"refinement" poems
*The chill in the frigid night air
casts tremors of lingering shadows
upon an ancient windowsill
where a liquescent candle’s glow dims.
Peering into shattered mirrors’
silver hued jagged edges
that no longer reflect counterfeit images
a nascent paradigm unfurls in the wind.
Terrifying diminutive steps are taken
in directions au courant
enabled by years of refinement
in torrid near incessant fires.
An excrescence of wisdom
has broken the weathered mold
allowing a senescent wisdom
to shimmer a phosphorescent glow.
The venerable map leading
to this transcendent destination
is not read but perceived
through intuition’s faint whisperings.
©2015 janetaylor
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
One scarlet tear, makes it clear which drops from her cheek to the ground which burns away as acid, toxic, became lifeless in an instant
Emotions of any kind, are to ruin ones mind, ones soul from something more beautiful, clean and without any malicious intent,
Ruining what's best in us, corrupting inner peace with disturbance,
Free from bonds or feelings one would live alike the the moon; Elusive, with a cycle which turns and decides to recycles once again,
But what would be a life, free from the trouble of emotions, heartache
pain and agaony, happiness and glee with experiencess worth more than a soul could ask for, wish to be repeated, forming what is YOU,
Would it be a curse ? A blessing ? Would it be wise to purify onesself,
All these questions remain unanswered, as the world spirals it's transient, lifely joyful axis around our golden shining star, the sun,
Purity comes sinfree, cut from temptations of every meaningful term,
Then it would mean to give up anything, everything in solace, simply to remain free from an act or even a thought of unrighteousness,
Empathy would be lost in a purgatory of pure furies which knows no heart, or mercy for this matter, a life spend alone is an answer to this,
Oh servant, will you burn away like the flower in the heat of summer by achieving this purity you strive for just to call yourself better ?
After all, the joy of emotions is for all to experience
After all the love of light is for all to bear
~ Umi
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
Shadows must and will obey
my thoughts to sink and prayers stray,
for soon they’ll stay.
They rest upon my heavy head
they lie with me upon my bed,
for soul’s decay.
Shadows must and will confuse
this love i know i’ll never loose,
and never say,
that all is bright behind these eyes
that mind is free and all these lies
are far away.
Confuse and use they must, they must
through power, greed, and lies and lust
until i’m lost.
Before they go and try their best
i’m gonna steal a little rest
from love’s old nest.
They’ll come again, this much i know,
so i put on a great big show
that I have learned long time ago.
But now my soul, she has her voice
and given any other choice
i trust the one
that shows rejoice.
She speaks and shadows dissapear
she shows the way which comes so clear.
I know the voice i hold so dear
it speaks of love, the moment “now”
it whispers to me when and how
i can be free, and to allow
my spirit to retain the vow
it took before this life’s refinement
that some life I’ll reach enlightement
be out of body’s false confinement
And into Tao.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
You don't know her
She is always forgotten
In your memories but soon your lips will only describe her as nondescript
The script of her life
How did she go from being so sweet to rotten
From just nightmares to sleep walking
Sweet ole her
Innocent and pure
Now she is impaired
In the need of refinement
But she doesn't have the strength to try it
You see she is chained to the past
Barely saw her dad
He was mean
Always got the last word
Drunk and abusive
Her mom was an unbloomed tulip
Looked kind but was bitter to her daughter
They'd fight and she would cry at night
She was ashamed of and had extreme anger for mother
How can you watch as she takes hits
Instead of intervening
Police bust down the doors and drag dad to jail
To the homeless shelter we go
No money, no home
It is cold
I barely knew what was going on around me
Refuse to talk to adults because they were all so confusing
And honestly my questions only led to answers that were lies
I had fear in my eye
The things that I had seen
The smoke filled air I'd breathe
Let's not forget the bullies
That talk stuff because I was so "imperfect"
Never had the latest brands
Because mom had no bands
Let's not forget how dad was back again
All hope was drained
She had thoughts of suicide and then a boy came
Walked his way in
She spilled her ink onto his page
He left anyways
Guess her story was too boring
You don't know her
You did at a time
She is nothing but rotten
And only meant to be forgotten
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
The truth is that the Cupid's arrow,
only struck Adam & Eve.
That's how love,
became a deadly disease.
The truth is that compassion doesn't exist.
We've always been deceived.
Tears, lies, betrayal, and blood curling screams.
The truth is that after death,
life will become a tear-soaked cloth of regrets.
The things you could've done,
and the things you decided to neglect.
The truth is that we're in a competition.
The competition of who's good,
who's bad,
and who's not even worth this emulation.
The truth is that the world,
has run out of enlightenment.
The river of simplicity has run dry,
and the world just wishes for refinement.
The truth is that we're all alone,
at the end of the day.
Filled with grief,
we're standing by the never-ending bay.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:41 AM UTC
Passing through mid-century
these jazz oneironauts reached Apollonian heights
while society drifted into Dionysian drunkenness
the merchants caught on too soon
The most beautiful parts of humanity
enamored to serve the ugliest:
The merchant class, the bourgeoisie
Buddha’s undeserving in charge
If only in past centuries
those noble princesses embraced
even more lowly patronages
all this potential today could be staved off
Saved from the drive to be commodified
People stopped buying jazz as it reached its height
No more smiles to appease the whites
Jazz for the few
the noble, the individual in the know
Until this too becomes the simulacrum
The Ornette Coleman on the bookshelf
to signify your snootiness
your refinement from wealth
Aging Dads in thousand dollar sweaters
kicking out their 22 year old kids
for being ****** addled hipsters
meanwhile Bird on Verve is nodding out
and Dad’s girlfriend pops a Percocet
to deal with all the stress
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
Mercies at juxtapositional refinement
Abandoned constitutional confinement
Handshakes on the bridged ligaments
The sweet melodious serene dreams fleets
One after the other like peculiar inventions
The mellow scenes of frames realignments
Wonderful crafted words verses paradigm
Harmonic jazz awesomeness, decode freeness
Orchestral spontaneity drills pragmatic energy
Yet, as the gingered steams rise from the hot brew
The scented breeze of life vaticinates with a smile afar
Whispers of "no obligation, no expectations" reverbs..... on and on....on and on
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
Unless your bucket list is in pencil
Unless you’re content in front of your television
And your eyes see better than your heart does
If you heard on the radio that intellect killed hope
And read on the message board that we never needed hope in the first place
Unless you see unfiltered
And the light in your eyes is not a reflection of anywhere you’ve been
If there is nothing out there
And you’ve seen it before anyway
Take note:
When every metaphor ever built
Has fallen apart
Love will be a voice saying, here I am
Saying fight to take that deep breath one more time
Find me up ahead and run to me
The horizon isn’t as far away as you made it out to be
And looking over the edge will be the sweetest thing you have ever done
When every metaphor ever built
Has fallen apart
Love will still be saying: “get out there and find me” as directly as it can
Pleading with you to be a part of something bigger
Something lasting and dangerous
And hard to believe
The evidence is the beauty that you’ve seen
Miracles are not so different than dappled light through the canopy of trees
And that judging by the way it dances down the creek bed, water must hear music that no one else seems to believe
But there is a peace in that music
And a whisper in that dance
And if you listen long enough
You will feel some of your coarseness wash away
And that refinement is love
Look, even the stones lose their edge
Here’s to saying: “Look!”
To saying “You have to see this!”
To: “Come with me!”
“Let’s go!”
“Hurry!”
“Don’t miss this!”
“We’re explorers!”
“Let’s get out there!”
Adventure is only half going
The other half is who goes with you
The eighth wonder of the world is being together
And while all stories will end they can be shared forever
No paradise is complete alone
But love is an eternal home
When all metaphors ever built
Have fallen apart
Love will still be saying
Get out there
Find me
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC
No matter how
You may attempt
To grow out
The container
Of your life
Which was provided for you.
There are others
Who weigh you down?
With the weight
Of their ideas.
Empty the bowl
Continue to reach
Through your roots depthless
In the soil of your speaking
And then from your hand.
May sprout the words
With green leaf script
Growing up the scansion
Of the stars.
For in the gleaning
Of bonsai
The tiny and insignificant
Are magnified
For burden’s elegance
Is Refinement
The smoothness of the soul.
For what is compact
Is always whole.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
life is
like
a fragile
glass
it is intrinsic:
beautiful even
more on the
inside
it is valuable:
more for it’s
purpose than
its looks
alone
it is sacred:
something
that only a few
ever really
appreciate
life is
like
a fragile
glass
something whose value
is greatest
after years of refinement
and growth
but as each day
goes on
in its fragile,
oh so fragile,
existence
the chance of its breaking
grows as greatly
as the cost of
losing
it
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
Bring down the moon for genteel Janet;
She's too refined for this gross planet.
She wears garments and you wear clothes,
You buy stockings, she purchases hose.
She say That is correct, and you say Yes,
And she disrobes and you undress.
Confronted by a mouse or moose,
You turn green, she turns chartroose.
Her speech is new-minted, freshly quarried;
She has a fore-head, you have a forehead.
Nor snake nor slowworm draweth nigh her;
You go to bed, she doth retire.
To Janet, births are blessed events,
And odors that you smell she scents.
Replete she feels, when her food is yummy,
Not in the stomach but the tummy.
If urged some novel step to show,
You say Like this, she says Like so.
Her dear ones don't die, but pass away;
Beneath her formal is lonjeray.
Of refinement she's a fount, or fountess,
And that is why she's now a countess.
She was asking for the little girls' room
And a flunky though she said the earl's room.
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Juxtapositional Refinement Redefined (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
== JRR ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Credits to: Angelina Lopez (HP Poetess)
(Copy the link below to your browser)
Juxtapositional refinement redefined:
When you meet beautiful souls we have been taught by the society to confine them. Like "I love you" but what does that word really mean. Does it mean "sharing in openness" or does it mean " been confined in expectations and obligations".
The paradigm that we live in as society is delusional. We have learnt to analyse the "in between" based on our analytical and logical systems. But how about going to the individuals involved and creating an open dialogue to talk about what the situation may be. This is a thorough and more accurate way of attaining acuity.
To flow in openness is like listening to 'harmonious jazz music' ...... it is like inhaling the beauty of the ginger scent in the breeze.
Life itself speaks to us and we don't have to make it complicated. If we only were able to have an open platform..... hearts that are blissful and not tainted by fear then we can redefine the contrasting views of dichotomy that we have as mankind.
In essence, If you haven't communicated to someone openly about something ...... we should never draw out conclusions. They will only be pre-judgemental notions oozing with constraining predefined and predetermined assumptions. Give everyone a chance and the world will smile!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
I can hear confusion clap
Could it be confusion relapse?
Is the problem confusion perhaps?
I sit in solitary confinement
To perfect my confusion refinement
He guards my door
Like a chore
From inside my lonely stall
I can hear him take calls
I stare into a concrete grey
That blocks the Sun's rays
If I told my guard I loved him
Would he free me from this cell?
Would he free me from this hell?
Or would he release me
To the murderers and thieves?
Or would he release me
To a life where he leaves?
I sit silently in solitary
And enjoy his presence
I'm not allowed in his monastery
For I'm a mere peasant
Confusion grasps
I scream
Muffled gasps
In the wind
Confusion *****
I fear the day the guard leaves his post
Because he's the one I love the most
He's a circumstance of my condition
When he's my confusion's ambition
Making him the only one I see
So how can I ever be free?
I have become a confusion shell
I live in a confusion cell
In love I fell
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 5:33 AM UTC
A couple hours from now, as we are toasting a farewell to a neoteric past, a new year will emerge from the ashes of 2017. Like a phoenix, it will rise again, and sing sweet songs of new beginnings and manifest hope for a better year. We wait for this day in anticipation praying the months to follow will be anything but a repetition of a life once lived. We convince ourselves that we will be more productive, that we will be more active, and that THIS is the year that will change our lives. So we set New Years resolutions, we mark our calendars with exciting new adventures, we establish new goals and reimagine our old dreams hoping that in this new year, we can accomplish them all. But, for many eager and willing people, months will go by without any true transformation. And as the year draws closer to its end, they are again transfixed by old habits and excuses. Their excitement and determination will have faded into the mundanity of reality setting them back to where they were before. For a new year can’t be the driving force for change. A new year shouldn’t be the starting point for innovation. Because refinement shouldn’t be pushed to a certain date and time. And if someone really wants to revolutionize their life, why wait?
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
Thine temple is an edifice, holy, ever-reaching the overhanging of cliff's, step by step I walketh; a journey I only canst travel. Thou hast guided me on the long road's, wherein soul's get lost and caught in the world's tempting channel. O' blest refinement, God hath freed me from confinement; as the angel yea the angel he sent to me was thee;
Sanctified I am, inside of thine wing's. In commitment shalt I bring, in song's I shalt ablaze in glory with thee wherein the mind's of two shalt cling. O' mine hymn, O' mine diamond .
On a turret I shalt keepeth watch, when the round ball we loveth smoke's up thus, and drop's; beyond fear and falsehood talk's, we shalt walk in a grove,
henceforth the evil staying below, ourn cheeks, colored into snow that fall's starlit, warm-bits. Ourn finger's warm, ourn toe's kick to hot spit by the kissing over-satisfaction. Ourn coroner's laced inside with baguettes, daily deeds like seeds groweth from fountains with nets, nets to catch ourn amour' like open door's we shalt enter. Ourn heart's at the center exploding into a universal call to all other cherub's, seraph's, archangel's, stomping the scarab's. As eternity draweth us as the lost city of gold.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-filipino rose dedicated
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Of anger, hate, greed and Pride
which is a greater folly
Anger for sure will make
you burn and cause distress
or death to the other. Hate
surrogate of anger, more
overt and consuming but
a child of anger. Greed
seems to have nothing to do
with the above two but breeds
anger and hate towards all
that thwart the insatiable
fire of greed. As there is not
anything that can fulfill the
gastronomy of greed.
Pride though looks pretty
and makes one perky
takes the pride of place
in destroying all possibilities
of human kind. As it is
the pride that sets one
upon a perch that deceives
Reality. A perch that
makes unreal real and the
Truth into Untruth
Anger, hate and greed
need the theater of Pride
to play. Pride is a crown
of thorns that makes
one perceive even pain as
pleasure. Pride is the
Maya, the delusion of life.
Refinement of ignorance
Is not Enlightenment.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Relinquish these chains of injustice, this yoke of deceit
Ameliorate your life away from tribulations and pain
Take up a spirit of greatness, welcoming refinement
Keep your heart unpretentious with each step you take
Not just for greatness, but for a life of personal fulfillment
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Pure tranquility amongst immense vulnerability
Embrace the placid pace as interlacing moments of divinity create a symmetrical vision of femininity and masculinity
Cultivating humility in unobtrusively exercising providential gifts
Ancient relations uncovered through self-refinement; revel in a realm of silence peculiarly deepening this divine assignment.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Since the refinement of this polish’d age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung’d licentious wit,
Which stamp’d disgrace on all an author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty’s cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence—though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone, we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no vet’ran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledg’d wings we try;
Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise;
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can ******
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find?
None, to the softer *** can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can’t applaud, at least forgive.
1.4k
This morning is bleak and dreary,
The lake is frozen and cold;
The prince is making me weary
Of all of the stories he's told.
I've seen all his quests for vengeance,
I've counted his spoils of war,
I've relayed all of his messages,
And now I'm quite terribly bored.
He's crude, he's foul,
He never says thank you or please;
He never stays quiet, he always yells,
And his britches smell of old cheese.
I cannot bear to be near
A man so lacking in refinement;
He's got not an ounce of respect,
And should be in solitary confinement.
He's repulsive, repugnent,
A blight on the land;
Why, the very birds won't eat
From his murderous hands.
Oh! If only I could escape
This horrid, ***** man!
If only I could save myself...
Oh wait! I can!
So, I think I'll go find a dragon,
And strike up a bargain for gold;
Because princes are tasty with ketchup-
Or, at least, so I'm told.
;)
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Elusive trail to find amity
Disillusioned by refinement
By the artistry
They paint the false idol
Sustain life
They are incarcerated
Entities become suicidal
Just like a recital
We play one note
The audience becomes
Mesmerized
They’re hypnotized by a false legato
Seduced by the long and smoothed melody
Never to be awaken
Lullabies from a harlot alto
Close your eyes
The murals
They’re out of proportion
Like unwanted infants
Doomed to abortions
A time of lies
An age of deception
Awaken the mind to divine
Those who give you the path of ascension
The era of misconceptions
Come back to life from resurrection
We suffocate from abused tranquility
No hope of possibilities
Life suffers from unbalanced symmetry
My broken heart
It’s hard to watch
Killing for pleasure
They raise war from down under
Life is lost from a hail of thunder
From the ashes
They pronounce, we are deities
Long live the king
He’s nothing more than a story
We are the glory
Endless violence
Speeches
Of power
Hope is no longer a matter
I give you 1 hour
Open your heart
Open your mind
Leave your bodies
Leave this declining
Reality
Before you’re consumed by wealth & power
Say goodbye
We are no longer…
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
365Nectar #49 Clean Out Your Basement
Mon. November 11, 2013 10:25 P.M.
Half-crazed like a naked savage...
stillness speaks
clamoring for attention in startling fresh expression
conjuring false memories of purity...
Cheering unsuccessful progress
in an attempt to preserve non-existent dominance...
Cosigned on civilized barbarity at an interest rate of 36% compounded annually...
The survival of a naked castaway
Perfectly unbalanced symmetry, that's slightly consistent, in a feeble attempt to compensate for weak genetic inheritance
Bathing **** in a ****** religion of bewildering complexity...
Relatively fluent in ungoverned profanities...
intentional involvement in ******** and lies
Aggressive mental exploits inflate illusion
disabling direction...
Gullible digestion of prescribed placebo
claiming cure of a Curiosity Coma...
STOP hoarding evidence of stupidity...
911 radical refinement...
...CLEAN OUT YOUR BASEMENT.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Down from the icy Sawtooth crags
and through the winter-laden landscape,
the wind eventually dips to the canyon
and creek we loved so well as children.
Continuing on, it threads through the
hollows above the creek, sculpted even
today by stooped cottonwood trees.
Twisting above granite outcroppings
and lava boulders, the wind courses
through the giant arteries of this canyon,
passing among quaking aspen, river willow,
and gnarled cottonwood, shorn rudely
by now of every dryly-veined leaf.
At ancient volcanic escarpments the
wind bears south, scraping hard along
canyon walls. Upward it moves, out of
the canyon, slowing and sallying about
the hillocks, the gullies, the poplars
until it finally comes to stir ever more
gently, warmer even, my dear brother,
around your gray marbled headstone.
Primeval of days, this very same wind
blows for eternity upon eternity, polishing
and purifying even the roughest of
the earth's elements and impediments.
This said, at this hill's crest where you rest,
there is no need of further refinement. Feel
how the northern wind quiets for you,
as if it knows over whose stone it passes.
--
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC