"sconce" poems
A beacon of light in darkness
Radiating its energy
Defining each object in its colors
Standing out from all others
Emitting rays of hope
Fails me not on stormy nights
Burning bright and glimmering
Through the sconce on the wall
The lamp, like a shining star
Brings warmth to my soul
© 2004 - Pres Hello-Poetry.com - All Rights Reserved
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 6:40 AM UTC
My hands around your heart,
grip ceasing pulsation,
dying sconce, ember fades.
Convulsion, revulsion,
pathetic emotive,
response contradiction.
Electrically impulsive
transmission flat lines addiction,
and radiates into ether.
© Copyright Mr. James P Machen 26/08/2014 for viewing only. May not be replicated.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
passerby words plain hidden
in a wall sconce of a
fly-bye compliment,
sent to the thankee intended,
creating an instantaneous,
Slam! Bam! Thank You Man!
yeah come , face slap me,
with open palm instant recognition,
there's a poem lurking therein, within,
that uncommonly good common observation,
like hearing a drill bit roar,
demanding with insistent persistent demandation,
"come out, come our, wherever you are"
the good lord makes 'em in
all kinds of shapes and flavors
then makes sense, most eminent,
to favor the good kind,
who go on marching in our number,,.
no claim here to good,
certainly not, sainthood,
that would be quite the hoot,
so settle, man, do settle
in and for the right kinda,
nothing could be finer,
than to be
in the company
of
my kin and kindred,
the kindest,
y'all
God bless all...
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:33 AM UTC
Wanted to get drunk today.
WANTED TO WRITE TEN POEMS.
None of this happened, but the postman brought letters.
I opened them.
Skin felt absent on the occipital lobe.
Where amber, silica, sconce, crackle, glass exploded.
Lifted pillow 'bove my head.
Gravity took its power. Hold, sand shard dust and vase piece,
in my bed.
Wanted to sit in the park.
WANTED TO MAKE TEN ******* POEMS.
Needed a six foot tall model by my side,
in the windy park in the sunlight.
Children needed to dance around.
Wanted to see them puke up happiness.
On swingsets/marygorounds.
Wanted to be their fathers.
WANTED TO BEAT UP THEIR FATHERS POEMS.
Wanted to the cops to catch me.
Slaughter pigs, drink their blood.
Wanted lost in wanting.
WANTED TO BE BETWEEN HER LONG SOOTHING POEMS.
Wanted to clutch pretty.
Needed something like love...
or like drunk.
Needed to buy a forty today.
NEEDED TO COUGH UP WORD THROAT.
80 will do. If you have the proof
This didn’t happen. Instead,
I
Sat
Inside
And
Choked
On
My
Own
Enunciated
Emaciated
Words.
The poems never come out right anyways.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
A figment of fictition
So persistent in perdition
Little distant,
Little hat trick
Lay her down upon my mattress
I spit hot glue
whether or not I ought to
It's never thought through,
never bought new
I never sought another off-tune
Sound
I'm perfectly happy with my own.
And life's an acquired taste (bittersweet trainwreck)
Just like a whiskey flavored sno-cone
So just
Relax.
Take your bags off and lean back
Discheveled chivalry,
Burning bush,
Uttered simile
Muttered quickly
In a sea of young blood and old trees
Just try and make a meek response,
recompose your shattered sconce
Redirect it all deliberately
with my newfound friend tenacity
I report a list of casualties
after a hurricane of history
Recurring dreams are haunting me
Face-to-face with Mephistopheles
Which I ponder in all honesty.
Should I fear the devil within,
even if I don't believe in him
or is it enough
that he believes in me?
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
I watch each of them eat
i watch each of them drink
i watch them all sink
i watch them sleep away
while walking,
zombie,
with the same placid easy
expression
ornamenting their face, handing chandelier face paint
a sconce on a wall i am
or in a chair
as they ensconce themselves into another job
another school another group
talk, about, important ****
like a book
a clothes piece
a hair dye
clouds
universe
opening wide
revealing a void of absence
this makes me not closed
no closure
i want all their minds
to be present, i want
a
few people, around me.
they're stumbling off a plank of, mind, intellectual existence into
an ocean of jobs cars new ethics and things they wont get.
i'm trying to jump out of a swimming pool of truth,
out of,
existence.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
I've been barreling across oceans
lately.
Across blue and green
and salty winds
(my hair in a mass,
as I
sail, sail, away)
I've been closing my eyes and tearing
over waves.
barely letting the foam brush
my toes
(a tingling tickle, that I
choose to
ignore).
ignore
so many times that I
can't turn around and go back
and hold a sconce to my ear and hear the
ocean anymore.
I've become a desert snail.
Trudging through the sand
(so hot it
scorches
my stomach
and
I can
almost
hear you laughing)
up hills, up hills I go
of burning sand
(they're coals)
and I feel it underneath
my fingernails
as I climb
I climb
I climb
where I can almost touch the sun.
where I can feel the warmth of kindness on my face
again.
where I can imagine your eyes
the color of a garden snake
the cruelty of a garden snake.
In my shell,
I hear no ocean.
I've become a desert snail.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
A man I knew once
Of nobility and pitiless prose
Forked tongue, a mind who blunted those of ferrous wits
A soul nurtured by the forest ewe
Adverting stimuli, in solemnity he sits
A flicker of passion in his throat arose
Promptly licked by that silent promise
Condemned to obscurity, like firm soil he is composed
Ardent and sullen like any cracked timber,
He remains fixed, as the dead in peaceful slumber.
All and none, brothers of the pupil akin
The zenith of event, he has already been there
Visions of splendor, grandiose pulchritude, and ruin
Of his that mine eyes seek do not they dare
Of mine his eyes have never been so cursed
Blank but fruitful what glory he has seen
Of things beyond all mortal belief is he so well versed
Encased in lye and pewter flesh,
No hands were laid upon that sconce
Preserved in ****** garment, immune to life’s thresh
Did not he ignore a man, but rather lack response?
Him lacking had no name, but the case of which him befell
I called, ‘tis true, beckoned him here
And not a nod in my direction
Yet to beseech a brook at the chine of a knell
A thoughtless benediction
But deluded I, spent drunk immersion in this life
Drowned by rushing torrents and temporal maelstrom
A reward of prolix strife
My thoughts composed of endless lies, theories
Countless deeds of fitful right and wrong
Yet he, so pure, have thought nothing like myself
No speech to taint his canvas
Nay, he’s different, of this I’m sure
He’s not diseased, he’s not impure
For it is I, of adamant ardour,
Who should seek his mindful cure.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
The sconce on the wall
for crackling torches left burning for a returning
resents the assumption of infinite patience.
She's attached to an old brick wall;
not by affection, but by habit
and tools of the trade of attachment.
Occasionally-replaced simple screws worked into the bracket.
The wall is as dusty to touch, as divisive
as a tome of records, of laws of old.
The sconce respects history-- wishes more would become antiquity.
Knowing every flame left ardently lit, eventually burns out.
While here she stays.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
*Across a looking glass pond -
facing zephyr music revelry
Atop paint-by-number artworks , leaves
in brotherhood with perfect rainbows ,
shine on midday tall 'Lantern of God' ,
ruminations of a change in season , of
eventide convocations with the North Star
and frosted narrows , October operas of
wind carillon and songbird , golden bottom
land misty coming of nightfall , the sconce
of The Little Dipper and Orion , of woodland
diapason , timely Whipporwill and Thrush* ...
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
The art invention AI, the Allsay, I'll-gorithm,
Aiaia ai
let me say this is poetry, I did not write,
but found
enlightening:
*dhe-
*dhē-,
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to set, put."
It forms all or part of:
abdomen; abscond; affair; affect
(v.1) "make a mental impression on;"
affect
(v.2) "make a pretense of;"
affection; amplify; anathema; antithesis;
apothecary;
artifact; artifice;
beatific; benefice; beneficence; beneficial; benefit;
bibliothec;
bodega; boutique;
certify;
chafe; chauffeur;
comfit; condiment; confection; confetti; counterfeit;
deed; deem; deface; defeasance; defeat; defect; deficient;
difficulty; dignify; discomfit; do (v.);
doom; -dom;
duma;
edifice; edify;
efface; effect; efficacious; efficient;
epithet;
facade; face; facet; ******
-facient;
facile; facilitate; facsimile; fact;
faction (n.1) "political party;"
-faction;
factitious; factitive; factor; factory;
factotum; faculty; fashion; feasible; feat; feature;
feckless; fetish;
-fic;
fordo; forfeit;
-fy;
gratify;
hacienda;
hypothecate; hypothesis;
incondite; indeed; infect;
justify;
malefactor; malfeasance;
manufacture;
metathesis;
misfeasance;
modify; mollify;
multifarious;
notify;
nullify;
office; officinal;
omnifarious;
orifice;
parenthesis;
perfect;
petrify;
pluperfect;
pontifex;
prefect;
prima facie;
proficient; profit; prosthesis; prothesis;
purdah; putrefy;
qualify;
rarefy;
recondite; rectify; refectory;
sacrifice;
salmagundi;
samadhi;
satisfy;
sconce;
suffice; sufficient;
surface; surfeit;
synthesis;
tay;
ticking (n.);
theco-; thematic; theme; thesis;
verify.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by:
Sanskrit dadhati "puts, places;"
Avestan dadaiti "he puts;"
Old Persian ada "he made;"
Hittite dai- "to place;"
Greek tithenai "to put, set, place;"
Latin facere "to make, do; perform; bring about;"
Lithuanian dėti "to put;"
Polish dziać się "to be happening;"
Russian delat' "to do;"
Old High German tuon,
German tun,
Old English don "t
dondiddondondon just the facts.
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 4:45 PM UTC
I'm fine"
The response,
a sconce.
People echo this to escape the outcry.
The cry they hold on to tightly behind that damaged brick wall
they use to stall.
Only the holder knows the deceive,
while people around them believe.
I'm not fine; I’m hanging by a thread, so thin,
With the weight of the world pressing down from within.
This fragile line frays, I can feel it unwind,
While tangled webs clutter the depths of my mind.
Empty yet twisted, so fragile, so tight,
In a space that feels hollow, with barely a light.
"Will I ever break free? Will I make it alive?"
These questions keep echoing, trapped in my mind.
Instead of a rise, I'm caught in a dive,
Descending a staircase, steep and unkind.
"Am I fine?"
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 1:19 PM UTC
i see a figure in the dark
talons clasped
dripping in blood
rust
& vermillion
staggering at tearing
exaggerating an overarched tell
a blatant question
how are you
i see a blind mandala
prayer hands clasped
dripping in tears
of pure salinity
& surging tides
bow hunting in the dark
flowing outward unto a convex well
a patient response
i don’t care
I see a tanned ***** bone
lower limbs clasped
dripping in lubrication
of creme
& fresh pressed juice
mindful of one moment
misandry in this
a hesitant sconce
i need you
i see crows feet
sickly skin
of snow & sleet
i see a son becoming his father
love of the climb
addicted to the fall
from a widows peak
i see all of this
& yet
i am blinded by every her
after all
half the battle is in the dark
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
Deep within this flute of bone
Within this drum of skin
There's a war that's rising up
A battle will begin.
A war which has no victims
A fight no one can lose
It is the conflict of the heart
The heart of the abused.
A warhorse in armor
A champion in chains
We have fallen VERY low
Blood coursing
Down our manes.
The stain upon the spoils
A crying crimson curse
To those who have abused us
The subjects of our verse.
We put pen to paper
With our dark puce ink
We aim our silver bullet
And make our reader THINK.
With tempered steel
swords we wield
The plunder of our youth
We, as valiant knights of old
Slay dragons with
The TRUTH!
How innocence was
brought to naught
Our soul a waxy taper
Guttering upon its sconce
Our hearts becoming vapor.
But the One who
fights the BEST
Has given me a lance
And so I fight...
so i write
He's given me a chance!
Strength, the very
atmosphere!
Courage as the air!
A living hell
becomes a well
Its ink is my despair...
O come! You demons
of the drought!
You minions of the mind!
You will try...
but you will DIE!
Your fate will be unkind!
I said there was no victor?
I'm telling truth, you see.
No one is truly vanquished...
The enemy was ME.
Cathy Jarvis
November 10, 2018
Revised March 21, 2019
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 3:38 AM UTC