"reliefs" poems
.
Snow drifts down
laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
The snow falls,
falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
all is still,
nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
dreaming,
of being kissed by the Sun.
© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
What is it about this chase that eludes me
That runs away from me
That seeks to experience and then flee me
Until I get hijacked by another
Consenting to my own free fall into ignorance and bliss
Conditioning myself to transmit
Abundance without reservation
Until shot at the knee
But dragged along for a while longer
By the chains I so genuinely let bind me
And even before the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets me
I do so unconditionally
But you can't hijack my senses
I am not an experience or experiment worth having
I am not a temporary treat to be improperly digested and defecated
I am not an amber that ignites upon initial contact
To then be mediated or extinguished if the temperate is not right
I am not the holy water that you colonize
And shower with to cleanse you
To then invalidate that sanctity
When it falls down the drain
I am not a barometer that reliefs the labor
Needed to challenge the aberrations
Of your colonized and colonizing tendencies
I exist
Physically insignificant
As the earth that birthed me and will bury me
But eternal in essence
I am a permanent presence
I am an unforgettable imprint
I am your equal, no less, no more
The moment that we mutually acknowledge
Each other's existence
I have bound myself to you
From that moment...loved you unconditionally and eternally
And expect no lesser commitment
From you to me, or any other person you meet
And even after the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets us
We must unleash our abundance unconditionally
And when we leave
We will have given
Absolutely everything
That we had to give
During that time of our existence
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
are you collecting the old counts of how
they slaughtered your son and his power-hungry heart,
twenty three knives to the torso,
the killing blow delivered by a beloved friend?
or are those the scrolls that you wish
dust would settle over forever, relics and reliefs of
everything you see behind your closed eyelids.
a politician’s mother
must be all the more clever; her son will not
be going into battle to die with honor
but rather with deceit. give her-- you-- a laurel wreath,
the irony of the goddess nike standing
golden over the tomb of your son: emperor,
caesar. mother of summer, of boiling july,
are you not the sun? are you not the constellations
freckling burnt pale skin? are you not
the fiercest and brightest of warriors, quietly,
without warning?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
scavenger bride,
she counted periods
before the children came along,
but never suspected
eyes like bottles
beginning to blue,
a tangle of scars
hermetically sealed,
the new order of
a broken romance,
dead love cassettes
in the glove compartment,
her cold and empty
constellations,
like cold breath
passing through a beam of sunlight,
grid of points, pendulums,
the ratio of freckles to stars,
no subtle countenance,
martinis and bikinis,
soft ******* and ice cream,
slight, elusive things, on a beach
with no more meaning,
the repeating pattern of
her mistakes and reliefs,
a preservation of decay,
sustained by the tiny
human fault line
in that oneiric hinterland,
between dreaming and waking,
she draws around the noise
and the clearings,
she creates within that sightline
the way her sadness can feel
comfortable,
an extension of loss that turns
her ruins into a home.
Aug 1, 2022
Aug 1, 2022 at 2:48 PM UTC
Hark, how the birds do sing,
And woods do ring!
All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man’s joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter than in present is.
To this life things of sense
Make their pretence;
In th’ other angels have a right by birth.
Man ties them both alone,
And makes them one,
With th’ one hand touching heaven, with th’ other earth.
In soul he mounts and flies,
In flesh he dies.
He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,
But trimmed with curious lace,
And should take place
After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.
Not that he may not here
Taste of the cheer;
But as birds drink and straight lift up their head,
So must he sip and think
Of better drink
He may attain to after he is dead.
But as his joys are double,
So is his trouble.
He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip
And bite his lip,
And he of all things fears two deaths alone.
Yet even the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,
Could he but take them right, and in their ways.
Happy is he whose heart
Hath found the art
To turn his double pains to double praise.
1.6k
.
When your strung hair drops,
In any chamber, all is opened,
All is lithe, flowerfield of mirror
To the gathered stars unto fire,
Below as above is a universe,
Your eyes asking in surrender,
Were never so fair as your face,
My soul drowning in those blue
Orbs, what oceans of sparkle, so
Like jewels in a thousand temple
Reliefs of gold and safire offered
By flesh and thunder, waits to roll,
To wash and crackle firmaments,
Of earthly desires and obsession,
In your temples above and below.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Sensory deprivation douses my days
Neither perfume, nor pictures
to placate
No cadence of a voice contrasted
No distractions, now look away
Ban all Color
chromatic avian avoidance
But It only takes one slip
to oxygenate those sacred sepia images
You were the reason!
you eviscerated “grey”
the enormity of a
pixilated instant:::
the shadow of a look
Arise again, stand tall and seductive,
awaken a cleft heart again
but the pleas go unheard
and
callous knees make for hollowed souls
this crawl so familiar, hallowed, fetching... as I look now, upward at your
carnal,
cardiac,
catharsis
I find that familiar rush
The drilling down of blood :::
Presses through once indifferent veins (my lamentation inoculation... you are viral once more)
Imagined love had seemed so tame.
The cataclysm corners, hidden well in green eyes,
inauspicious,
until
it’s time (to strike)
tensions feast on the remaining light (dusk remains, night yields, but those eyes they’ll haunt forever).
When was the last time I grasped your fingers?
When jungle lust simplicity gave way to
the steady silent ether of complacency
I knew
I had
lost
her
Yet, I still reach for the smell of you on my hands. It’s no longer there. The cruelest of nostalgias to soothe my most masochistic of reliefs.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
You can surely decipher the scratches
On my interior wall, just inside the pile of bones.
There are hieroglyphic reliefs on my brow;
My simian eyes are the windows to my genealogy.
I am refurbished, re-modeled, re-drawn, re-worked;
I am not born again.
Along the hollow trunk, dragged to the bone pile,
Scratches and claw marks attest to the competitions.
On the flip side of the tablet, evidence the wax impressions
Of migrant refugees landing in Hibernia.
Nuclear scan my revealing contours
Of imperishable, ingrained, indelible markings
To unearth former loves,
Parsed and re-read in the morning light,
Not unlike outlines of Mesolithic settlements.
The male landscape is as seismic as the plates beneath the seas,
Where no winds sculpt, no suns scorch, no moons shade:
Only the timeless, steady, relentless currents.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
White bird
Half Intrascope
Alerted by fire
hypnotic Sapphire Realm
Shifting Snow Shape starling
In this for that for This
Chirp Chirping
In Deluxe stereo
Daylight reliefs, lights of my ethereal France
Dance, dancing
Like soldiers, rock rocking
Heavy, eiderdown beaten Shadows
In temporary ride
Into temporary flight
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Lord Elgin of Britain, that perfidious thief,
robbed Greece of its heritage, its marble reliefs.
The Parthenon stripped of its decorative stone,
a victim of rapine stands forlorn and alone.
Phidias’ statues, rendered so fine,
Are lifelike and glorious for now and all time.
The British museum houses the collection
Which Elgin purloined while avoiding detection.
Greece, more than most, has been robbed of its past
By ephemeral empires who thought they would last.
Now that the sun sets on the imperial throne
Isn’t it time that those Marbles went home?
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Unforgettable
you are
as every moment
spent together,
intense moments
summer storm,
sweet,
eyes that talk
miming hugs,
fleeting,
stop, Time,
and let Love
last a life,
sensual
tight tight
steeped in pleasure
moans, quivers,
the heart leaps.
Unforgettable
you are
nor could I
forget you
and may the day not come
nor the night
without you
desert otherwise,
far away from you,
hands that cling
to the void of nothing,
just for a while with you
nettle tears
that burn the skin
in the impotent memories,
never again with you
chanting the Unforgettable
among lines of verses
that seek
in the crevices of memory
useless reliefs.
31.3'14
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
When it rains in the wild, if I shall ever see,
I imagine this is how it would be,
the sky looks like an old man’s beard,
and the ground is muddy and smeared
the trees look green and happy,
and the birds sit in their nests all chirpy,
the monkeys jump around and start to dance,
enchanted with the wild rain’s trance
the predators go back to their families,
the preys heave sighs of reliefs,
the lion king roars to tell,
that this is my rain, rest of you…go to hell
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 2:45 AM UTC
*now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the lord my soul to keep*
She kneels quietly on the ground
Precious youth and innocence abound
Sweet, tame, ignorant child
One day soon your thoughts will go wild
You'll start to question your beliefs
And answers won't bring any reliefs
Don't worry little child, don't fret
You're not ready for that quite yet
But eventually you'll see with those eyes
Most of what they tell you is lies
It's a great awakening
When knowledge is there for the taking
Take many lessons from history
As they're the true stories
Learn every last tidbit that you can
But never forget the values taught back then
No matter what path you choose
These values you must never loose
*and if I die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take*
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
I was much younger then,
My wide eyes following,
the never ending, bend,
of this world spinning.
Time goes by,
all the days I've spent,
wondering why,
A penny equals one cent.
Little things don't phase me,
I've moved on to what's now called,
Crazy.
I'm only 17 in this world of hate.
One ***** up and I find myself,
Late.
I carry this soul in the deepest of my,
core.
I rethink of the choice I made,
I think of how I'd be called a *****
This generation is thought to be careless.
But my actions weren't to follow those beliefs.
My time feels endless,
While I'm still searching for my,
reliefs.
He didn't want this either,
We were going to wait together.
I'm laying here with a fever,
no longer sure of our plans forever.
Maybe I'm just overlooking this?
Maybe life isn't that unfair?
Maybe I'm just swallowing my fist,
since this sort of thing is rare?
No matter the result,
if this was what was chosen for me.
I don't plan to assault,
What my life was planned to be.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Ancient scenes carved in stone
Show us the beards of Babylon -
Land-locked and mythic
In the fertile crescent of desert rivers,
Their reliefs find the ancient faces
Adorned with the finest groomed beards in antiquity -
In the ruins of Nineveh and Ur,
Crowned heads hold distinctive locks -
Shared by the flowing chins -
All with strands of coils -
Long and barrel-thick -
Braided together with skills they discovered
In the ether of unwritten history.
Depictions of kings fighting their legendary battles -
Frozen in the stiff stills of chosen poses -
Storyboarded for an anticipated future -
The deeds are incomplete as found -
Damaged by time and jealous men -
And all I remember are the beards.
Winged Annunaki standing tall,
Hold strange repose inside a wall -
Buried for centuries since they stood,
Amongst scattered tools of stone and wood -
Their legs are spread in a conical stance -
Their elbows and wrists were bent in a dance -
Fingers cupped around an oblong cone -
Each pointed towards ears of a supplicant one -
While the arms at their sides hold a bag by a strap,
Only dreams can provide the meanings they map -
One scene is carved with all human faces -
Where the beards are thick with fully coiled laces,
But another variation of a similar scene,
Show Annunaki faces that a bird would preen -
With bulbous eyes and curved hawk-like beaks,
Where beards won't grow, on bas reliefs.
Mysteries may follow damaged relics of the past,
But the Babylonian beards will always last.
Ad infinitum. Ad astra.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
Produced the reduced use of deuced youth as well fall flat on back relapse of a matter oh’ fact there is no reason to bring back the lack of acts that have collapsed as endorse isn’t the course we force the indorsed remorse’s horse it how it sounds from the round about turned down, wrapped around the mound of wound bounds traced as we wish to erase the missed ace am disgraced to waste the space from haste it is misplaced finding grace abducted, while we are interrupted so disruptive all corrupted instructed that we be introduced to a new place to set loose then choose to roost.
Audible is honorable when placed in space of a new disgrace we haste to chase the base relate the mate is gallant, accordant abeyant to reliant now defiant why deny, when have tried to reply the unquestionable supply of high relies reprieved cephalized isn’t the aim to gain the same remains of main stained for blame, have strained the aim of shame to restrain the bargain attain then pass the refrain again the demand to stand on the right hand of man as have banned the uttermost do tend to boast then coast on to deposed what isn’t supposed to mean the most.
Regulate the agitate of will you wait till the proper date to calibrate where we have done, what have become after having won no youth refund underhung rung the reliefs beliefs in this we speak to realize have agonized the civilized tho don’t deprive for now do thrive from abrasive wise isn’t lies relented the dependent to sentence the pendent, abolishment of what was, have turned around the have does, to what wasn’t because of we lock without a knock of shock we stopped and sought to sample of what before couldn’t handle now we have another hand ful to dandle.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
i break things, i just do
i make them, one after another
(they just keep on getting better)
then i break then
not for pleasure
not with pain
but because they are things
and i get attached to them
so i break them
i hold them as if i'd never let go, then i remember
it isn't perfect, i'm attached,
so i open my hands, gently
and see it fall, in slow motion
for it to break piece by peace, peace by piece
it hurts as much as it reliefs
so it's all and nothing, they'd say
i'd say it depends on the day
with me, it always depends
(and that's always the problem)
... now break this in two, as i'd do
(show me the result)
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
She’s in Cambodia when she says,
“Company always matters,
but if it’s the wrong one,
I’d rather be on my own.”,
I’m in California when I say,
“I feel exactly the same way.”,
we’re on opposite sides of the world,
she’s at Angkor Wat just in from Dubai,
and I’m at home in Hollywood,
well not my home exactly just the place where I currently lie,
or rather the place where I lay,
because there are no lies here,
not between her and I,
because we’re,
two Stars shooting through the Infinite Sky,
and I want to fly to her right now,
I want to leave this city,
I want to be there,
with her at Angkor amongst all it’s ancient reliefs,
but alas,
we all have our lives,
different paths,
even when it’s led by the same guiding Light,
and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again,
at least I wonder if I’ll ever see her again in this life,
and I don’t know why I write,
I swear to God I don’t know even when I say I do,
because all I’ve ever gotten from these writings,
was all these cliches that I find in me and in you,
sounding like a cheesy pop song,
sounding like the voice of reason when everything’s gone wrong,
sounding like a lost Soul traveling the open road out here all alone,
leaving behind nothing but some faded memories and the words in these poems,
and when I hear her voice,
or rather read her text from my phone,
I get the feeling that as alone as I may be,
in that moment I am everything except for alone,
so when I get that call,
I know she feels exactly the same way,
and that’s exactly why,
I always listen when she explains,
she’s in Cambodia when she says,
“Company always matters,
but if it’s the wrong one,
I’d rather be on my own.”,
I’m in California when I say,
“I feel exactly the same way.”…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of multiple best selling poetry books
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
In Whitehall stands a monument,
A column wrought in stone.
Empty as that mother’s heart
whose sons did not come home.
It bears the dates of two world wars,
And three carved words I read.
A politician’s shibboleth
About “the Glorious Dead”
Standing in November’s rain,
No glory came to mind.
Perhaps that word held meaning
in another place and time.
They have passed from living memory
those soldier boys of thine.
Now bronze reliefs and marble wreaths
Recall their deaths to mind.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
when the world ends, what will people do?
people would loot,
people will pray,
people would try to find a way.
yet when that final hour has past,
how long will we last?
one day, a human will end up dying,
while somewhere else a baby will be crying.
many people look towards the bad things of dying,
but saying that its only bad would be lying.
when that final hour on your life pasts how would you spend it?
how would you live it?
if the world ever ends, a man would hold his wife,
a broken family of strangers would reunite.
bitter rivals would become friends,
and a boy who loves a girl in secret would confess.
the sad thing about life is that we don't realize how good it is until finally its ending
and they wish for a happy ending.
people who oppose religion would become religious,
a student who flunk all the time would mysteriously become a genius
a man who is very mean to everyone would be nice to everyone,
and a woman who hates children would want one.
the end does strange things to people, changing their beliefs,
much to some peoples reliefs.
the end actually is the best cure for all the troubles in the world,
that could be easily seen, for every boy and girl.
enemies would become friends,
a man who hates his wife would want to be their till the end.
a boy would get the courage to confess to a girl or stand up against her father,
a girl who wants to be free will realize she wants to become a mother.
the end is something we all need,
to reunite important things, like love, friends and, most of all, family.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
*Hello... hello... hello...
Is there anybody in there?*
I feel trapped
And unable to nod
To indicate my being
And no, I can't hear you
I'm too
*well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again*
Too lost
In my mind
To stop my own pain
*ill need some information, first
Just the basic facts,
Can you show me where it hurts?*
My mind
And heart
Are being torn away from each-other
And becoming separate entities
With different wants
*Just a little pinprick.
There'll be no more,
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh
But you may feel a little sick.*
Can't feel worse than now
I'm sick already
And dying inside
Rotting inside my own mind
*can you stand up, stand up,
I do believe it's working, good.
That'll keep you going through the show
Come on it's time to go.*
Temporary reliefs
From my cryptic beliefs
On death
And how close I am
Dead enough to be decaying
*There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse*
Of happiness
And what life could be
A merry me
And cheerful world
In that moment
I saw peace
*I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown,
The dream is gone.*
But, I can be content
With temporay relief
I have become comfortably numb....
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
Man is but a bank of superstitious sect .
puffed up with heavy materialistic hankering.
its lust is more ascendant important at set .
than the real harken of his objective living .
a surfeit that adds more surfeit in covetous .
and at proper meditation he desires more than needs.
insatiable and lover of sin than peace seed .
their life is castle of dread and fire of hell .
man hates what he mostly likes and all his repel .
tend your ear from diurnal up down penumbra .
the one that tells you are much lugubrious.
will turn up and reprobate you are cacophonous .
selfishness and self glorification is very obnoxious .
while puffed up with pride and such mischief .
why wont you hanker for a firmament of reliefs.
that brings upon hatred and forces to injustice .
he who loves God should behold with peace.
but when you are peace minded you display its light .
and you contented with your resort and grudge not for other right.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
My agent for apeiron appeared standing
In classical grey coat stopping me by one
Palm reaching toward ninth heaven nine
Such is the gaze poetics, astonished thing
From the shinny reawoken dynastic ring
From my mind I call you on n' on dreamy
My uncatchable personal erudites library
Many thorough smiles unchaining liberty
Of bridges forms n' our humming colours
Above erased reliefs, wave waters mistery
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC