"revery" poems
*coloured flames and fireflies dance mischievously around our heads
to the tiny trumpetsong of bees Joyous songs of love lulling all in revery yet silent to
mere mortals as We only hear the hush of whispered sighs stood beneath the dappled canopy of
ancient fair oak spread As sweet twilight greets us again swathing our Ianthe in milky moonlight
as she rests upon a dew jewelled knoll still dreaming of fae Unaware of the cold (or the warmth
you hold in your heart for her) She smiles as you cover her shoulders with a elven~made
blanket of gossamer wisp whilst estivating toads blink wide in the coolness of hidden
mossy beds Gently,
sweep the droplet
of Au from her eye, Deva,
as we cough etheric dust from our lungs,
sparkles floating
in the paper-
lantern light
scattering across
the midnight sky,
illuminating fates,
as those fire-flies hearts
twinkle like falling stars unseen*
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
1628
A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork
Without a Revery—
And so encountering a Fly
This January Day
Jamaicas of Remembrance stir
That send me reeling in—
The moderate drinker of Delight
Does not deserve the spring—
Of juleps, part are the Jug
And more are in the joy—
Your connoisseur in Liquours
Consults the Bumble Bee—
4.3k
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
1755
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
3.7k
1359
The long sigh of the Frog
Upon a Summer’s Day
Enacts intoxication
Upon the Revery—
But his receding Swell
Substantiates a Peace
That makes the Ear inordinate
For corporal release—
3k
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
When the shy star goes forth in heaven
All maidenly, disconsolate,
Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be
Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover's chant,
'Tis I that am your visitant.
2.3k
he ran away from his unborn child,he thought in his mind he was too young to raise a young child,couse he also was a child.
All he wanted was to be free,young and wild.
As he took two steps back he felt relief,then he believed he could leave,so he left with his believe.
Runing away was like runing to jail he knew not.
Planing to go in drunkiness and in revery that two he knew not.
The mind kept spreading more lies to the morning bread he eated,he was just too weak so his heart was defeated.The unborn child forgotten.The weeping girl weeped and whipe hear tears,but his memory remaind,a picture of him that can never be ereased,that each and every thought of the child evoked the unbearable feelings,the bast of fury flames touring her mind,shouts encrepted in the her heart,on the bed twisting n turning,wakin and sleeping but still she found no rest,internaly bleeding,emotional abused by his pictures
then she thought
thought that abortion might be the solution to the situation that she is in.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
terrible machines slipstream the extreme in-between where they grind the invalid star heaps into dust
there, they spike the lion's paw of life's Sphinx, methinks it winks at God's Riddle, and twiddles a thumb of some god, in a sky pod of dead people, hording jasmine and madness and pancakes, upon the everlasting Maybach sedan with the chrome piping and the platinum plinth, regal in ice and fire !
what aspires must be crushed into tiny little else. into neutrinos of speculation in the non rational abode of our most holy joke. the spun spoke, in a wheel of cold lotus. we know this is not a dream without motive. we know this because we notice, know this because it's flawless, and flawless reveals a mind of terrible machines that slipstream the extreme in- between where they grind the invalid star heaps, into dust ! they might spike the lion's claw of Life's sphinx, where it thinks that most people are dead inside, that might can take a joke if joke is told in a void baritone with Gamelan Bells of Unbearable Revelation, the revery of a Greek nose on the face of a broken clock.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
I will only ever remember
stubby thumbs or your stubborn head,
and coconut-carved ridges in your paper-white teeth;
laser lights;
my pencil
covering the cliche of a hand hovering over my body;
of those breaths with a depth too recognizable
and the inflated patches so perfect under your eyes;
just to float in a revery of reconciliation,
sitting on the concrete as I cry with a shake in my body like the break of a wave
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
In a silent waking
I wish once to be swayed
Left with empty aching
My revery does fade
Biding ‘til the doors close
’Til I am left alone
All diction turns to prose
Voice but a pallid drone
I am a memory
One lost and not still missed
Curdled at your mercy
Hollow and unkissed
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
still as the wind
would allow me to be,
witnessing her
as vibrant
as only a dream
would seem.
eyes of green,
eyes of dream,
eyes of fading leaves
in a hot August sun.
still as the earth
would allow me to be,
absorbing her
as impermanent
as only a revery
could ever be.
eyes of green,
eyes of dream,
eyes of shaded clay
under blades of sage.
still as the fire
deep within my heart
could burn.
gazing longer than I should.
still as the the gentle ocean
of her chartreuse eyes,
reveling in her
marble meadow,
with those twin ponds
of green,
in a passe-partout of
ebony locks of wilderness.
gazing longer than I should.
gazing longingly
at her eyes of endless summer,
eyes of green,
eyes of dream.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 3:57 AM UTC
"two birthday presents are better than one"
sayings of the wise men
*"and what an honor it is, and how could we be anything greater
(than all too human)?"
R.A.*
~
for Rebecca, a birthday gift
~
a message of notification,
comes early one evening, an agent provocateur,
a paparazzi peeping tom,
a cat burglar presuming the poet-receiver nat is
a rat-man out and about, galavanting around town,
dancing perhaps, seeing a Pinter play, a movie,
a lecture on string theory, an underground railroad rock concert,
reading a book of priestly poetry, or himself,
lost in a mesmerizing revery of poetic composition
her question, a statement of fact, a reflection,
one or all, all for one, this pronunciation,
a witness deposition re the human condition
the man is knocked askew in about
an instantly,
sitting before the voluptuous fireplace's crackling complications,
fire sensing the multiples of implications,
contemplating the failing honor of human limitations,
sensing the uniqueness of our successes,
a claiming race prize
for all of we humans
in her words
now how great is this knowledge that we,
all to human,
all too human,
need let this then be the first
thought/ message/ notification -
meditation of our every day
that we honor ourselves first,
our upstart blessing,
in order to honor our world
and its bedazzling human creativity
~
We find our poems in many different ways. Of late,
I keep finding inspiration from the messages that many of you send to me, re the poems I choose to publish here. So I repeat my disclaimer, "any message you send can and will be used as a poem."
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 7:28 PM UTC
scarf hysteria friday,
thirteenth, even the spectators
joined in. unpacking the delivery.
polyester kept quiet with electrical
revery, silk excited us in with gentility.
it was the deepset , pleated, spotty,
adjective filled woollen slightly
felted, even reversable at such
a reasonable price, that sent us
over the edge. all was lost after that.
there are two ll s in woollen.
sbm.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
The wheels draw to a halt with an ominous screech,
Dazed, I look up from my broken revery;
Murmuring voices, shuffling footsteps alight,
A diffracted spectra, some dark, some bright.
To the windows shift my moony eyes,
As the engine spurts with a burst of life.
Through a tunneling limbo of seamless dark,
Slash ribbons of rail in swirls and arcs.
In this labyrinth, this state of oblivion,
Memories trickle, in ounces, in millions.
Lights of saffron on the arches bloom,
Will-o'-the-wisps, my conscience assumes.
Emerge awed, under a canopy of stars,
An infinity of dreams one could wish upon.
The country bathes in the moonlight deluge.
Utopia, I muse, for my poetic refuge.
The cosmos smiles, enchanting yet so strange.
Would we ever know why, if we weren't so vain?
Gold, moltened crimson, at the horizon streaks,
Warm like the dribble, of tears on one's cheeks.
The last station nears, the wheel rhythm slows.
I get up, wishing the end weren't so close.
The final chapter. Is there ever a further plot?
Perhaps, I decide, on another train of thought.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
God gave us the stars to shoot for
so we would have ***** other
than our sister or brother
eager to reach the shooting range we slammed the shuttle door
on our captain’s silver crown
in a sea spilling from His ichor
sack punctured by our hubris we drown-
memes and cat videos worth dying for
We set fire to the shuttle
gasp as our air begins to leave
Amazon(s) choose to scuttle
trees land and humans need to breathe
a musk most putrid rises as we cannibalize our space ex
who’s so far gone as to not come back
her zombie bridezilla tirade wrecks
our plan it removes futures from the trajectory track
God gave us the stars to shoot for
so we reduced our target to soot
we revelled in our high score
not feeling the pain in our shot foot
and the cats still in secret revery dance their funny jig
sardonic wit stuffed still in every blank screen -small or large-
on the skeleton of our ghastly ghost space rig
reduced to rubble by a friendly depth charge.
God gave us the stars to shoot for
it was we who chose to use a gun
we chose to ram through the door
not checking if it was open
God gave us the stars to shoot for
leaving the details for us to decide
rockets to be built to make war or explore
as shuttlecraft for a human slingshot ride
an arching advance into the beauties of
our Creator made for us to enjoy in love
~
NM
08/25/19
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 5:12 PM UTC
*He looked up into the grey sky
and decided: it's not time yet, I got time
and, shakig off the cold, massaging his hands,
he said: it should rhyme.
And thus he began:*
To fabricate the best amongst all the poems -
that is what I will do, and forget about the rest
and the empty phrases
that fill no cup and no page.
To make you wonder, and frown
and think: who is this?
This master of words, of letters,
What kind of bliss
is he blessed with?
Then also: to make you remember
my name and my word,
and the fame that so uplifted
my thoughts.
And: to remind you
of my soul and bones
when I shall be gone, and not long after that,
you will build a statue
of stone.
But before all that I will-
I must-
I should-
But where shall I begin?
Where shall I
begin?
*And you will put down your paper, your pen,
you will sigh, and know: all this was only a revery.
Then you will stand up, undress, stand naked in front of the mirror-
and dance.*
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
This repetitious revery is fluffy and flowery but LOVE is REAL...
It's formed by us and fitted to our forms. By us. But its form is defined and real.
It may have started off as fluffy as the air we breathe, filled with light and butterflies. But now it's mostly solid. It fits to me and fits to you and it doesn't float away when you blow it. It has weight and substance.
I think real love is a practical thing. Love is a miner, not an artist. It works hard. It grafts. It digs deep into you. It gets ***** but it keeps going. It's honest and straightforward but at the end of the day it still wants a cuppa 'n' a cuddle wi' its Mrs.
Love does change. It grows... but like a bramble, not a rose. A rose gives up too easily. A bramble pushes through, even on hard ground. It works it's way into every nook and cranny until you feel totally loved. It may die back in a hard winter, but it always stays strong and true and bears enough fruit to make a good pie at the end of a hard day's graft down t' pit.
Love is a feeling but it's more than that.
It's knowing that when I'm a stress head, you're concerned but not stressed.
It's knowing I make you smile.
It's when you text me in a morning and say exactly what I say to you.
It's that even though we're miles apart and haven't got a *** to **** in, we still make do
It's when you watch me sleep... and don't complain about me snoring
It's knowing you want tos duck me as much as I want to duck you
And our kids...
Our kids get along. I think yours are ace and my kids like you.
But it's even more than that...
I don't feel scared now. Not now I've got you love. Not now I've got you.
Because I love you **
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
On a chariot built on MRF,
Wearing jeans tapered;
She came along on the misty road,
To become the three day neighbour.
Seventy two hours,
Companionship formed on nerves.
The mountain boy saw
Perfection incarnate in the girl.
Giddiness was newfound freedom,
From the everyday, the mundane.
City girl, she with hair amber,
Object of desire she became.
A brave question burning holes;
Embers on his mind's hand.
He asked late, but in time,
"Where do our feelings stand?"
Rattled, she took a pilgrimage.
To the basketball court.
******* her eyes shut,
The biggest frog stuck in her throat.
Fifty seven minutes invested,
Pondering on this question.
Changing lives in the future,
Was then not thought, not mentioned.
"Yes", slow, measured response,
A jig for joy, delighting the teens,
Naivete thrives and blooms,
Where experience hasn't been.
Arms around her waist,
She let him feel like the one.
Their heads over heels,
Quickly, both made a run.
Breathing consciously,
The pair arrived at a Church.
Colonial structure, abandoned it beckoned,
An unbroken pew, his search.
He led her in, held her at
An arm's length.
Distance never crossed before,
His face came forward, an achievement.
And brushed softly
Against her mouth, his lips in trance.
He was sure when fire was found,
The Early Man danced the same dance.
Simple moment, evanescent,
It had to end of course.
Neither pulled back from the other,
Someone had opened the doors.
****** out of his revery,
Brought back to working cognition,
Realisation of the first kiss,
Dawned, it was beyond imagination.
Fourteen and in love,
Armed with a strong belief.
Life would never separate,
Him from the love he'd received.
Child, you were wrong
Says he, Seven years now dead.
Remembering the day she left,
A thousand tears were shed.
Impossible
Were his wishes gallore.
To find her, reach her, to hear
Her voice once more.
Years spent in isolation,
Anger and Hate never his friends.
How does one feel animosity,
When the heart wants amends?
Amber angel, if you ever see
The mountain boy, do reach out.
Never a need to make up for time lost,
But return the love he had found.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Back to the band
Its time to put this to an end
We are no more
Its what I don't need
Don't worry the score
A brief flash again in my life
A brief revival of what used to be
But I force myself to see through
Thoughts of a revival of me and you
Time to return from this mental revery
Time to return to what is important
Time for what's important to me
I'll stop thinking, let my mind go wander
You do your thing, pretend you're younger
I broke you then
No need to allow you to return the favor
Best of luck to you in life
I'll take my dice and run
Roll a chance on someone better understood
So its back to the band
Its back to where I began
Back to where I belong
Now you run along
I'm sure I'll see you in time
After what was has passed us by
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 3:33 AM UTC
Atticus Fife plundered his tomes and fondled his books with his milky eye. A shade of grey has crept into his blue, and The Help is more helpful as of late. He shuffles, having lost his gait, but never does he wander off... Atticus Fife glissandos over the parchments and leather-bound lungs. He inhales the Past; elated. His limp eyes galloping over the deserts of his un-simple mind, past the creekbeds of his revery, and the unspoken Hopes of his Frailty.
Atticus Fife, leads a very fine Life... Like a Destiny.
Or a lamb to the Doubt.
Happily.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
"Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that ***** gray turmoil to follow love and pride, a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken..."
"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all."
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
I sit before my window silent,
arms at rest upon the sill; I
sit and dream of silent things,
as the rain falls slanted upon
the gabled roof; winds sighing:
and watch the falling rain
appear, and silver streak the
window-pane. I sit and dream,
the world forgotten, and even
so do my dreamings change;
no more of sad forgotten silence,
color blooms behind my eyes,
and fills my mind with rainbow
light, shining, as the glow behind
the key-hole, as the blushing
dawn fresh washed in rain.
Thunder roars beyond
the pane, and lightning cracks
the sky in twain, but out of
revery, out of dream, I do
not wake for the crashing
din. Rather, then, in sudden
sequence, in a seconds flash
of swift cessation, no more of
color do I dream, no more
on rainbow laughing light,
but in the midst of a storm of
thunder, of lightning, and the
lashing rain, high above the
foundered land, I find myself:
and amidst all that raging
torrent, between the thunder,
and the wrath of Gods most
holy lightning, a single drop of
silver shining, strikes the
point between my eyes,
wherein the third sleeping
oculus of dream doth
dwell; and I wake. A leak
in the roof.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
I pushed you out,
And you let me out in the rain.
I took you back
And you pushed me out to sea.
Months later when I finally feel
That I've reached the shore
And have solid ground beneath my feet,
You knock me down,
Prove that is pure fantasy.
The invention of the siren song
Played to me in my revery.
I can see I'm still lost at sea.
I can never tell you how I feel.
I can never let you know
That I meant every word I ever said,
And that I'm still controlled by that in my head.
You turned away.
You let me out.
I have nowhere to go
And it still hurts inside.
It was wonderful to see you,
Even if I couldn't look at you.
It was a delight to be near you,
Even forced to ignore you as I was.
I do miss you, more than ever, more than even I know,
But it's something I must never tell you.
Never. I love you.
I hope I never see you again.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
To make, a
p r a i r i e,
it takes
a clover
and
one
bee, one
clover and,
a bee
and revery,
the revery -- alone
will do if bees,
are few…
Emily Dickinson
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC