"sterling" poems
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
Pursue the delicate moonlight shining beyond the scene, illuminating the grass of the coming spring in an ghastly silver yet majestic green
Clouds with their sterling lining, the cummuters of the heaven, preventing the sun, or the moon sometimes from shining down to us,
Seemingly caught in an endless journey they travel with the wind,
Yet under these drifting clouds in the sweetest of lights, the world remains to be in slumber, a story which never truly unfurls after all,
Can you gaze into a face fraught with sin, possessed by the one you share this dazzling night with on a day alike the tale of a dream ?
Wrapped up under a celestial sphere, here where dreams and illusions collide within the sweet embrace of your strong caring arms,
Finding rest I can leave my body to the flow of time as it passes,
Grandually sweet seasons may take away ones breath with grandiose,
Until the wish projected within your eyes finds its way to become reality, I will stand beside you with serenity and grace, till I may fade,
I may not be able to hand over these feelings, but the grasp of tomorrow bears some power to it, certainly transient time passes,
Let the depths of your heart guide you to a bright, fantastic future,
Until then, shimmering brilliantly, shimmering behind the horizon,
The Sun rises
~ Umi
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 7:06 AM UTC
in the heart
of the night
a slice of moonlight
cascading
beckoned
i rouse
its mesmerizing lure
gently stirs
a hazy
remembrance
entranced
from shadows i emerge
hearkening its echo
you’re dreaming
awaken
its shimmering light
engulfed me
prying open my stubborn eyes
in the onyx
darkness
its silver glow
enticed me outside
i stood silent
whilst glistening dewdrops
danced on my toes
a sterling lunar crescent
enlightening midnight
softly
serenades
me
wake up
life’s a trance
you’re
hypnotized
mesmerized
in an ocean of emptiness
i heard
a celestial orb
calling
and ne’er slept again
©2016janetaylor
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
This is America for Petes sake
Black lives don’t matter here
They say they’re being treated unfair
But they’re the one’s drinking up all the welfare
And we even pay for their health care
Poor black folk shouting black lives matter
But they don’t matter
The only thing that matters is the fat cats getting fatter
Build a school or a jail?
In a place like Baltimore, those black kids are already bound to fail
Let’s not forget from whence we hail
We came from abroad to build this house
This was never meant to be a game of cat and mouse
They don’t know their power, so they will never see their hour
Cause you see white people are only safe when those animals scared
White people are only safe when white people are feared
When black people are teared, and on their face is smeared the blood of their ancestors, on the altar that is prepared
The altar that was broken down when we ended Jim Crow
Since then look how low our country did go
But at last at last now again we can make America great
Now again we can end any debate , about what it means to be free
Cause when Trump is in charge I’ll tell you, you won’t tell me
When Trump is President you'll put your hand over your heart for the anthem, not take a knee
When Trump is President, You’ll be satisfied , you’ll lower your fist and you’ll be
You’ll be gratified, you’ll shut your mouth and watch your people die
You’ll watch them bleed like Alton Sterling,
You’ll stand there you’ll cry
And then you’ll wonder why,
why does the color of your skin decide whether or not you win
As you kneel before me thinking about your next of kin,
ready to feel these bullets in your body as your reality sets in
This country was never your own
We brought you here as slaves, you call out for a savior but
Abraham Lincoln is dead so you can put down the phone
Martin Luther King is dead so you can put down the phone
Malcom X is dead, you see,now you’re all alone
We’ve infiltrated your culture and now that seed has grown
As we watch you destroy each other and continue to postpone anything that looks like freedom
Cause you see freedom isnt free
We gained ours in 1776
Your ancestors were still in chains but here today you celebrate with me
Thinking that you’re free
But you will never be free
Harriet Tubman freed a thousand slaves
And she could've freed a thousand more but they were cheering for Trump in his rallies
Because they can’t grasp what it means to be free
And that mere truth is the key
So we won’t say their names
We won’t feel their pains
Cause this is the United States of America , and white is right, we still hold the reigns
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Your eyes are pearls,
washed with sweet sea-foam
from sugar-water seas,
and cast upon velvet shores
of sterling sand.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
Last week, among friends black and white,
among some discussion of protests in Ferguson
and the related looting of stores, I invoked
the word. It was an admission, in a round
of confessions, of something about myself
that I didn't like: that I had perceived Michael Brown
in that way based on his possible participation
in a strong-armed robbery.
When Travon Martin was in the news,
I was inflamed like many others who wanted
George Zimmerman in jail for ******
The outcome of that trial was an injustice,
I was utterly certain. Why does this case
in Missouri feel different? More importantly,
Who is inside me that still wants to rise
in defiance of 48 years of learning how
to be a better person, a person without prejudices,
stereotyping, labeling of others, hurtful language?
Where is the hippie girl now? How does she live
with this other person? Am I Sterling, Gibson,
a hater and spewer of viciousness, a lover
of separation and separateness, that I should
invite damage to my own relationships
with those I love and cherish and respect?
What is a **** but a bully, and what is a bully
but someone who pushes words around like
weapons, spits them out indiscriminately,
so that they land on the already bruised heart
and set it on fire.
Whose heart, besides mine, now sits in smoke
and ash, with that word like a brand
still sore and permanent, having been spoken
aloud?
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
High above dear Maple Street
There looms a cold iron curtain of fear
That dares to drop and let all the monsters
Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos
As in Europe despots gift a new World War
Trembling parlors hug the radio
Hallows Eve: the radio
Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street
The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war
And that heavy iron curtain of fear
Eclipses the sun and invites chaos
In vacant hearts of men into monsters
Halloween Night: the monsters
Now dance to the tune of the radio
Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos
Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street
Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear
Riding hysteria, imminent war
O great catalyst of war
Twisting the minds of men into monsters
Diving your hands in that great pit of fear
Now throbbing with screams from the radio
No fences nor faces can save Maple Street
Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos
And we call it Chaos
This boiling of minds all stewing with war
Once masked with humanity on this street
Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters
Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio
Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear
And when that curtain of fear
Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos
And the broadcast fades on the radio
And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war
What will we make of all of these monsters
Scattered about in a daze through the street
Where there are minds of fear and war,
Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters;
Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
I am your platter
Of sterling silver
Serving up a pig
Of visible bones
Naked and dying
Suffocating on
A poisoned apple
A poisoned gag-ball
Regurgitating
Salivary screams
And my heart is set
In loveless resin
Resonating love
But never beating
Again until you
Peel away my chest
Peel away my heart
And **** out the love
Through your proboscis
Until I am just
Gag-ball, resin, bone
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
I carry a broken compass
It's a store bought thing
It's been dropped so many times
When compared it points the wrong way
Always pointing south
When north is the other way
Now though the needle doesn't move
I've gotten lost a few times
But I have found my way
Somebody bought me a necklace
It's a pendant
It's a compass rose
Show me the way
Through this hell
It's sterling silver
For protect
Came with the words
'To help you find your way
May your journey
Give way to the adventure
Of never dying '
Odd way to put it
I carry a broken compass
Maybe it will point
Me to the end
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
Begging you, Sterling Mentor of the Card
Patient and Calm are your Methods in-check
May I take this Learner to Living afar
Bespoke my Efforts and Services are met
For if I noticed this Lack-of-Command
Married to sane Verbs I try to absorb
Even out of Bounty; Trust be at Hand
To remember such Stubbled Skills I bore
This is an Artist-on-High. That which speaks
With Curried Words much tempting to forget
At expense of Duty is no longer meek
And my Salt's Wager now easy to forget.
Bear me Calm. I can adopt to re-learn
The Blue Eagle's shriek which can eat the Worm.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that if the phrase “adding insult to injury” had a feeling,
that would be it.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it sounds like “hands up, don’t shoot,” like “i can’t breathe,”
like blood hitting a pavement that seems as though it was built
to catch those droplets.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it tastes like skittles and arizona tea,
four years old but still carrying the fresh sting of a wound just opened.
i imagine that it tastes
like history repeating itself,
like seeing your son or daughter recycled each week
on every news report, on every tv station.
each time it is a different body,
but it is always the same hand pulling the trigger,
the same black blood being spilled,
the same cries left unheard;
we shout “black lives matter”
and yet, still,
they cut them too short.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it looks like a web of lies too thick to cut through —
every strand another weapon that he did or did not have,
another order that he did or did not follow,
another sin that he did or did not commit;
the only black they care about
is the color of the ink they use
to draw your angel-headed boy
a set of horns.
i imagine that it looks like evidence hidden,
like sparknotes-type skim-throughs labeled “thorough investigations,”
like another unindicted officer walking freely atop the cries of those
who charged into a battle they knew they would, but hoped they would not, lose.
a battle they have fought too many times before.
i imagine that it looks
like an empty chair at the dinner table,
like cold-blooded ****** disguised as justice
with the help of a blue hat and a badge.
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but if you listen closely enough,
you can hear it
in every cautious goodbye she says to her children whenever they leave the house,
or in the silence that those goodbyes used to fill.
can you hear it?
you will have to push past the shouts
of the big bold letters that they want you to believe.
somewhere,
somewhere in there,
a black mother’s heart is crying.
it is a gentle, hushed cry
that the world does not want to hear.
but the tears are still just as wet.
(a.m.)
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Beneath my palm your chest
rises and falls,
the pattern is my sweetest high.
Wherever you move-
I feel the breeze of a hundred wings.
Baby I know you'll guide me well.
I am without words
because you have fallen by my side
with eyelashes of tiny spines.
I dread to feel your shelter
and your eyes that say you're not good enough.
Call my body closer.
Reach into the pools of my skin.
See your sterling face
in the reflection of my veins
criss-crossing down my neck and wrists.
My spider legs
weave into yours
and I want you to feel
good
and well
and worthy.
Call my body closer.
See yourself
Let my hands be your mirrors
to look at
and love
and laugh.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
Right now, loving you feels
the way my toes do when stepping on pebbles
(the stones they put on your back in physical therapy)
or mining ore -
supposed to be cold, but extremely hot to touch.
A copper meadow
shimmy into a tree so you can look up my dress
and catch me like gold armor when I tumble, tumble.
One defense, two defense, three defense, four
worms with spines as soft as hair
try to spindle cobwebs where we skip and hopscotch
skeletons dunk our heads in some sea
but pickaxes
make air pockets, iron is a pillow for us to sleep.
The lights cease when you leave
no longer nearby is the helmet that exudes site -
I think I could mine meteorite from your soul, there’s
only demonite in my own.
Let’s build a house with it
then wait for the bad men to leave, it is night again
perhaps they shall be burned by my evil.
Shrouded in wood, tucked into a golden chest
the walls are a deep purple
amethyst, aubergine, build our ceiling some citrine -
bunnies swallow the window frame
and I cry because somehow it is my fault,
I try to jump but I fall. And you open the door, you let
in some monsters, how I hate you for a moment.
But no bad man can get you
even ones who have skin sunken like a dead spider
pull out an archery kit
seventy-seven arrows, I put them all in hearts
leaving one special hook for you Cupid gave to me.
We make a great team
demonite meteorite silver copper topaz gold-tipped
and sterling the vultures listen in jealously
knowing this is what love can feel like right now.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
A lovely Latina caught Don Sterling’s eye
And, for sure, there’s no fool like an old one.
It helped he has Billions, You know I don’t lie-
because you must give sums to get some.
His wife got upset, (you know how they get)
As she saw their cash flow out the door.
“Two cars and a condo! I’ll make him regret
the day he encountered that *****
The wife sued the mistress for her “ill gotten” gains,
half of it hers by the law.
Then they caught Don, on tape,
Spewing sound bites of hate-
Now he can’t run his team anymore.
A little blue pill can do old men ill-
It deceives them to think they’re a Stallion.
The next time you reach for an eighteen year old, Don,
I suggest that you pour a MacCallan.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
Now upon Age my Ripe Lantern will give
The Rose of Thirty-Four for his Best Joy
Sister, the Token of my Purpose, live,
Brother, the Promise of a Knighted Boy
Which Rose, purple or red, will compensate
A Decade's Sin I rehearse to atone
Pride, one Raven crowed I pluck without Hate
And gently shift my Psalms for her Behold
How another Labour I justly Failed
Must submit to her Needs before my own
For me the Decoding Concept derailed
The Troll called Pity transforms your Heart to Gold.
You both planned to defer in New Year's Lift
Still for you both I sing this Sterling Gift.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
Sterling eyes close the falling red ward
Big Brother has seen it all
He tells me: *there is danger
Terror past the massive, all-protecting Atlantic*
Don’t stray there, the mouth
of stumbling heads say,
They want to take away
Our safety, our ways, our Freedom
Mr. Elected reassures
*Nothing will harm you
Not with me going there
I don’t want you going there*
He speaks like my mom
Warning me of the illicits
I am too vulnerable to experience
It’s death I’ll go to- I’ve been told
Sleepless red monocular
Enlightening the air to a passive blue
It’s opacity beneath and above
Ascending again
Mama and Baba say it’s time to go home
I confront the arid peninsula of Qatar
Lungs accustomed, vitality not frozen
Precariously perceiving the harmful
Sentiments of years past in Jordan,
I wonder why
my kin would ban this place
Rumor on dirt pavement in a draft, ears picking up
*The Atlantic is not to be crossed,
A lack of morals, malintentions
lay beyond the scape.*
Extravagant grenade above,
Falling to the horizon
And no detonation, collapsing behind a curved veil
Skyward lay the remnants
Of heat, frozen in time
The lips in a box on this shoreside
Warn *the zephyrs from the ornery
Reaches towards our home
Be on guard of the deceitful
star at night that rains red*
Tomorrow may not be there
My blood brothers of Lebanon say,
But I wait, field of vision
aligned to the east
Aural stumbles translate, articulating
My brethren begin their search of food
And in too many moments unnoticed,
Black on bottom, red on the low, blue slowly suffocating the obscurity above
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
With this Gift our Sterling Mentor progress
In lending your time for our Efforts grow
Though at first we fear the Alum Rod - less,
Is really your Way of True Friendship show
Though I ask where the First Silence once had
Was which my Stamps took your Character stern
That I actualise; A Great Heart you have
Which we Stunned Locals have begun to Learn
And really do your Words explain the Map
This Growing Business where our Voices speed
Helping your Brethren on their Cards and Lap
With Excelled Service do we take great heed.
And now you Return where most Teachers rest
Feeling confident that we did our Best.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
dragonflies melt
into each other.
flowers meld
shaded silver
upon silver.
string whips of
cotton float by like jacks
thrown by children,
unsusceptible to
the force of gravity.
the mechanics of
heart machines
crank awake.
steel knees bend dull and
swollen.
venetian mask with
sterling tongue
skims the tops
of tiny toes
and errantly spring-ed
grasshoppers..
warm bodies
in bubbling steel
meadow—
cool in nature,
stolen like
gold
crafted and
crafted again
in heat.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
The party starts at ten to three.
On the second floor,room twenty two
two vicars who had come down from Crewe were wondering just what to wear, to the shindig going on down there.
They collided,both decided to put on crimson frilly frocks,this was not a 'do' for cassocks or for smocks.
Room forty four up on the forth,was Lucy Ann,a double barrelled name of course,a horsey type who came by invite to liven lively up the night.
In number ten slept teacup Ken,who had never once imbibed,the porter was slipped a twenty,but was bribed to keep his big mouth shut, as ties were cut and Ken found Zen in a brandy glass,
and discovered parties were a gas.
The police arrived to room fifty five and found Miss Sterling doing the jive around the severed head of Fred the cook,
poor Fred never had any kind luck.
There is no escape from the party at Lancaster Gate and those who come are those who'll die
but the party is so flamin' good I'll try to sneak in,got to take a peek in room number twenty seven,where it's said,that the lady there can show you several kinds of heaven before you meet your doom.
Got to get in, get a room,check in time expires at noon.
I shall no doubt expire,naked by the fire in
room, one o one.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:44 PM UTC
With Good Business brewed is Good Business told
Confirmed the New Mentor who taught us well
Such swig a Sterling Medicine behold
But knowing our Skills his Avid Trust spell
Forsought this Blue Trade our Clients rely
Was that our Webbed Gifts can reciprocate
That within those Months our Service apply
To increase the Bank's volume aggregate
Such now our Eagle wears; Tri-Coloured Schemes
Weaved in pleats forth to Genious unique
And if we can prove to maintain those Seams
Will he be Proud of our Learning oblique.
Once that's done, to the Pub he tips his Zest
All the more content our Minds would not guess.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
1. Janet Jackson - Let's Wait A While
2. Ralph Tresvant - Love At First Sight
3. En Vogue - Waitin' On You
4. Meshell Ndegeocello - Let Me Have You
5. Jade - Give Me What I'm Missing
6. Janet Jackson - Anytime Anyplace
7. El DeBarge - Love Me Tonight
8. Michael Sterling - Lovers & Friends
9. El DeBarge - You Are My Dream
10. Floetry - Imagination
11. Tevin Campbell - Shhh
12. Keith Martin - Never Find Someone Like You
13. Meshell Ndegeocello - Soul Searchin
14. TLC - Red Light Special
15. En Vogue - Everyday
Erotica epitome, your lips so soft, I am standing on my toes
Beautiful and ****** sensual sensational music playing in the background
and with a kiss we were
high and turned on, submerged in ******** tones
Beeping and aroused *****
But then the songs ended.
May the memory melismatic in every sense that permeates colour and oozes flavour... Live on, long after the songs have ended.
Erotica Epitome
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
She has a vintage soul,
Full of rusty and dusty memories,
With the antique eyes
That seen some terrible events,
Her beauty reflects
the Victorian epoch,
Her wisdom is such sterling that
Vanquish the wisdom of Socrates,
But the fate and destiny
Leads her in the 21st century,
She feels like an alien
Who lives in a stranger place
But for her comfort in this world,
She has her books and a coffee mug.
–Humaira
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 9:28 AM UTC
The pretty lass
moved fawn-like
behind the counter,
her thin flowered sun dress
grasped her sleek-form
so delicately,
grinning behind glasses,
she mesmerized me
completely.
A bit sassy,
with an
air of confidence,
her craft spoke volumes.
She had
a keen eye for detail,
her quality
was impeccable,
burnished ancient coins,
Apollo & Diana the huntress
hung near iridescent colors,
Macaws & Amazons
blazed their vibrant hues.
She sold me Roman glass
wrapped in Sterling,
handcrafted by
her beautiful hands.
If she only knew
how much
it truly touched me.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC