"purveyor" poems
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
coloring inside the lines is impossibly bleak,
with a hissing noise
atomic locomotive
rounds the bend,
extrasensory perception is not
a mindless gift,
it's a train station in the clouds,
tracking all my starting points to you,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
you leave in opera
with secrets and grievances
under the radar,
and your ready-made
wings catch in the power lines,
you're coiling like smoke
in the arches of my cathedral,
a sense of elegant decay
while sweeping up the debris,
committing arson
with the paraffin of my temporal lobe.
yesterday's fairground waltzes,
ghosted lullabies,
and woodland hymnals,
set in a context not of
resolution and closure,
but of contradiction and assimilation,
break the bond,
away they float on purveyor belts,
one too many molecules,
one too many departures,
always on the surface of everything,
nothing in the middle,
nothing at the end.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 7:27 AM UTC
I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
You've been together for almost a month now
It's time that you shared this with friends
But, beware of the wolf in sheeps clothing
Because this is how most friendships end
You feel it is time to expose him
To your friends and to let them all in
But, beware of the wolf in sheeps clothing
He's the original purveyor of sin
You've opened the door to the hen house
There's a fox running lose in the pen
You opened the door to the hen house
He will feast and return to his den
You opened the door to the hen house
You've let him meet your girl friend
You opened the door to the hen house
Now the fox will run wild till the end
Your girlfriends all think he is ****
He laughs when they laugh and you too
But, do you know of this wolf in sheeps clothing
and just exactly what he plans to do
He flirts and he turns down advances
He smiles and he's light on his feet
but remember the wolf in sheeps clothing
Is busy picking which one he shall eat
You've opened the door to the hen house
There's a fox running lose in the pen
You opened the door to the hen house
He will feast and return to his den
You opened the door to the hen house
You've let him meet your girl friend
You opened the door to the hen house
Now the fox will run wild till the end
He may be the one you've been wanting
But, in truth, he's not really the one
Deep down, he's a wolf in sheeps clothing
And he's only out looking for fun
He fooled you and used you for pleasure
He'll move on, when you say settle down
Remember, he's a wolf in sheeps clothing
He's the king and he wears the crown
You've opened the door to the hen house
There's a fox running lose in the pen
You opened the door to the hen house
He will feast and return to his den
You opened the door to the hen house
You've let him meet your girl friend
You opened the door to the hen house
Now the fox will run wild till the end
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Snuggy ****** of a curled up cat by
the fire
Furry faced, smiley headed, svelte
purveyor of the big meow
Purring away like a Geiger counter,
If you seek Nirvana then seek no
more, it's here
The Cat, she knows.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
Three dead birds on highway squashed,
Roadway washed with corpses discarded as carrion,
To be chewed upon by companions in a world of brothers,
In a world of blood and guts,
A lone magpie was seen,
A sure purveyor of doom,
Gloom and sorrow,
For birdies splattered,
No tomorrow,
Perhaps they saw him too,
Didn't show him due respect,
They'll never know if they had regrets!
Livvi Kent 09/06/2013
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
Smoking American Spirits
Like that name is not sickly ironic
As I watch the moon
And blow your name
Out through my teeth.
After all of it
I still can’t decide
If I’m happy that you’re happy
Or hate you for leaving me
In the cold to gape
At a barren rock.
The moon is a visceral spirit,
Pundit of creation myths,
Vaudevillian purveyor
Of heavy handed profundity,
Reflects the sun
When nothing else can,
Means so much to so many;
The moon is an entropic
Collusion of earth-chunk
That happens to orbit us,
Objectively meaningless,
Communicating with the ocean
As ants ***** chemicals
Into each others mouths to converse.
Staring together up into
The gaping gnash of space,
Humans give the moon its meaning
Just as two people falling in love
Forever inhabit midsummer nights
'Till one leaves in a haze
Of evaporating brain chemistry.
I really am happy you’re happy,
Because I really do love you
Even after everything,
And I really do hate you
Because it hurts so much
And you were so selfish,
Go **** yourself,
Why can't I feel both?
Just this silly girl,
Just two broken people,
Look at what we made Chlo,
It's hanging in the sky
Strung up with used filaments.
I love you and hate you still
Because knowing the moon
Is a barren rock
Makes what it has become
Incandescently, infinitely beautiful.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
The many voices of the evening
gramophone the sky voice the cell phone
the tablet the notebook, that monotone
observer of mutations purveyor of maladies
the persistence of memories, pale pink light sink
burning in the fires lighting up the skies
an old pang, smitten clang, the pain balm
mug-life, pen-knife, kettle-strife, all the sheaves
them echo-songs that haunt the drill-wells
that are cut wounded and wear fetching
chants, to an yearning oblation
bay leaf, curry leaf, yes, them colander coriander
there's a rhyme of charlies, looping from
our holy wars to now our holy hours with
the ombudsman, the omniman, the only God
who used to thunder for the ****
old Zeus, the Lord of Betelgeuse, him who we
called dead, exhumation, exculpation, exaltation
an ancient loneliness that calls from the nether
depths, now science, now freedom, now pagan.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
I want to write you a poem concerning how I feel.
It has to come across as meaningful and real.
So I wrote a little bit about my gratitude for plumbing.
Praising pipes and faucets just sets my fingers strumming.
Then I thought this wasn't good and to this make amends.
So I started out on lust, counting down my favorite sins.
What am I? A charlitain? A purveyor of filth and ****
Someone who speaks of things he wants to stick up in your ****
No my dear tis not the case at least not this time around.
I'd rather set your mind to ease not run your ship aground.
So let's start by whispering something soft meant to ease.
You can use my sleeve to wipe your nose should you ever sneeze.
Wasn't that not good enough? A little gross for your taste?
Let try to redeem myself I promise I'll make haste.
She approaches draped in honey surrounded by an amber glow.
Knowing things I can assure, you may not want to know.
Like the sun was to Icarus it is her smile that melts my heart.
Without her works to inspire I wouldn't know where to start.
So it's her you have to blame if it's this line you do not like.
I gotta warn ya, if she likes, I'll put your head upon a spike.
Lips like fire smoldering under eyes an emerald green.
Yes I know I got it wrong Todd my eyes aren't so keen.
I'd like to say in closing a great many things.
To spout a song so beautiful like the first few days of spring.
But alas I'll fail you and end this ridiculousness.
By saying I adore you and I need to take a ****
So tis here I leave you but never for much too long.
I'll cross your mind again one day when you hear my favorite song.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
Cloaked by the veil of night I ready myself for what is to come. Fear is not recognized on this side
of the shroud, for it is this fear that is my most useful and treasured tool.
Footsteps approach the alleyway, I see my target pace forward towards his end, illuminated most
benevolently by the blush of his own burning cigarette end.
In his own world he lays claim to control and intimidation, a brave and dangerous man by his own
words. Words I shall later configure to be truth or allegory.
It is a simple matter to terrify someone prone to be terrified, is a different course to set the same
action upon he who does usually initiate the afor-mentioned phrase.
As the victim looks up into the eyes of this purveyor of violence I suspect it true that fear is well
presented to his visual inspection and it goes without saying it adds to his delight.
I imagine in other venues the same is said of myself but I would very much disagree with this
evaluation. Fear, Intimidation is not what I represent, they are just tools in an arsenal, I am just
simply here to reek good old honest revenge..
You do the deed, you pay the price, Simple as that. No forgiveness passes through this alley-way
this night, just utter, complete and total retribution. A gift from me to all those whom have been
bitten.
As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you will indeed fear evil, for I art with thee
and this rod of correction is indeed not one of comfort
The scatter of burnt ash bouncing off the alley wall signifies the conclusion of any remaining
illumination as he throws the **** of his cigarette away, darkness prevails once again.
As I strike, screams of pain shatter the silence and echo through the narrow passageway. The
****** body of this victim slumps unceremoniously alongside garbage bags, a fitting end for such
*******
True and honest folk can breathe a sigh of relief, to them I am vigilant. If you swing the other way
however, BEWARE.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
I am a purveyor of sin
sins the things which define us
which mark our character
and make us human
give me your sins
your ***** little secrets
too overwhelming for many mortal ears
give me confessions of lust
and passion
and rage
and jealousy
and I will give you beautiful stories
of times when sin saved the day
gave life to the mundane
give me your lies
the whopping big ones
just know that I have built my house out of lies
and am no stranger to their seductive ways
give me your dreams which became nightmares
your shame
your darkness
give me the parts of you
most people would never see
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Well hello, all, I’m your maestro ceremonious
they call me Lokonious, purveyor of the odious
so sit back, relax, and celebrate the… atonalness?
A: Andante con fuoco
We’re goin’ a cappella so let me say first
your style’s ba-roke, now let’s get on with the verse
you’re all up in the scale with a falsetto pitch
hittin’ soprano like a castrato *****
my mind is sharp, while you’re stuck outta key
my rhythm’s all natural, you can’t find a beat
you need some help ’cause you’re out on your own
find that ****** on a subway, the metro-nome
B: Allegro con brio
throw down the fermata and hold up a minute
your ***** a cacophony, no way to spin it
and son, i ain’t broke, my style’s all classical
you just can’t register that my words are magical
I spit rhymes in fantasy, can’t you see that you’re beat?
And they thought an allegro was unfit for elegy
A: Moderato col legno
well as for your girl, it may sound corny
the ***** loves my brass ’cause she’s: oh so *****
dispel your illusion, i got one more
your girl’s like a crime show… easy to score
B: Allegretto grazioso
your intellect is minor and your insults are bassless
your composition’s hardly a harmony: graceless
your cymbalism’s trite, and your motif’s unknown
an unfocused opus full of dissonant drones
A: Affrettando agitato
get out my face with your unnatural rap
you spit cold air and your lyrics are flat
you’ve got no harm while my canon’s a gat
so work on your refrain, ‘fore I bust da cap-OOOHHHHH
B: Coda
pull your weak crap, ’cause you’re outta your mode
such imperfect rhymes that we’re calling a cod-a
no time for the fanfare, you’re trying my patience
an end to your requiem, bring out the cadence
So that’s their story, best not get involved
their fight’s an augmented fourth: difficult to resolve
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
*Draw hither golden blade , brother to sassafras and veronica
Purveyor of delicate , sanguine architects in pastoral visage
Of ebony cloth cooling evergreen shadows within -
Rosin incense , spearmint infused morning dew seasoning
o'er felled timber escarpments , Summer rain infusions of
petit , lavender violet corsage and August whimsy
Petrichor , Persimmon Clover bouquets , juvenile , song filled
brook-sides , poetic diamond studded sandbars , Chattahoochee
Crayfish , Shellcracker , Blue Heron land of Creek and Cherokee
fathers
Of Towaliga , Bear , Moccasin , Indian streams
Emerald swept low country isles , songbird arbors , peridot waterways
beside whitewashed shoreline* ...
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
She floats above the poems
Sprinkling dust between the lines
Starting off a gentle flow
Of rhythm mixed with rhyme
She is the fairy of the poetic dust
The moment in the making
Where magic comes together
The desire she's always craving
With a flapping of her wings
Comes a flipping of the page
Helping the writers mind to see
What it is they need to say
She smiles at all the writings
The truth in what they're saying
She rings the Bells of Righteousness
On those she feels needs saving
She is the fairy of the poetic dust
The purveyor of the pen
Keeps the writings of the day
Moving out and moving in
As she floats above the poems
Sprinkling dust between the lines
Starting off a gentle flow
Of rhythm mixed with rhyme
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
Anopheles
Syringe aloft
Intone a twining tune to tempting ear.
By day
Mosquito
Hide incognito;
At night take flight,
Seek heat of vein to slake maternal craving.
Femme fatale
Fly ****** dance,
Alight let lance sip sanguine feast:
Soft kiss to ruddy cheek -- know taste of rouge.
Instill perchance live issuance
O harbinger of bad air,
Purveyor of fever,
Anathema of armies,
Ill missile of men made canals,
Evocation to slavery and Silent Spring.
Subtle touch to pulse of humanity:
Innocent tender to misery --
You mock our pride
In twining tune
Anopheles.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Only here till’ morning, so the night’s an open road and,
the beaten path only leads to mourning. An off-road traveler,
who escapes the chase of a pursuant sun.
Slow walking through river reeds.
A cupped handful of running water reinforces his state of being;
all but free.
Marathon of miles between, the first date on his gravestone and
the last number his mother reads at the bottom of his eulogy.
The hyphen shorthand for life and,
Missing the meaning through the seams, that connect his first day
to the day he leaves. An often-bereaved purveyor of shattered dreams,
Who stops to smile at every waving tree because,
even in despair he found belief beneath
the bared teeth of the machine trying to syphon from his peace.
A flower born from concrete.
Escaping through the cracked city streets;
out past the horizon line.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 10:12 PM UTC
*Good morning Mary Ellen , you are absolutely right .. Depression shouldn't be the focal point in a beautiful life .. Confusion easily disappears while holding hands with your best friend .. You've returned me to the miracle of creative afternoons with virtually no end ..
When you touch me it makes me want to cry .. As I implore of you to understand my darker side your eyes irradiate my night ..
All the beauty in this world returns my heart to your window ..
I've great comfort as your voice brightens my soul , solace unlike anything I've ever known ..
The joy of Winter constellations that explain the cold sky , the companionship of my dreams purveyor ,
the Muse of a wondrous poetic new life* ..
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
Enchanting twilight hour-this is!
A Tiger spider of lethal
allurement,she is basking on
this hour's sweet ambivalence,
while,drinking me with her eyes --intense.
To be her mere companion
for the night,or be the purveyor
of delight to her continuing forever?
A choice depends upon her
kaleidoscopic predilections,
than me a hunter in a disguise,
a time traveler from far galaxies.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
Biology was their favorite subject
The frog pinned
to the polyurethane
grinned
a mask of death
But the smile was wider
to those that wielded the scalpel
the cut so precise
to examine the internal organs
exposed beneath a bated breath
Lycaenidae, Nymphalidae,
Papilionidae, Pieridae, Riodinidae
They are all butterflies
but they become one by the sword
the sharp taste of steel
that bound them, spread eagled
beneath the smile of their Lord
beneath their Lucite coffin
they never become bored
Ancient bones of ancient beings
beg to be laid to rest
beside all those that
fall close to extinction
because they have been there
and done that
and are now displayed
in their very finest
Trophies that line the walls
behind glass and whispers in the hall
A hushed reverence that is displayed
while the suit walks tall
wondering why
we should be a hater
When all he has done is preserve
a world gone mad and has come undone
Like the bones of his first victims
he brings life back
in a macabre display
He stands tall, but walks alone
yesterday
a Serial Killer
today
a Museum Curator
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
She opines a parable of the heart of Appalachia , wooden instrument , with goose quill adding song to the immense beauty of this great land , familiar as the cry of whippoorwills at dusk is the dulcimer ,
captivating , raw emotional purveyor of mountain folklore ........
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
I sat on the edge of my bed seeking wisdom
but I had lost any semblance of faith
this was my only truth
I was of a lost generation
one devoid of hope and light
behind me flowed a lazy river
I placed my hand onto a book of faith
praying it would grant me wisdom
reaching over I turned on the light
and listened to the running river
thinking about the failings of my generation
and if any of us new the truth
what will become of my generation
are we blind to the light…
too apathetic for the truth…
too hip to recognize wisdom
once again my attention was drawn to the river
one of the few things in which I had faith
I closed my eyes trying to remember the truth
or if I had ever known wisdom
were there any in my generation
able to truly hold onto faith
shimmering sunlight danced across the ripples of the river
and I shut off the light
soothed by the peaceful sounds of the river
a calmness wrapped my body in warm light
a knowing came over me for the next generation
cosmic radiation was bringing humanity a new wisdom
dawn was breaking and with it a new truth
within ourselves was the only key to faith
this feeling passed with the fading light
but within me stayed this truth
maybe I was the voice of my generation
the purveyor of a brand new wisdom
the one to impart hope and faith
on the masses of humanity flowing like a river
the wisdom of humanity is tainted by faith
the truth changes with each new generation
we are all sparking light dancing across the cosmic river
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
I watched the city disappear, then
watched it re-emerge from the night sky,
dabs of watercolor on a surface gathering pigment
I hummed and watched myself shudder and stumble and balk because,
(and I want to sit you down and tell you this
somber eyes, twisted fingertips)
I loved deeply, completely, and I crawled down the steps
of letting anything and everything go;
I moved on, I moved away, but I lacked the strength to disintegrate
the questions pooling in the bottom of my gall bladder
"well what if
would you..."
I was different then, I fell so delightedly!
but things did so hurt, time stole the breath from my throat
and I soaked my pillows so thoroughly I drowned.
I want you to know that,
I want you to know that I have had my heart broken violently
and softly (and perhaps that was worse)
I have loved and I have ****** and I have watched a boy like you fade into the sunset.
pacing through the motions:
feeling bright, content
things are new and better but
I'm capturing unextraordinary in all the traps I set for bliss,
like a maze I'm losing where all the dead ends say
unremarkable
and screaming at the walls
"start feeling, you ****
because I have sweet and loving and caring but I find myself craving
the instances I hated when he would spit fire
and I would burn bright, because I am a purveyor of highs and lows and I
just feel flat.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Tree ,oh heavenly shade .
what a peace i delight within thy shadow.
when my heart runs heavy with hollow .
when i dread in pain and feel sad .
under thee with thy boughs and branches .
you console me in peace and great is my reaches .
upon thy up turn root i set down and dream .
and for real all my world now seems .
tree what a beauty concealed in mighty .
tree what flowered fragrance and pretty .
rises mighty from and up over the ground .
you look heavenly decorum and ever so grand .
useful tree and serviceable natural gift .
house of holly and living worship of angel .
what a murmur of thee when i deem thee clam.
the praise of thy boughs are great charm .
where will i escape from the hellish agony .
if not a drip from thy refreshing and wholly .
with thee stand my shelter and i sink myself in peace.
what a strength from a tiny seed at its self ease .
tree is always nothing but three .
under thee is held much parleys .
mingled with mighty chorus duly .
of splendid birds in crimson hue at peace .
tree, great purveyor of the hole universe .
endless deemed praise of grace .
tree is always nothing but three.
peace maker of all broken sweet siree.
under thee they stand two sweet hearts .
in pain and all but also in waist .
the lyrics deem hard and also practically unheeded.
they struggle for love , they lured for lead .
the love reel and nothing but discord stands .
sudden collapse in lament but consequent wreck.
the love recital seems an old rotten chorus of trumpet.
therein thy breeze whirls but in sweet pace a bet .
never an end_ never an end _ at least not under my care .
you reach forth then thy cheerful fragrance ajar .
you out fine decorum of thy rich stature .
and set forward then a song in winning pleading allure .
through the young man and lady 's heart it settle in and dwell .
both their orbs shine in communal understanding so well .
their faces lighten ,their cheek flush , their heart call .
in unison for life and forever love in peace they fall .
a hug as tight and a kiss as tender as ever feels .
and from above thy boughs rain down is sweet withered .
washed them across and drop down as married flowered.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC