"sequestered" poems
Come on my Love! Let us move to the East
Where the sun resurrects after his interim death
Where darkness first gives way to light
And life renews itself every morn
Look to the East beyond those crooked hills
Where poplars grow tall in line
And wild weeds hem the edges of pathways
Where bunnies and squirrels hop and jump
And merrily run round the trees
Where the wind moves whistling through bamboo reeds
Where the laughing cataract leaps down from the rocks
And flow along in silvery rills
Where the languorous breeze plays upon the leaves
Away from the tumult, far from the crazy crowd
With the pandemonium of the world
Hushed to serene silence
Let us move to that sequestered glade
Of perennial greenery,
through the sunlit grove
Where we shall walk hands locked
Till the bright day gives way to dusky night
Inhaling night air in scented perfume
Under the stillness of a star lit sky
Through moon blanched woods, mysterious
Listening to the sweet whispering of our soul
And ‘drinking life to the lees’ from the chalice of love
Oh! Come on,
Let us not tarry…. Let’s go!
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
Miscommunication
serendipity, anticipation,
blurred reality -
lost in the dialect
of a dream,
in pursuit
of Love
find callous irony;
subversion of desire
what's it all about?
to know and be known.
Mere seconds
of scrutiny
inferior,
I am shown.
Her appraisal
eviscerating
my warm flesh,
her tilted criteria
supplanting the interior,
voluble with
saccharine neologisms
and preferences
for the exterior.
(not mine)
Ironic was my
attraction to
her brain.
Lines, features
and symmetry,
image - the commodity,
aesthetics, the
currency
in this transaction,
cursory liaison,
incendiary,
collapse of the
insurgent ego -
there was no
us in the
the affair of
nothingness.
Bruised in
abasement,
I'm not the one -
I thought I was.
Hyperbole -
the center
of delusion,
a curious
diversion -
avoid my life.
The allure of
the illusion,
transference,
the ordinary to
the romantic,
the perfect other.
Searching, the
absorbing project -
aquiring wholeness,
did she reject me?
I rejected me.
The escape into
fraudulent
sadness,
to mourn,
is to displace,
the disowned heart
by self is tragic.
Should
I not mourn for
the one I'm
deferring?
Inside of me
It's safe,
to lament
the loss of
identity -
tension is agony
without resolve
sequestered,
in my pain,
self-imposed
familiar terrain,
upon retrieval,
awaking in
renewal,
mystery and destiny
providentially,
I am free.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
1540
As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away—
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy—
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon—
The Dusk drew earlier in—
The Morning foreign shone—
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone—
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.
5.4k
There came an image in Life’s retinue
That had Love’s wings and bore his gonfalon:
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon,
O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue!
Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to,
Shook in its folds; and through my heart its power
Sped trackless as the immemorable hour
When birth’s dark portal groaned and all was new.
But a veiled woman followed, and she caught
The banner round its staff, to furl and cling,—
Then plucked a feather from the bearer’s wing,
And held it to his lips that stirred it not,
And said to me, ‘Behold, there is no breath:
I and this Love are one, and I am Death.’
5.1k
A few things for themselves,
Convolvulus and coral,
Buzzards and live-moss,
Tiestas from the keys,
A few things for themselves,
Florida, venereal soil,
Disclose to the lover.
The dreadful sundry of this world,
The Cuban, Polodowsky,
The Mexican women,
The ***** undertaker
Killing the time between corpses
Fishing for crayfish...
****** of boorish births,
Swiftly in the nights,
In the porches of Key West,
Behind the bougainvilleas,
After the guitar is asleep,
Lasciviously as the wind,
You come tormenting,
Insatiable,
When you might sit,
A scholar of darkness,
Sequestered over the sea,
Wearing a clear tiara
Of red and blue and red,
Sparkling, solitary, still,
In the high sea-shadow.
Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover--
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.
4.5k
Down a long lane
With a sunset in the west
Flowers here and there
Tall firs and pines
From in the distance
The song of a bubbling creek
Comes from the dark beautiful forest
Where shade mingles with twilight skies
Only the faint painting of a sunset
Is left in the celestial veil of
Sky now
Slowly the colors
Bleed and fade
Then suddenly all together vanish
As I walk down this lane
Listening to the evening sounds
Crickets, cicadas, and katydids
The song of the whippoorwill
And the solo of the wood thrush
Makes me dance alone
On that long lane
Now I skip and now I jump
And now I twirl around
'Til I make my way to that sequestered cottage
That makes beauty sing
And happy tears cry
Some say it's just a cottage
Nothing fancy or grand
But in my heart I know
That this cottage is
A Home Sweet Home indeed
And I will always remember
This scene I created and painted in my head
Perhaps this painted journeys
Will help my broken heart heal
And my broken wings mend
Whenever I think of
Sunset Cottage
~Marian~
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
Shhh.
Silence.
The red robed supplicants
Are sequestered
Inside the Sistine.
They speak
In silent supplications
To the spirits
To pronounce a Pontiff.
The stewards are set
To send the smoke.
The smoke
That must be white.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC
Sequestered stream flows tranquil
It’s journey from an unknown origin
Traveling through varied landscapes
Carrying stories from lands afar
Listen to faint murmur with keen ears
Narrates the stories from its chronicle
You, an unknown traveler, alone
Waiting by its side to drink from the stream
To quench the thirst that’s within
The contradictions and distractions
Casualties of the unrelenting world
Finally, your steps have led to this stream
It flows, in spite of the challenges
Cuts through every hurdle with resolve
The messenger carries stories and life
Breathing life with its tranquil presence
Drink from the stream, replenish your resolve
Think not of the hurdles and distractions
You are to flow through this life
Carrying the anecdotes and memories
Be like the stream, and rejuvenate every life
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
***The mountains raise their heads
To look up to the sky
Looking to kiss the eternity
Searching for the soft caress of clouds
And soothe the upheaval it went through
First drop of rains anoint the rugged surface
The sequestered waterfall cascades down
And adorns the mountainous terrains
Covering it with the soft velvety green
Enthusing life into the once lifeless rocks
Once among the rubble
The mountains have found their place of glory***
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
If I ever had a pedal harp
You'd be the first
I'd play it to
You'd be the first
To hear me pluck
My harp strings
May your heart strings
Play the finest melody ever
And may your life always be
The most surreal orchestra
I hope you don't leave here
May the Fairies dry your tears
And wipe your pretty blue eyes
If I ever had a viola or a violin
You would be the first to hear it
And I would teach you how to play it too
But since I don't have those instruments
All I can play for you is the piano
And I admit, I am not that good at it
If I ever wished a million wishes
And all of them came true
I would share them all with you
You are the world's greatest Dad
And I love you
And so does God and all of His Angels and Fairies
I hope you awaken to bluebells kissed with dew
And fields full of blooming flowers
And red crimson sunsets
Overlooking the beautiful ocean
That I talk about in my poems
Surrounded by palm trees
And gritty sand
And sandy seashells
Breezes tasting like coconuts and salt
I hope you awaken to sunrays
Glistening on the forest floor
And shining across that sequestered path
Take my hand and walk with me
And I'll wish you the sweetest of dreams
Dancing ferns, and lacy-green palms
Waltzing Fairies, and flying birds
Adorable Flamingoes
Mossy islands
And beautiful waterfalls
Bubbling creeks
And tall, tall mountains
Like the finest patchwork quilt
Singing rills
Sparkling snowflakes
And beautiful ocean treasures
All of it I'd wish in your dreams
The song of the pedal harp lulling you to sleep
Along with the majestic songs of the double bass
I love you, Dad and always will
~Marian~
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
Bunkered--
that's how they are now...
my soft places once shared with you
sequestered, behind barricades of knowing.
When you sold me out, did you think I would not find out?
My spirit wails at what is lost, the wall between us...
Fire, revenge? Nay, a knife will not assail you--
I refuse to be like you.
Oct 31, 2023
Oct 31, 2023 at 4:22 PM UTC
The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.
Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,
Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.
Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.
that is me,
is that me?
Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.
Can they unlock me too?
Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...
Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.
Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,
*that is me,
is that me?*
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.
These are moments I would give up.
There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword
torn from the comforts of an idle home
Against both will and wish into the forge
Mere foot to pedal unshackles the horde
onto that which was ****** into the dome
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword
Crude earth melts into an effulgent form
that once cooled will become harder than stone
Against both will and wish into the forge
Burning is sequestered by drowning boards
that go unnoticed but for hissing moan
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword
New pain begins despite what came before
anvil and hammer fashion the unknown
Against both will and wish into the forge
Those who endure will still need to be honed,
to be, of their own soul, the highest lord.
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword,
against both will and wish into the forge
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Calabash Squash
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
entry for a contest...rhythm
Hip- hop jury swapped
Hippity- hoppity sequestered they stop
Bibity- bobity alone on the cobblestone.
falling in- falling over
The balcone wailing, and buckets pailing, and hailing, and
Scaling
The walls and ramparts the cannons were whaling
Moby dicking and schlicking the schlock of the clock… hickory dickery ..where is the Doc?
Blind mice made the move..up one "grandfather side.
... and
Over the top .
Now wasn’t that a quainty dish to set before the Queens …
in drag
© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
Cast in the direction
of my solitary dream
Haste by temptation
in a sequestered gleam
Gone but of mercy
from the vanquished heart
Love turned to lust
til death do us part
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
1289
Left in immortal Youth
On that low Plain
That hath nor Retrospection
Nor Again—
Ransomed from years—
Sequestered from Decay
Canceled like Dawn
In comprehensive Day—
1.9k
You would love me more
if you knew
the things I don't say
love me more
for the tears repressed/unseen
the thoughts that rise
yet fast sequestered,
virus quarantined,
lest infection spread
occasional
moan groan
an Ebola moon June
escapes,
inquiring ears overhear
and ask...
but quick deflected
with a
** hum,
nothing luv,
pushed back into
the hidey hole of opprobrium
and acid reflux
why why
suppress
if loving you better
the net net of it?
this is not the candy coated,
but the coal glow strife
that cannot be
quenched nor
solved with
anti-pain
meds
so put away, aside,
push back inside
you would
love me better
for the sharing,
but love me enough
for the be I be,
let my roughened edged pains,
be buried with my remains
a love unfettered
will place no obstacle
before you
from within me
love me for the man I am,
just the average man iam,
knowing that not knowing all,
not a deceit,
but a reprieve,
what I share,
strained and sleeved,
tho unrelieved,
it is relief
that burdens but,
only me
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
You always burn me
I never even turned the heat up once
But you kept burning me
Why do you burn me so much?
I never wanted to be the victim of this
I never instigated an Agni Kai match between anyone
But your flames still ignite my soul
Not in the other ways I've experienced
But this is far from the abnormal
Every day i think about why they burn me
I'm never going to stop
Being who i am
For something so meager in statements
I will not be punctual for your cut downs
I will only be punctual for others who deserve it and for myself
This is the next trimester and i'm giving birth to my new breath of fresh air
Go ahead and try to rampage my cities, but you will be sequestered and tranquilized
Sent back into the ocean
Where you belong
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.
1.7k
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring’s unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year’s friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
1.6k
The seven day prayer candle burned out
seven days ago, and the twisted blinds
are held together with chopsticks and moving tape
after snapping in an unresolved haunting.
The nights enter like gemstones and exit like rabbits.
Truth sequestered from skin; I get a haircut
instead of another tattoo.
While shaving my neck with a straight razor,
the bald Albanian barber asks me:
"Which is scarier: people or mirrors?"
Before I could reply he shook his head:
“Trick question. They are the same thing.”
Walking home, I tore up the if-I-die note I had hidden
in my back pocket, and taught the pieces to dance
to the silence of buckshot screaming into a black hole.
The choreography was as patient as pregnant pauses
breathing into paper bags.
To the neighbors, smoking cigarettes on their stoops,
the shredded paper just looked like litter.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC