems
#*The Arabian Sea
A sprightly sight to behold
The cascading Sunbeams veil the sea in a platinum shimmer
The gusty wind blows
Sparkling diamonds roll up on the ocean waves
The golden Sun unravels the beauty of the bejewelled Sea
The picturesque Mumbai Skyline
Gloriously, rises up in the evening Sky
The mellowed Sun ,beauteous as an orange Rose
Leisurely dips down at the horizon
The Sky cools down to Prussian blue
The stars glimmer across the sky in the dim lights
It's showtime
Bedazzled
I quietly sit and watch the magical scenes unfold*#
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
To write of Love, of Heaven, and of God,
Hills of joy, o'er which Angel pursued
Of that Boy, a sublime hippie shepherd,
Who in Heart the wisdom of Heaven had,
My pen, it labours, I give sweat and blood,
To paint world in cerise, a sweet red flood:
Or Prussian blue, depending on the scene,
Let Poets tell true folk from chess piece Kings,
Feign benevolence, when they are mean,
Who strut and rule above, superior things,
Who on the carcass of the suffering wean,
Drunk on power, Almighty sovereigns.
To write of Love, Heaven, apart from days,
Spent in drudgery at whim of Lords,
Who sit engorged by gold, wealth as they graze,
Upon the fruits yield by the mass, that horde,
As mass toil deep 'neath sun's sweltering rays,
To give and barter time they can't afford.
But they will be the ones in Heaven crowned,
As all time vindicates the plight of souls,
Who in port, or wine, have never drowned,
Rich gluttony the faithful mind abhors,
Upon which Saints and angels incensed frown,
So to tyrant's whims take pious war.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:39 AM UTC
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
I now delight
In spite
Of the might
And the right
Of classic tradition,
In writing
And reciting
Straight ahead,
Without let or omission,
Just any little rhyme
In any little time
That runs in my head;
Because, I’ve said,
My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed
Like Prussian soldiers on parade
That march,
Stiff as starch,
Foot to foot,
Boot to boot,
Blade to blade,
Button to button,
Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.
No! No!
My rhymes must go
Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,
Twinkling, frosty,
Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;
Rhymes I will make
Like Keats and Blake
And Christina Rossetti,
With run and ripple and shake.
How pretty
To take
A merry little rhyme
In a jolly little time
And poke it,
And choke it,
Change it, arrange it,
Straight-lace it, deface it,
Pleat it with pleats,
Sheet it with sheets
Of empty conceits,
And chop and chew,
And hack and hew,
And weld it into a uniform stanza,
And evolve a neat,
Complacent, complete,
Academic extravaganza!
3.1k
Naples yellow
Prussian blue
Burnt umber
Cadmium Red Deep
Napthol Red
Quinacridone
Phtalocionine Blue and Green
Portrait Pink Light
Yellow Oxide
Raw Sienna
Can you make a painting without these?
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:29 PM UTC
You asked the color of my dreams.
In sleep, my eyes have sought
The inky black of raven lashes.
Starry nights and sooty ashes.
Prussian blue of fading violets
Indigo of clouds and silence
Beryl skies and turquoise seas
Blue-green waters of the deep
Peacock feathers of emerald green
Mossy dells of faery queens
Fields of wheat and brilliant suns
Amber gold in mid-autumns
Coral reefs and salmon streams
Marmalade and tangerines
Auburn sunsets, titian lips
Hennaed hands and fingertips
Blushing brides and rosy cheeks
Pink hued walls and white topped peaks
Silver moons and crystal nights
Downy geese in graceful flight
Ask not the color of my dreams
The question is not whole;
Deep within my rainbow’d sleep
Lies the color of my soul.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
I hope I see the moon in the British Aisles
So I can imagine myself staring from home.
I hope I see the moon from Belgium
as I imagine the old lover I will never forget gazing, exhausted, from Uxbridge.
I hope I seee the moon from Paris
so I can imagine the millenia of poets and I-love-you-till-it-kills-me romancers gazing from French cafes, sipping on their
wine, coffee, tea
and I think of great friends in Victoria, glancing towards it from busses 9 hours later on a commute to Uptown
Downtown
what town?
I hope I see the moon from Vancouver
so I can imagine child-me watching the white of the cheese-like craters wondering nothing
but so, so very curious.
I hope I see the moon from Toronto
past smog and spring-time city shadows
so I can imagine the short-lived friends I made in Ottawa looking to it with awe and smiles
grasping the fingers of a loved one.
Everytime I see that great omnipotent orb I imagine
Marcus Aurelius in the court of Rome
Julius Caesar on the battlefields of Gaul
Charlemagne crossing the Rhine
St. Augustine marching through the desert
Micochondrial Adam tossing a spear into the heart of a boar
Soldiers of the American Revolution
the British war for South Africa
the Prussian Empire
the Third *****
Siddhartha and his son
Li Po hugging his moonlit reflection
Han Shan on cold mountain
Kerouac in San Francisco
Burroughs in Morocco
Snyder in Japan
Thomas walking to work
Brian out on a stroll
My future life lover
future girlfriends
all gazing at that wonderful omnipotent moon
the same moon
that gazes so still
so patient
forever
as far as
I'm concerned.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 5:23 PM UTC
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
shuffled quietly into the busy day
transit thru layers of faces
and the thousand random sounds
meant to distract
but i keep pen to page till image surfaces
and words flow however uneven
almost seems like my poems are crossing roads
only every other phrase survives to the page
the rest lay unadorned baking in some
unrelenting internal sun
like roadkill my thoughts
strange and laughing
like prussian soldiers aligned wait for
the drunken magician to send
them charging into battle marching
lockstep backwards
they are sure to be slain
but they know they will be resurrected
later in my life as some odd little ditty
about some random babylon nubile kitten
**** and sweating at the door
looking for a fresh spike
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
the boat rocks slowly in the waves
and there on this un-named atoll lay the wreck of
some long beached sloop
her mast snapped in some long forgotten storm
and the poem i labored to give birth to
surrenders to such an image
of loss and forlorn dreams
goodnight my love
goodnight and sleep well iv got the watch
and nothing shall disturb
no storm nor pirate shall approach unheeded
lay back and dream of my poems to you
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
so i close my book and put aside my worn pen
for the night
take the tiller
and make haste for open sea
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Colours buy silence.
I publicly deny Prussian Blue was my first,
the colour of a Paratrooper
but my Lover bequested the time.
I subterfuge the lower end scale of green,
like hopeless moss
coilling my Adversaries dreams
I am sunk with a kiss -
deeper than quagmire
she will obtuse my decree,
home is the tireless winds
further than the cut of her high cheekbones
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours
approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry
a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation
you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust
whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension
which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Ancient wars and potatoes
It is the biggest potato farm in the world,
a giant field of tubers as far as eyes can see;
new potatoes boiled with a pat of butter; delicious, no need to slam in a lamb.
Once a battlefield thousands of Russians and
Germans soldiers bled to death here the soil grew fertile,
absorbed all flesh only bones and uniform buttons left.
The soldiers didn’t die in vain, saved from old age debilities, Alzheimer,
renal diseases, hip replacement and triple bypass.
I found a rusty gun, a German Luger pistol it fell to pieces in my hand,
bullets inside still intact, owned by
an officer telling his men to die like Prussian heroes.
Long furrows of edible tubers, made into fries, full of fat,
grandchildren of dead soldiers are obese and only fight virtual games.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC
Screams my soul, my heart, my mind
Looking for possibilities of every kind.
Beneath the stars and sky Prussian Blue,
My questions linger, finding answers few.
To be or not to be,
Is life a facade or is it just me?
Fixing puzzles with edges rounded,
Spaces left unfilled and unmounted.
Pulls us, the Earth, a magnet strong,
Away from the right , towards the wrong.
A gruesome character each soul wears,
In the cosmic world no one cares.
Lost souls in this alluring world,
Each moment find possibilities, hurled.
Make me a feather or a stone,
For I came alone and I shall leave alone.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
If the skies would break out tonight,
you will see the fury--
silver white streaks across the prussian blue,
that every once in a while,
the night too,
shall give in.
The rain rips through my turpentine roof,
splitting the cold raindrops on my forehead,
while somewhere across the city,
two lovers meet under the canopy
of a shared umbrella.
They will eventually get out of the rain
that brought them together
and reach across the surfaces
for hands in the darkness.
And get into a car,
drive away,
forgetting everything else.
Lightning strikes,
thunder roars.
They get scared,
the driver flinches
the car screeches
and I lose the only one I have.
The car swivels,
hits the one on the road before,
a flash of light
and into the one forever.
Headlight.
Heaven.
They will drive away
from the rain that brought them together,
while I will still stand there
in the rain that took away
the love of a forgotten man.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
(tripping gracefully over her gory visage,
she bashfully, covertly unveils her
untruthful veracity,
invisible in all things seen)
her phantom form surrounds me and
slides her arm between my lips, into my mouth
finger - after - finger;
i slowly swallow her whole
(she leaves me no other choice)
the quick fog forming in my eyes
threatens to spill
(i think it does)
i choke, my teeth grazing her entangled marble limbs.
my once untarnished tower of a neck
now a blemished python, bruised by suffocation
finger-painting, hand-print impressionism in
russian red and prussian blue and palatinate purple
my angry lungs drink her in
the space between my thoughts and veins becomes considerably smaller.
(i am crowded,
i am
o
ver
whelmed.)
exhausted, i gasp for words
but those too have left me a while ago,
when her impact carved that permanent indent on my chest:
i can never rest.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.
Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.
The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.
The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.
The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.
Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.
Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.
Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo
Jun 5, 2024
Jun 5, 2024 at 1:19 PM UTC
blind promises lead to
a bruise festering beneath
stifled utterances and apologies
prerequisites for templates
of things never meant
but nevertheless
permanent
charred ochre and Prussian blue
churn into an acrylic wound
cringing
mesmerizing
all the ways to gouge into silence
just to purge verses that sound like
Not next time, I swear
I guess this is what they meant by
abstract
I should’ve listened
when I heard from a backdrop
that perfection is silent
behind clouds of luminescent cataracts
gushing
scorning
what has yet to be illuminated
but all this talk of perfection
makes me want to burn at the stake
there must be something
to ruin or save
because sacreligion isn’t free
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
this September may rain embrace
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
may rain embrace your cristal voice
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
deep buried in the bluish sky, clouds of forgiving dew
pour silence into nothingness
may rain embrace your skull, your bones
soft as thin paper lost beneath the ground
soft as a kiss your mouth once moaned upon my lips
and never found again poison as sweet
deep buried in the Prussian field the bluish corpse
dissolves itself under the stars
this September may rain embrace
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
may rain embrace your cristal voice
your shallow skull, your wounded smile
Sep 28, 2021
Sep 28, 2021 at 4:15 PM UTC
Prana flows through me like springtime,
Prussian blue glass jewels the coral sand.
I discover a life to claim as mine,
In a space of grace beyond time.
I bathe in Dead Sea salt and Spanish lime,
By candlelight Amadeus plays a baby grand.
In a space of grace beyond time,
I discover a life to claim as mine.
Crystal stairs illuminate the climb,
Old souls are close at hand.
I discover a life to claim as mine,
In a space of grace beyond time.
Dreams conceived in my prime,
Strong in faith, I stand.
In a space of grace beyond time,
I discover a life to claim as mine.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Am I your rose?
A unique love under the bell jar?
I look at you, You look at me
Your prussian blue eyes
Pierce my being
A love that is ethereal,
Divinely orchestrated
A symphony of sweet surrender
The Angels sing I love you
Come to your rose,
Tend to me
I am no common rose
I am your rose,
I am unique in all the world,
Because of the time you have wasted on me.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
Here I set with nothing to do
Dreaming about your eyes of blue
So many things you and I can do
But all I want is to make love to you
All day long I dream of you
How pleasing you look in navy blue
My heart jumps when I look at you
Have I told you I want to make love to you
My heart bounces around like a kangaroo
It's only you that I want to pursue
Lay you down in sheets of powder blue
All night long I want to make love to you
We could run away to Timbuktu
Or maybe even go to Katmandu
Wear lingerie that is Prussian blue
Anywhere I want to make love to you
I will always come through
Stormy sky's of iron blue
I don't have to make love to you
I just want to be next to you
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
You didn't deserve what you got
Because while others forgot
I remembered the girl with flowers
Ingrained in her hair of umber.
Nobody told me that one day you would disappear,
Not from death, but from birth as those who swore to their saviour,
Held you pinned to the dish as you soon found out
There are places where even god won't go.
I can't explain the broken pieces of my heart
Laid between you and I as I saw you, fragmented as well.
Gone was the girl who believed in the good of just being,
Tied to the father who now played the role as the cross.
People ask why religion is a sore spot for me.
Before I could raise myself to speak I remember what
The umber-haired atheist in the Prussian hoodie said in grade five:
"Sometimes life just freakin' *****
It's been 10 years since I saw you, and you didn't move away.
I heard from a friend of a friend that you had a son now,
A son who also happened to be your brother.
Your son being your brother and your father being his.
My friend told me you said he was born in the name of god.
I just wish you were still just my friend named Claire.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 2:51 PM UTC
A-walking on a wormwood path
that’s paved by age’s cobblestones
on past a palace of distant past
in a Prussian park, a mind unthroned.
He walked, a shadow
through the foggy night,
his pulse beat faint and shallow
as the pale and fitful light.
In the lace of this quicksilver mist,
a fellow shade now walked along.
She emerged from dark, adrift
like him. They hummed the same black song.
In what had been a pitiless pit
of icy fog and stony walks,
she was there as if summoned by fate’s writ.
In whispers, she and he began to talk.
They shared their bleak
and tattered tales
to raise the wreck
of where they’d failed.
And as they talked
their once distant light
began to shine
out in that night.
Here in their pale of desolation,
two kindred shades touch shadowed hands
and in their touch found consolation
to rekindle light in benighted lands.
Jan 7, 2025
Jan 7, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC