"sanctuaried" poems
The brute beauty of what I saw before me consumed my body,
I couldn’t look away.
A long narrow winding path of gravel and dirt,
Surrounded by hills of blueberry patches on either side.
Sanctuaried by the cold familiar wind.
The storming sea sat in front of me roaring against the rocky beach,
Listening to harmonious thundering of the waves,
The sun darted across the water,
As I lie back in the grass.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
How can it be that life should be so sweet
What could I've done to earn this greatest gift
That I should have this rarest chance to meet
A soul so kind, who opens up her heart.
Their arms forever opened to embrace
Their words forever ready to uplift
Even her home, that sanctuaried place
Left open-doored to friends who go adrift.
Their voice they raise to advocate for change
To validate, they spread not hate, but love
She lives her life without a trace of shame
She must have been a gift sent from above.
No words I speak nor write could manifest
A friend like her; she really is the best.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
i do struggle to not make your tongue sour with this periodic harassment & dissonant conceit but i am compelled at last by the scarcity of savages who can see me in this desert. less feral & more clergy, the fabled selves of the world would be sanctuaried from my psychiatric violence. well attired passions always smell of fear & derision, further, & no less vile, arrogance & stupidity are known to capacitate spasmodic unceremonious coquetry. yes my mouth is a scavenger’s, but privation & dissatisfaction by design turn coat on the very messianic puppetry which their compulsory public refusal
had initially engendered. welcoming calamity i prey & arrow from afar & go on proving my self wrong in one last alexandrian charge to certify my renowned demise. no tricks or perversions barring what’s customary amongst outlaw noblesse. oh & do regard this new color on my face, & if you would, please, stop turning yours away from mine.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
A toad the power mower caught,
Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got
To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him
Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade
Of the ashen and heartshaped leaves, in a dim,
Low, and a final glade.
The rare original heartsblood goes,
Spends in the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows
In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies
As still as if he would return to stone,
And soundlessly attending, dies
Toward some deep monotone,
Toward misted and ebullient seas
And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia's emperies.
Day dwindles, drowning and at length is gone
In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear
To watch, across the castrate lawn,
The haggard daylight steer.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC