"schist" poems
Douro Valley wine Trip
As far as you can see,
Douro Valley for you and me,
Terroir covered with colored terraces up the hill,
Baron Forrester was made of God Will.
Vines flourish in schist as in paradise,
English friends here you can find.
Treasures that nature give to us for free,
Douro Valley for you and me.
The trains and boats near the river for trade,
Port wine is divine and so well made.
Love for people with great hospitality,
Douro Valley for you and me.
The harvest time without an end,
Douro valley loves you my friend.
Lost horizon that you can see,
Douro Valley for you and me.
Warmest regards.
Victor Marques
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 4:09 AM UTC
Gray eyes
Sometimes blue
Sometimes green
Mostly slate, no phyllite
Sometimes schist
And sometimes, when all other hope is gone
Shale
Crooked nose
Broken, bloodied
Put a band-aid on it
It's still proud
Proof of heritage and blood
High cheekbones
Finely sculpted
Match the proud nose
Thin lips
Pink, not red
Set in a straight line
Seldom smiling
Sometimes laughing
Broad shoulders
Strong arms
A chest that contains a heavy heart
Pianists fingers
Long and slender
Nimble
Quick
Bound by a ring on the left hand
Scars
Powerful legs
Sprinters feet
Bad knees
Scars
Things in between
Head and feet
Don't quite belong
But over time
Are no longer noticed
See the soul
Not the body
Live happily
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
A knave to hold a soft core;
Schist, basalt, limestone!
A cross, kaleidescoping until it's square then into a passkey.
Solids, Solipsis, a patterned plane was your gift, almost as cruel as mine.
Given me, as due, for my recognition of your soul.
Your belief is a gaes, almost as burdensome as your mistrust.
A blindside for a blindside.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:34 AM UTC
An ode to my long and satisfying relationship with the product of Portugal’s Douro Valley.
Golden amber, smokey smooth
Rich with pleasured bite
Spreading warmth to ample girth
The brandy’s fine tonight.
Dustless, standing on my shelf
Bathing in half light,
Golden highlights shadow deep
Paints Douro Father's right.
Born amidst the hills of schist
On vines that root in rock
In patterns neat and quite arcane
Of ancient grappa stock.
Old men sit by river barge,
Mustachioed and wise,
To argue politics and sip
God’s amber nectar prize.
Tepid sun is setting low
To throw long shadows tight,
To bathe the vines of soft green tones
In liquid amber light.
Golden spirit, smokey smooth
Glows with silken light
Satisfaction’s spreading warmth
Paints Douro Father’s right.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
Sipping a tumbler of amber warmth in New Zealand’s Autumn sunset.
26 March 2012
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
Over untallied millennia,
roiling Gunnison waters
sliced through southern Colorado
schist and gneiss like a sabre -
carving tower walls of black rock
ribboned with tableaus of
pegmatite and mica flakes
flickering in the mid-day sun.
2,000 feet below, meandering
through its stark canyon walls
like some legendary serpent,
the Gunnison murmurs softly -
resting on its laurels.
Robert Charles Howard
September 2019
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 10:45 AM UTC
Full of bile and alcohol,
You travelled the gables
With each up and down
Mercilessly mimicking
The acidic spew
In your esophagus.
It was your birthday.
Instead, I was recognized,
Lolling in the limelight.
You sat surely stone-like.
A symmetrically sweating schist
In October's mild order,
Being ignored by our parents
Like their arthritis.
At dinner you ate wine and salt-water
From tepid tears trickling
Down the face of your crotchety alter-ego.
I had the pork-chops.
'Your present is in the mail',
I'd say, in feeble effort
To make you dry.
That was a lie;
One of the many you'd hear
Galloping out of my mouth
Before I ever was "brother" enough to say
'I love you'.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
I think I'll go for a walk
To myself I shall mutter and talk
I'll search high and low
And home I'll not go
Till I find the poem I sought
Shocking how the time goes
Like a river it flows and flows
It just disappears
Days become years
Where does it go, do you knows?
He found a rock, the geologist
Whose identity he missed
He thought it was gneiss
But when he looked twice
It was just a piece of schist
They found a bug to eat plastic
Which everyone thought was fantastic
But they started to frown
When their pants fell down
Because it ate the elastic
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 5:30 AM UTC
*Walk with me on stony hillsides
Walk with me in crags of schist,
Walk amongst Blue Borich carpet
Walk in lands of silver mist.
Feel the ancient history seeping
From the veins of shining stone,
Feel the company of Goblins
When you tread these paths alone.
Granite lattice work in marble
Layered from the depths of time,
Beauty and mystique and marvel
Walk with fear and awe, as mine.
Humble in these rugged mountains
Privileged to behold the scene,
I take my leave regretfully
For grandeur lives from whence I've been*.
Marshalg
Strolling through the ancient Schist in the bold, remote, magnificence of Central Otago.
10 September 2012
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
An uncanny and unfamiliar view: the sun gazing over the Sperrins.
Light granted sight and in the
smarting, sticky glow of day the range seemed endless.
Every peak,
protruding from plate like
vertebrae of the obscene Oilliphéist, aspired to pierce the clouds (had there been any) and
swelling like the ego of that Boeotian hunter, set Olympus and Rheasilvia to blushes.
An omnidirectional parsec of perpetual nihility that,
swallowing the senses,
renders proprioception void.
Everything suspended for a second or century under the watch of that inert sentinel, whose
magnitude mirrored the Cosmic Turtle.
Say some stray tenant of Mountsandel
had wandered through these ancient fields and looked, as I do, upon the eminence of this glen;
From now til then, this Precambrian master had aged but a second.
Words are feeble against this primordial Schist and cannot hope to evoke it.
But all perceived as hard then shifts; I see the hulk in its youth suffering
the divorce of Rodinia; drifting further from its peers – drowning.
Even now the car traced the scar carved in the little pinnacle.
Granted, it bore us tourists stoically on
Granite too pure for poetry.
Yet still I see, as clear as Sawel, the young stone struggling to breathe the noxious air;
Freezing and thawing with the trends of the earth and
Bearing it all alone.
No wonder it had become catatonic.
How fitting, that every traveller on their
commute between the Pillars of the North,
should be forced to stare
Eden
in the eyes and acknowledge
where
earth began.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
Scorpio
The aesthetics of masochism:
Finding happiness
In overwhelming
Pain’s sublime
Fighting tooth and nail
Out of mind
That and those who hail
To destroy him
That sign
Such anarchism!
He can hate to love
And even love to hate
Triggering passions
His joke. He enjoys
Being yours, yours entirely
But hidden, the scorpio
Will never admit
He can make you split
Like some shining schist
Engraved in hearts
The lover’s torment
Is stubborn inside
He finds a destructive bliss
In desire’s abyss
But his stinger
Points towards you, lover!
August 20, 2015
Translation
Oullins’ multimedia library
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
The white moon glows in the ashen skies
reflecting on the waves of the warmy river,
as green plants shake by the autumn breeze.
All of this motion is stalked by cats eyes
and earth slowly stops to spin and quivers,
now the river seethes by the rise of degrees.
Lime colored beaches tremble at morning
from the schist and rocks that break and fall,
seas and waters, looking like lemonade yellow
make meetings of men, that send the world a warning.
Fear and panic has left the authorities a shake up call,
making them realise the reality
of their actions influenced from below.
Phenomena of roaring thunders
when winter and icy snow falling.
Avalanches, earthquakes and tsunamis
make their rage calling.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 4:48 AM UTC
A whimsied notion, a full scented but invisible imagery,
a passing by, vagrant sensation, a distinctly indistinct memorization,
never certified, never was, yet always will be, stolid as mahogany,
two men
armed, engaged in, by, full embrace,
brothers but not brothers, friends in skins that never touched,
citizens of one continent united, yet each on a separate distant edge,
thus divided, thus impaired,
two islands,
both born and torn from one firmament,
each man,
firm in demeanor, infirm in wearied body,
their words were handshakes that bridged mountains and rivers
ranged and arrayed, as if the Creator created but to split them,
though clouded mists and rain squalls
from time to time obscured their vision,
belief was, that like the granite schist that bedrocked their common soil,
though quaked and fissured, the heat that united
and sometime cooled, their ardor, their pledge unspoken,
yet permanent and fixed like celestial combinations, the expectation,
their friendship
shall duly flame again
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
To Patrick Süskind, writer of The Perfume,
He leans over her
Admiring the fire of her rebellious hair
Asleep, sweet child
Her body, temple of the most exquisite perfume
Getting drunk on her delight
He tries to **** this about to live madness
Rising up, oh cruel
He plans to lethally hurt her!
Another desire, inside, gushes
For he doesn’t want her to suffer
His lips burning of her, madness!
He’d rather be lenient…
She rolls over, for her he fell
He drops his hammer and her grave
He leans in closer, lover
Her eyes open, he looks at her, charmed
Mouth tight shut, lost inside him
She knows he’s the thief of the night
Three feet away from her eyes
He has to possess her for his tragic project
Lull settles in, she says:
“You’ve come to take my life’’
He smiles, she grabs his hand
And brings him to her red-hued lips
“Laura, I am Jean Baptiste
Senses will be my tomb
I screamed, organic, garbage from the market…
Broken, born almost dead, scattered like schist.’’
“Jean Baptiste, come here’’
“Sweet ****** I’m only sombre ashes
My body only knows the twig
By your perfume only can my heart rise…
No love is that strange.’’
“So I’m yours, divine
Drink my wine to the hilt’’
“Angel, forgive me for what I must do’’
He throws his vest on the ground
Unveiling his skinny self
He is stark naked, she is dreamy.
He lifts the covers, dreading his own gestures
As soon as he’s laying next to her
She softly skims his chapped lips
He answers, babbling
The moon is above them, entangled.
He can’t stop his fingers
On her naked skin wanting him
For no cloth, no silk
Can’t protect her, she isn’t escaping
Her scream in his kiss he takes her
She’s a woman in a blasting fury
On some supple Asian cushions
Her blood slides, fertile, drunk Muse…
He’s already asleep on her hip
He equally adores her curves and her sip
He caresses her white gorgeous chest
Swiftly slays her and,
Lays her down waiting for the blame
Crying, but he has to leave her.
Translated on August 8, 2015
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
fleeting moments disappear
along with the cowering darkness of air
the light stings and you may be tormented by fear
but above all else, a sun has risen
and i will you to stay alive
terrible thoughts scratching at the base of your mind
you drown them with effort and begin to rewind
the foreshadowing of a deathly midnight seems unkind
but you will be set free at last
and i will you to stay alive
be proud for all you can know will be missed
the temporary permanence of all that exists
the night will fall, your terror will turn to schist
gripping at your collar while you hope you’re not the only one
who wills you to stay alive.
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC