"renascence" poems
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
{ Full to brimming madness
A shaded blot of tin
Flumes for eyes
And the fire to fertilize
Croaked behind the wind. }
( Patched of a day's quilt
The moths of aperture
Spirited away the dusk
To the vestal mouse
Whose heart doth thrum sure. )
[ Of extolled breath
Chambered nubility
Did shy to the hand
In which 'twas held:
Invariably. ]
/ In all paintings hung
Bereft of blemishes to sting,
Fibrin inks touching canvas
Evoke the rumbling stream;
The renascence of Spring. \
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
To suffer death but not die
How tragic that must be
To be caught up in a web
Spun sadistically for thee
Each spindle spun
And delicately placed
You didn't even realize
When it was constricted around your face
Until you were stuck
Left there to die
But we know the black angel's lips
Never told you goodbye
You were never given the courtesy
To go off in peace
I suppose that is the punishment
When all your life you lived as a beast
Now you lay there still
Only your eyes allowed to blink
And we watch as your heart beat slows
But it will never slow enough to sink
An eternity with your blood pumping through
When you would rather be left cold
You are now forced to remember
Those deaths placed in your hands to hold
Now you wish for their deaths
That came by your hand
But you must stay in this misery
And never be six feet under the land.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed...
over soft new grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
My Way
In what moment the sky opened and discovered my weeping,
The enchantment of sigh by a smile.
I ask a writer born of the pain?
The glance of a lost world, listens to the tears of time
I was on my knees clearly I learned to fly with Angel wings,
A rainbow, the chill of a hidden winter,
Although behind schedule half of my life each word walks inside my inner sanctum
Renascence of my soul, discovering an ignited flame,
Now the breeze will bring a page of my heart,
There it is where the moon and the stars illuminate a desire to write.
Here I buried a sincere smile with the world
Who can define passages with your eyes closed?
Velvet of oneself blankets the aura
Pardon is necessary to be able to enchant the shining moon
They need peace like a wanderer needs air
I discovered my blue hands in a full moon with tears
Becoming melodies of its soul,
My way but in fact I must share it with all you,
My shades that in the middle of a nightmare became a night with desires to love,
At those moments I said who would dare to fly with me
Saving the reality of my life.
Reserved Right Rony Joseph 2011
Jun 28, 2011
Jun 28, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
A demure river converges with the sea and turns into a scepter of intrepidity.
My eyes try to follow every ebbing wave into the strands of illimitable resurrection.
The wind carries the clouds toward a ruffled terrain and turns sunshine into rain.
Reckless movements seem to convey the act of solicitous tenderness.
A forsaken lighthouse on a deserted island tries to revitalize the ship that never arrived.
The enlightenment seems to brighten up its separateness
From the world of decreasing congeniality.
The resplendent pasture seems to absorb the colour from the verdant trees.
Scintillating dewdrops variegate the cusp of the grass like an exhilarating crown.
The inaudible murmur of pastoral life wraps the passing day in its tranquil impeccability.
The lucent stars seem to burn the vacuousness of night with its satiating fire.
Nature seems to have become the harbinger of my lost words
That long ago manifested my dauntless but wretched love for you.
The uncanny omnipresence of the unbarred memories seems to amalgamate
The unreciprocated past and the abeyant present.
Stirring thoughts in an invigorating mind seem to lose its scrupulousness
In the midst of these harrowing days of ruthless truthfulness.
The metaphors of nature seem to have juxtaposed with the feeble pieces of my fragile heart.
The ineradicable retrospection of moon-sharing nights seem to have emerged
From the irreducible darkness around me.
The twinkling shadows of inseparable hearts seem to converge
Into the enticing hills of the unlit valley.
The honest moon seems to have lost its sagaciousness in the night of relinquished lovers.
The closing day is enamored of the festering odor of onrushing annihilation.
The transcendental road to salvation merges into the heath of transcalent despondency.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
As the parch eternal light
Waves logue stolid homage
After death to exhort a ubiquitous warrigal
Inherit yet to suckle sole
Fickle penury lightening squares terse
Malcontent eugenics dragoon, limitless
To depose upon clouds of fire the mammoth
Patrician lynchpin heard to glower farther
Sovereignty; spate renascence soliloquies ravage
And winkle out Almathea to give
Deus sentence weoponry
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 11:14 PM UTC
I focus on a destined space -
I see you there -
You shine with that smile on your face
True love - I swear
Whenever I feel low or lost -
I reach for you -
Two people who become star-crossed
The girl I knew -
The longing and ****** desire -
Inflames my soul -
Being with you - takes my life higher -
A divine role -
I have known you from lives gone past -
We are reborn -
Perhaps we will get it right at last -
As we have sworn -
Far beyond the midnight sky of night -
We sing -
Flying into early morning light -
On wing -
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
👧🏿🧒🏻👧🏼..Expectant children decorate their Christmas tree
Offerings to the tree are made
Garlands, lighting and hand drawn images appear
The tree wide awake for Christmas eve
I slumber through the years
Nemeton am protected
My girth eternally expanding
Limbs branching out
Tap roots secure my soul
My time in earth is soon to finish
So I must prepare
Engage thru progenitors
Meditating joy to spread
Contemplation of upheaval to come
A sleigh draws up
Snow crystals fly with the driver’s sneeze
Smiling and doffing an elven hood
A tingle to my core
Arousing me from my sleep
Its time to pull myself from the earth clutches
I sprawl onto the sleigh
Arrive we do below an aurora borealis
Elves hold leashes to the solar winds
Empty boxes are being piled high on the sleigh
The elf starts to dress me
Two large baubles
A large red blanket and belt
Moccasin boots
I stand transformed
Reindeers hooves dig into the snow
Whilst solar tethers are attached
Climbing pulled by the solar sail
Time starts to slacken
Waving elf’s below now frozen in time
The silver light of sleeping homes appear below
A cousin opens a window
Enchanted boxes I pass across
Children's aspirations start to appear
Each box now filled by a touch of their tree
The sleigh knows where to go
Reaching all my house bound cousins
Carrots will be welcomed
Drinks duly absorbed
No advent signs left behind
Returning the sleigh lands gracefully
Time resumes
My work is done
Love is strengthened for this world
The friendly elf delicately removes the traces of Christmas from me
Natures embalming bio-presence
I am re-formed
Unable to plant my feet I am spent
I lay down along with all my Christmas cousins
Await my renascence
Soon the wishes of many
Come true
The gifts are being opened
An outbreak of happiness unveiled
Affection unfolds with the opening of a box
Many will not have a Christmas tree
Or a home
Maybe sick
Or have no parents
Think of them this Christmas day 🧑🎄
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 9:17 AM UTC
The State of the Art
by Michael R. Burch
Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?
Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?
Shall poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?
Keywords/Tags: poetry, art, rhyme, reason, meter, form, sonnets, fire, passion, Latin, stale, outdated, past, tense, readers, readership
The Stake
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love, the heart bets,
if not without regrets,
will still prove, in the end,
worth the light we expend
mining the dark
for an exquisite heart.
Originally published by The Lyric
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 4:27 AM UTC