"spangle" poems
1627
The pedigree of Honey
Does not concern the Bee,
Nor lineage of Ecstasy
Delay the Butterfly
On spangle journeys to the peak
Of some perceiveless thing—
The right of way to Tripoli
A more essential thing.
—
The Pedigree of Honey
Does not concern the Bee—
A Clover, any time, to him,
Is Aristocracy—
6.8k
Ah yes the evening has an ending like a Barbara Cartland novel
His eyes burned into hers like sapphires
Glazed with the amount of special brew he had necked watching Bolton wanderers.
They had won, so he fought with fans instead of the Mrs
In the pub after the game he saw his quarry
She was a prize
His strong arms unfolded, her softly yielding body helpless as she was being swept away on a tsunami of passion
Well dragged outside with a bottle of Auzzie white.
The black eyes from his earlier exploits reflected on his away team polyester shirt in the fluorescent lights of the pubs smoking area.
Then he dropped his pants revealing a porridge gun capable of crop spraying.
Moments later she was awash with a spermiferois goatie after almost choking herself on a double portion of spangle after it fired both chambers
It was love!
Then the bell for last orders sounded and he was lost as to walking the Bourneville boulevard with her or grabbing a last pint with his mates.
It had been a hard day
But a true hero he did the Captain Oates and left with her The promise of captain's pie and a scotch was on the cards back at her place
But her night of passion was not assured
If Dibnah **** didn't strike as his alcohol to blood ratio was in the wrong place.
On Monday he would be but a memory
Next week it's an away game
She will miss him
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
SOMEBODY'S little girl-how easy to make a sob story over who she was once and who she is now.
Somebody's little girl-she played once under a crab-apple tree in June and the blossoms fell on the dark hair.
It was somewhere on the Erie line and the town was Salamanca or Painted Post or Horse's Head.
And out of her hair she shook the blossoms and went into the house and her mother washed her face and her mother had an ache in her heart at a rebel voice, "I don't want to."
Somebody's little girl-forty little girls of somebodies splashed in red tights forming horseshoes, arches, pyramids-forty little show girls, ponies, squabs.
How easy a sob story over who she once was and who she is now-and how the crabapple blossoms fell on her dark hair in June.
Let the lights of Broadway spangle and splatter-and the taxis hustle the crowds away when the show is over and the street goes dark.
Let the girls wash off the paint and go for their midnight sandwiches-let 'em dream in the morning sun, late in the morning, long after the morning papers and the milk wagons-
Let 'em dream long as they want to ... of June somewhere on the Erie line ... and crabapple blossoms.
2.2k
Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
Or to seal up the sun.
No marigolds yet closed are;
No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherds’ star
Shine like a spangle here.
Stay but till my Julia close
Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
Itself to live or die.
2.2k
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
in the ambrosia of love, we'll ever combine
our melding shall sing, of an adoring boon
our endearing hearts, beating as one forever
streams of elation, speaking of this love boon
e'er embracing tightly, neath the stellar plains
that sparkling spangle, such a heavenly boon
ever we'll journey, the beloved road of sharing
honey syrup binding us, with a sublime boon
the cup of lasting love, brimming in rapture
twill be so superb, our lush evergreen boon
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Your skin was veneered in glitter and glass
That will surely shatter soon
And scatter and spangle across the evergreens
So you can’t lead me down to your garden path
Strip yourself from all your artifice
What are you?
I can see your misleading eyes
Across the dance floor
When this masquerade ball is over
Who will you be?
A fine damsel in distress
Maybe another skeleton in my closet
Or a succubus in my empty bed;
And no longer the monster underneath.
I took the risk and
Kissed your vinaceous lips
And so I got drunk
We entwined like vines on a trellis
The way we intersected unintentionally
But not impossibly
We’re like dangling strings of a violin
The way our melody remained unsung
Until now.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
There is a woman,
In years her sun is setting.
When it rises,
She wakes,
Gets out of bed,
Walks through hallways,
Out her front door,
Into her car,
In the backseat,
Where she goes back to sleep.
Why she does this, I don't know.
It has something to do with her fingernails.
She holds them in front of her,
Little ribbons of light emerge and weave themselves,
Until tangled and without direction,
Not without,
In every direction.
In the red back-light her silver hair becomes ablaze.
Extending from this fire that has no sentiment towards time,
Is an arm,
It has no joints and can only have it's palm facing up.
Cradled in the pit of infinite lifelines,
Are a set of hands,
They do a trapeze act on an entire spectrum,
That spangle into a single pillar.
Atop is the closest thing to,
Eternal elixirs.
Why she does this, I don't know,
But I don't want to be like her.
I don't want to hand myself a glass of water and say
'Thank you'.
I don't want to let the wind in my ears,
So it can pierce my head like a javelin.
Turning me to a device that spits directions,
Though,
Doesn't really know,
Because I constantly spin on one foot.
I don't want to be the popping spark,
That ebbs away the right hemisphere of the brain.
The hollowed echo of conversations from prior days.
She drives her car as if it were a living room.
She makes everything inside my skin move down,
A quarter inch.
I don't want to be like that woman,
Who only has herself as company,
Yet still manages to disagree with whats being said.
I want to be a compass that points towards paradise,
Instead,
I find a mirror,
And a reflection of fleeting beauty.
Instead,
I hear the wind,
And an unfamiliar dinner party.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Red and white roses,
Wild and loud, spangle, sparkle,
Filling— empty lot.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings;
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Warm orange is my love
As the heart of a flame from within
The deep black embers of a glowing log at night.
Brilliant blue, as the midday sky
When it’s hot, yet fresh, are my eyes
When they glean a flash of moist, white smile
In your happiness.
The spangle of rainbow tang
As a pinprick of candle light
Erupts in tiny brilliance…
In a tear suspended from one fine eyelash.
Golden green and amber
Is my happiness in this love…
But my passion is crimson.
And yellow daisies in a green field
For simplicity?
Marshalg
Albury
9.45pm March 28 1969
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
Miniscule arrows flitter in,
Their
Poison tips are coppery stings
That mar and scar and spangle my
Heart
In spiral, twisted little rings
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
Flow in its intricate beauty, in its parabolic slide through an inexact thought,
Niggling here and there as it soars through the rough appendage of reason.
Flagellating the highs and lows of delight and sorrow,
Titivating the realm of ecstasy to thrill the fluttering eyeballs,
Brushing mounds of ragged hurt to bruise the tender, tender sensitivities.
Then soaring, at once skyward, in a quest for knowing,
Scintillating in a spangle of joyous, YES!
To land, exhausted and deliriously happy
In the knowledge that we two,
My mind and I,
Have won ourselves a freedom.
M.
28 March 2017
On the eve of my 72nd birthday
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
.
*Red and white roses
Wild and loud, spangle, sparkle
Filling— empty lot*
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Winter was settling in at the hedges,
Whiting the meadows and hanging off ledges,
Crazing at windows and frosting the willow,
Creeping at ceilings and freezing my pillow,
Outside the woods were embraced in a tangle,
Snow falling steadily, stars were a-spangle.
I felt it time to be wandering steadily
Out where my footsteps had followed hers, readily,
Past where the pathway encircled the wishing well
Holding the pennies we’d tossed for a lovers spell,
She’d walked ahead with a bow in her auburn hair
One yellow ribbon, that’s how I remembered her.
She’d seemed uncertain and wanted to talk to me
I really didn’t, but she said to ‘walk with me’,
Down through the woods where the leaves lay in Autumn,
Yellow and golden, the grounds of Bell Norton,
Once was a convent and practiced religiously
Then we were deep in the woods by a poplar tree.
She turned and spoke of the thing I was fearing,
Took off her ring and the pearl in her earring,
‘I am in love with another,’ she said to me,
‘What of our love?’ then she said, ‘That is dead to me!’
‘You must allow me to love Justin Hanger,’
I felt cold rage and I lashed out in anger.
She fell pole-axed at the foot of a chestnut tree
Never a sign of the life that had once loved me,
Dragged her some distance and into the Folly,
Covered in creepers and mistletoe, holly,
Buried her under a floor that was rotten,
And left her in store so that she’d be forgotten.
Now it was months and I came back to see her
Deep in the winter, with weather so drear,
Opened the flimsy old door of the Folly,
Caught up in creepers and mistletoe, holly,
When from the floor came a sound like a groaning,
Under the boards was a weeping and moaning.
‘This can’t be true,’ as I came in and staggered,
Watched a hand rise through the floor, looking hagard,
Most of the flesh fell away from the bone,
Then the floor heaved and I heard the girl moan,
‘Where is my lover, the one that is true to me,’
‘You must be dead,’ I said, ‘all this is new to me.’
I took the axe that was stood in the corner
Raised it aloft as if I tried to warn her,
Then someone tackled and brought me to ground,
Muttering something, ‘At last she’s been found!’
And under the floor were her human remains,
No moaning or groaning, just my guilty pains.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
The first day of school
was a special time.
The kids would be happy
and the mother would cry.
We would start the day
with a prayer and the pledge.
And sing the Star Spangle Banner
With our hand on our heart..
We would learn reading
and writing and arithmetic.
Make projects into a beautiful
gift for mom or dad.
Out for recess, playing dodge ball
and then a race.
Everything went well
until you get a ball in the face.
At lunch time I would walk
home a mile each way.
Mac and cheese
then back for the day.
Everyday we did the same thing.
we'd listen to teacher
or visit the principal.
He would smack you with a ruler
on the back end.
and when we got home,
we'd get smacked again.
The first day of school
in the simpler time.
When they would teach
you the ABC's
And read you a nursery rhyme.
You learned from the first day of school.
By the teacher who knew the golden rule.
By judy
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
.
small
start
through
musicome
come through
all tenor and hue
1 note shining
1 note silver
1 note clear
as
like
water
come
a fury of twinkling and sound
pushing aside hotsweetness
pierce by sturdy breath the night
and come easy of cheek velvet
(soft as neat as)
emerging from thy breast a spangle
(a sprig
raw
in heat)
which, though sleeping, wants of
gushing lather (SPRING) to leap
the frailing prism of the human lips
A song
more frail
more dying
even than
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC