"ravelling" poems
219
She sweeps with many-colored Brooms—
And leaves the Shreds behind—
Oh Housewife in the Evening West—
Come back, and dust the Pond!
You dropped a Purple Ravelling in—
You dropped an Amber thread—
And how you’ve littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!
And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars—
And then I come away—
4.6k
the world is flown
and i sleep beside you wed
our mossy appetite has become cleaved
a sleeve running between us on this bed
a warm hum the pores pipe open
intimacy issues forth traversing the gap
intelligence sliding slack and froth
like moist candy-floss icking and tearing
our shared dream
our powerful phantom
gussy travellers
ravelling in sheets of smoky sea
grey/green misting of the memory gland
gathering up dead celebrity
tuning structures to our jubilee
re-creation in a vibe theatre
we're partners conducting our behaviour
for a grand flotsam revelry
dizzed up and narcotic
no doubt ; we are unreal
it is the neon hour...
i flicker
feeling the rushing of your warm system
i feel weather speed over our bodies
striping and refreshing the energy
in the oil light blinking i see you
scar beauty over the berths' landscape
you turn the body over and illuminate the eyes
you are if to say "plug back in to our shared motion"
"we could be imperishable"
"i cannot return without my inconsiderate spouse"
you brush my hand which fizzes
and i clothe my eyes
re-enter our developing potion
within our great mouths feed alike
our dual nature is a shared gratification within
Feb 2, 2023
Feb 2, 2023 at 11:47 AM UTC
In the beginning it was fine
When I played it the first few times
I grew old and weary
Losing a bit of me
Lending this game most of my precious time
Not knowing this will lead to my...
Envy-because my highscore is 8
Vengeance- because the pain is too much
Enragement- because my highscore is 8
Rotteness-because I've been playing all day
Probably I will stop,
Letting go is a choice,
Allowing this game to control me should be no more
Yes! I should never play again but...
I need to try it once more
Travelling the pipes of legend
Again and again I fail
Gone is all my efforts
Atrocious this game is
I conclude
No...
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Her countenance,
had long given up the ghost
Twilight tried to allay the ravelling .
She needed resilience,
for those fiery Sunday visits
endured by her confused Son.
Trumping by prevarication,
until no more, she retorted.
Her honeysuckle dreams
turn ramshackle.
Those plumes of bonfire smoke
before and the after, differ now
on contrite compost.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
I've caught this instant - firmly, by the
Tailfeathers. Plucked in darting flight and
Iridescent in the hollow of my hand, sheer
Primacy is utterly intoxicating me.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
On cushioned leather, gently he sits warm;
The window pane faces outside a stirring storm,
Slashed by the whip of rain; protected and cosy
And on imaginative waves, he set sail for Poesy;
Ravelling loose the canvas towards the sky.
With puffy cheeks heavy clouds shed tears,
They grieve wailing cries of moan to tremble ears.
Lightning flashes their woes within his eye,
While Nature's war rages with immense force on high.
Walls built from grimy hands, mother his being;
And with clever mind radiates, heating his breathing.
Ruled by ferocity the wind reveals cold night,
But with tuneful company, his fire burns bright
Miles from the poverty of a starving child,
Which suffers the chilly bite too often; bitter hunger
Greets no fresh grain. Releasing strikes of thunder,
The storm brews the air savage and wild;
At that moment he was well-aware Fortune on him smiled.
So, safe, he stroked the lyre, and with chaos outside
Creating swirling motions of a rodeos hectic ride,
His muses appear, gifting comfort with song; snug
And peaceful, their tender beats, present a loving hug
Which to his soul, stretches far away from harm.
Swiftly his notes return with pace, showing illusion
That duly-matches the flaming intensity of the sun,
When it gallops heaven, in handsome charm,
Bringing with it, searing light, no fear for any alarm.
His gentle maids move him, but weak was his heart,
Deep within his breast, sweet tunes told of Loves art;
No matter where you reside human trouble exists.
Standing close by, a figure as real as Styx's mists,
Touches his neck; he feels stench Ignorance's creep.
Down his spine, all over, upon his shoulders
Add to strong weight, mimicking the boulders,
Which must be pushed aloft on ridges steep
On mount Purgatory; and finally th' storm makes him weep.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:30 PM UTC
He was leaning against the wall, backed up
And staring through fumes of gin and whiskey,
Glaring at all the toffs, dressed up
And ravelling through his sordid history.
But never a sense of ‘us’ with him
He was more like a raging arcane animal,
Caught and caged, as they looked right in
To poke and pry at his painted trammel.
Oils and charcoals, water colours,
Pinned like an insect by their gazing,
Pointing fingers would **** his skin
Pick through his pockets, grinning, gaping.
What would they know of his woods and fields,
The towering oak, or the dew at dawning?
Only the light that a lamp post yields
In the mean streets when the world is yawning.
Theirs was a world of tile and brick
Of diesel fumes and the rail line snaking,
His were the hills of hay and rick
The tumbledown cot and the farmer, raking.
‘What did you bring me here to spill?’
He said to the shyster gallery owner,
‘There’s nothing you couldn’t print at will
With a Laser print, and a barrel of toner.’
‘They’re coming in hordes to see your myth,
You’re a breath of air in a jaded Autumn,
A genuine Primitive, Jordan Griff,
I lured them in, and your work has caught them.’
But Jordan scowled and he curled his lip
As the crowd milled using an unknown language,
‘I’d rather be down at the ‘Rope and Skip’
With a pint of ale and a cold meat sandwich!’
‘You’re really an artist?’ said the woman
Who stood at his shoulder, pale and shaking,
‘I like the one at the farmer’s gate
With the girl, head bowed, as her heart is breaking.’
Griff looked deep in the woman’s eyes
For the chord she’d struck was his secret mourning,
‘How did you know?’ He’d sobered up,
‘I was the girl your paint was born in!’
Jordan halted his glass, mid-sip,
He seized her hand as his heart was pacing,
‘Years have slipped between cup and lip,
I’d give them all for a second tasting!’
He led her into a lumber room
And she locked the door as they pulled apart,
Then found some cushions and in the gloom
They lay on the floor there, making art.
That’s how his Primitives came to start
With a joy not there at his god-rot dawning,
A horse and cart with his palette heart,
And a tousled woman each tumbledown morning!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Marking my worth[lessness]
by defacing my template
with the corroded hands of others
who spend their time chiseling away at
life’s most imperfect perfections
Embroidered with a cross stitch
ravelling us all together in one big quilt
showcasing one’s collected patches
Finding myself unable to convey
my lack of conversation skills
or the assumptions that I already know
and everything I could do is better than this
and I deserve better than this--
what I choose to accept
will never meet my own standards
as my standards are based on accepting others
but my other side lives in a fantasy
and believes what genuine souls tell me
which is I “deserve better than this”
Maybe I don’t, in a parallel universe
I can’t accept what I want to believe
because I can’t explain why I accept
“less than I deserve”
when I’m unsure of what I deserve in the first place
What deeds have I done to merit great things?
Is my moral compass pointing north or south, east or west?
Does it matter when each way leads to eternal rest?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
I’m hot on the tail of a poem’s trail
To discover what makes it tick,
For the ones I receive in the daily mail
Are always giving me stick.
I don’t want the ones with a psycho-probe
That go ravelling into my brain,
Or a moody muse with a too short fuse
They only generate pain.
When I spot one bearing a carefree lilt,
A rhythm that echoes my heart,
Or a rhyme scheme pairing a seem with dream,
We’re off to a flying start.
It gallops ahead of me, feeling its way
Through words that it finds by chance,
And makes it plain that it wants to play
In the meadows of assonance.
So I chase it over a babbling brook
On a cliché, rhyme or hook,
And still the breeze that will rhyme with trees
Turns the pages of my book.
I search for characters, sweet young girls
And for ladies, fair of face,
Who dance along with the poem, twirl
In the aftermath of grace.
While men, the heroes of quests and seas
Marooned on a distant shore,
Will take the poem to where they please,
You’ve never been there before.
And they meet the girls with the hair like corn,
Are trapped in their sparkling eyes,
They come together in winter storm
And all that you hear are sighs.
For the poem gives, and the poem takes
It will lull you, thrill you, dance,
From its wedding bells to its funeral wakes
It will still you, fill, entrance!
Its magic lies in its rhyme and scheme
As it weaves a recurring spell,
It nestles into your heart and dreams
Like an Olde Tyme Wishing Well.
And when it finally comes to stand
On the shore of a timeless lake,
As the book slips out of your listless hand
It whispers, ‘Are you awake?’
Then I spring to life and I seize it then,
And give to its tail a twist,
‘I’m still the poet, I hold the pen,’
I write, in the evening mist!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
They call it still life. All
as still as death. Perhaps
the painter's hand was also stilled
in contemplation, rapt, fulfilled.
Glum fish, lolling pheasants,
bread and cheese, garlic, cherries,
apples, oranges, lemons,
but it's the light that pleases.
Ravelling, revealing vision,
casting shadows, changing shapes,
glinting glasses, devilling detail,
the time warp of the stopped clock.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC
Eudora, Eudora…
The soft Words you speak…
The gentle rhythm of your tongue,
Put my mind and heart into sleep.
Eudora, Eudora…
Your words speak with flare…
Ravelling off your talented tongue,
Into the Mid-Air.
Each Stanza Poetic…
Ascending from your deep throat…
Slipping between your bright teeth,
Upon the breath like a musical note.
They billow from depth…
Unto the shallow – and then a retreat…
Out of a heart that is deeper still,
Then the deepest of seas.
Your words have been read…
By many – including me…
Entitled… Gifted,
On… Hello Poetry.
Though I absolutely know not Eudora… except the reading of her poem… It still inspired me to write a response to a humorous self-indulged thought… that yes, I am talented. And that she not implying… I took anyways… (While chuckling) the position to appoint myself as the narrative inspiration of her poem. P.S. (But only in my own mind.)
Please Note: Her Poem is absolutely Beautiful and Beautifully written... called... "Gifted"
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC