"tinctured" poems
Trust the sun (she says)
her first rays when creation was young
and God's window opened outward
as a place of worship
born to be breathtaken
daylight imploring for companionship
and bleeding into itself
as it bleeds into the worshipper.
She notices that her own taste
in repeating patterns doesn’t mesh
with the apparently similar
patterns in Drakensberg
they obey a different logic, and the friction
between them generates
a fascinatingly ambiguous color.
Tinctured cathedral of time passing
on its first layer of stairs...
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 7:53 PM UTC
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
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1209
To disappear enhances—
The Man that runs away
Is tinctured for an instant
With Immortality
But yesterday a Vagrant—
Today in Memory lain
With superstitious value
We tamper with “Again”
But “Never” far as Honor
Withdraws the Worthless thing
And impotent to cherish
We hasten to adorn—
Of Death the sternest function
That just as we discern
The Excellence defies us—
Securest gathered then
The Fruit perverse to plucking,
But leaning to the Sight
With the ecstatic limit
Of unobtained Delight—
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This that is washed with **** and pebblestone
Curved once a dolphin’s length before the prow,
And I who read the land to which we bore
In its grave eyes, question my idol now,
What cold and marvelous fancy it may keep,
Since the salt terror swept us from our course,
Or if a wisdom later than the storm,
For old green ocean’s tinctured it so deep;
And with some reason to me on this strand
The waves, the ceremonial waves have come,
And stooped their barbaric heads, and all flung out
Their glittering arms before them, and are gone,
Leaving the murderous tribute lodged in sand.
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Protectress...manna, Luna, vulvic-veil,
my heinous highness, take this kiss upon
your forehead and crown.
Tinctured lips, paired pilgrims of our alchemy...
surmounted mount in tantric trust, the perfect
fit for this Age.
We watched each other's will hatch in the palms
of our hands...forgetting to argue who came first.
The rightful bliss of essential ignorance, world
manifest under our noses--roused by smelling salts
from intermittent faints...Love, Love, Love!
You, dearest of whomsoever came forth from innumerable
bodies, to be half-turn to my half-turn...round our world
on its head.
Bar to bar none axes...one string guitars from pole to pole--
played ****** by our fingers.
Corollas of red droplets...the poppies are everywhere, the
child you bore me was me--forcing me to man abandonment.
Caught at the lip of a curb ramp, I hurl handfuls of folly
skyward...as pieces of absence continually settle time.
I apply you to my proportion...Vitruvian Man versed in
your space, circle squared dear--circle squared...the poppies
are everywhere.
Broken down to simplest things, I lay you down, I lay me
down...try both sides of the bed where neither is met.
Just as I cease to exist, I-ness nets a sense of being, bolting
upright as if hearing the world fall.
We who observed continuous excellency of soul, stood
juxtaposed in extemporaneous awe.
How could I expel you, how could you expel me...from
such a juxtaposition?
The "invisible worm" brings tidings of forever before it
destroys the flower...the poppies are everywhere.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC
In the kingdom of Toledo,
None burn bright as thy shadow
(From time very long ago)
A tale of first lovers –
(I and D’lorme)
Loved with the love that covers
The bay of a margin sea –
In the alleys of Toledo,
None radiated well as thy shadow
(From time not so long ago)
A tale of two lovers –
(Me and D’lorme)
Claim a star that hovers
Bellow our silent sea.
In the battles of Toledo,
All dim down as thy shadow
(Of a time we know so well, long ago,)
A tale of no lovers –
(‘Who?’ And D’lorme)
Never uncovers
The wound of a sunder sea –
In the welfare of Toledo,
By a dark tinctured shadow
(To a time long so far ago)
A tale of burnt lovers --
With 'her' and D'lorme;
With blood to the clovers
Drown in our golden sea.
In the debris of Toledo,
In the murky ashes of thy shadow
(From time to past o'er ago)
The tales of one lover --
('Gone' and D'lorme)
Whom now rediscover
The loss of his love in a lament sea.
To the angels above Toledo,
None burn bright as their shadow
(Of time given so long ago)
A tale of dead lovers --
(Isbella and D'lorme)
Together soaring then hovers
To the gallant sea.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 11:58 AM UTC
There was an old person of Newry,
Whose manners were tinctured with fury;
He tore all the rugs,
And broke all the jugs
Within twenty miles' distance of Newry.
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Like **** you look; like you cry yourself to sleep.
I want yeah love, not yeah tears.
You laugh in public, but in private you're crying.
Stuck to old fabric when you should be in silk with me.
'Cause of me, you say,
You can't hear The Bees.
I want yeah love, not hyperbole.
I thought I had you lost,
But you know,
I see:
Holding up,
That face, yours,
Behind the big plastic frames,
Who you kiddin'?
Not me.
I see the blue.
Who you kiddin'?
Not me, babe, not me.
So we're both unhappy, you in yours,
And yours in you,
And me in mine.
Mine in me.
Me and ******* me.
Still, I am free to not be free,
You are love, that can't.
Now ain't that a pretty irony?
Why aren't we turning?
Like we're meant to - two matchsticks burning as they coil each other round -
The white,
Burnt charcoal for all to see.
Oh, yeah, I forgot, blind ambition for a dream - that through entreaty - can't be met.
From tinctured gray hair,
And looped repetition,
Patriarchy's silver,
Its forked deceit.
You ********* you.
Come here I'll flail you proper,
Open up your flesh with my acid tongue,
Lash you to a better place so make your skin red like the devil's own.
Ahhh, come on!
Summer's buried,
So to our hovels,
Our fake wombs,
And see what emerges when you can't long any longer our hardened decay.
When desire finally awakens and brings you skipping to our light.
I'll be there in the shade,
Waiting to dominate,
As best you had.
Come lover,
Before all meaning's lost,
All passion's fury spent
On false gods who live to lie.
Come dart with me in the shadows and the light.
Take me to the sun's core.
Strip me,
Make to me, again,
My deepest rings penetrate,
On my face scathing drip,
Savage in my ears,
Over my minced and dessicated body rage,
Your clear **** in my hair.
Animal; you, I miss.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
A car pulls up along the shoreside and a man in a suit and tie slides out to find the sand.
The beach has quieted.
A few surfers paddle hurriedly out to sea for a last run in the twilight.
An older couple stands by the water’s edge.
Wisps of the woman’s gray hair flutters above her, caught in the ocean breeze.
The lifeguard station sits quiet, the small, whitewashed house perched on reed-like stilts shuttered for the night, though the sand is still warm from the afternoon sun.
The man rolls up his pant legs and removes his socks and shoes and places them beside him.
He shields his eyes from the splintered sun’s rays as he scans the water clear to the thick black line of the horizon.
A young woman, flaxen-haired, a surfboard cupped effortlessly at her side, the bridge of her nose tinctured white, emerges from the waves.
Wet-suited, bare-footed, head tilted skyward, she hikes along the sand, her day’s work done.
As her shadow lengthens over him, the specter causes him to glance downward.
A few grains of sand have clung to the tips of his polished shoes.
He decides to leave them.
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 11:17 AM UTC
I wrote it
rehearsed it
performed it
I owned it.
The spotlight, hit me just right and casting my gaze through the haze of blue smoke which rose from the cigar smoking crowd,
I announced quite loudly,my name
and my game was to be a night full of poetry,
if they had the time for it
I had the rhyme to hit them head on.
and then I was gone,
full on in a twister
a blistering piece about pulsating quasars,black holes and lasers,wrists cut with razors in the dead of the night,
I had them alright
there was a silence that stunned them,then I shot them with love songs,short rhymes but long lines,
then before they recovered and came to their senses,a poem followed on about the pretence that men favour
and the flavour of lies that lick off the tongue,another twelve bored out shotgun and a run in with death that undressed them,slightly depressed them,
and a funny rhyme about Harry Lime which the older ones got and the young ones did not.
Taking a ten second break to await the applause,I cut it off short,got caught in another rose,a tinctured vial full of prose,elastic and bending,sending this crew into waves of delight,
it was late night in Wigan or it may have been Crewe,I wasn't so sure but the audience knew and I didn't care there was lots more to get through,and the words partied out,spread about the seated like spice heated so hot, it would burn them, or it would not,
another shot from the stage,the rage of a victim on Jeremy Kyle,held out in my words,another funny one,make them smile,they never forget that,
they may forget me
but they'll remember my poetry.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Former Presidential Candidate Adlai E. Stevenson II (Democrat--circa 1950s) was spotted reincarnated as a young trappist Buddhist monk in a monastery in Saint Croix, U.S. ****** Islands. In the early evening hours he can be seen enjoying himself swinging in a hammock in the monastery's garden while making 12-mile inhalations on a marijuana cigarette and meditating on the possible dire encumbrances due the 2016 election year, though the balmy tinctured breezes thick with naughty **** often dissipate such fustian concentrations.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
RECORD: SCIENCE FICTION/DOUBLE FEATURE
FROGMAN: RICHARD O'BRIEN
SYNTHESIS OF:
THEN WORDS COLLIDE - POCKET BOOK INVASION SEQUENCE
FRIGHT
And then words collide
Said You to the coming tide
we're going to give Us some triple thrills
like a -
Screen addiction - triple- tincture
Dr. Bear will draw a picture
See Johnnys and Suzys frighting Brads and Janets
All Our thoughts, Tartarus on forbidden planets
Oh - on the Way-Out, Triple-Tinctured Picture Show
Why naught are you You O-Oh
On the Way-Out too, Triple-Tinctured Picture Show
On the Hearth Throw
On the Way-Out, Triple-Tinctured Picture Show
I want to Know.
DISSOLVE SELFSE FURTHER
THE STATIC FRAME OF A WATCHTOWER CATHOLIC CHURCH
DAY
to the way out
Triple-Tincture
Picture
Show
I want to know…
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
Lisa and I wrap and rap for Christmas.
Can you imagine the two of us doing that?
We’ve got Christmas playlists going
Christmas scented candles glowing,
a tinctured but milky hot-chocolate flowing.
“Stir the marshmallows with the candy canes,”
Lisa says, like that’s something she had to explain.
We’re humming, singing and laughing,
and dancing because we’re happy.
We’re dashing to finish our wrapping,
we can’t have our suitemates catching
us executing the plans we’re hatching
to surprise them with gifts, enchanting.
The paper’s exotic, delicate and glittery
bought at Boyars Gifts, in New York City.
Why do the scissors keep getting lost?
Getting low on scotch-tape - we’ve used a lot.
We’ll be putting them, sneakily, under the tree
where they’ll add glamor and tease to our festivities.
I love the lights of the season - I love giving gifts.
For me, playing Santa is as good as it gets.
.
.
(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: tinctured: mixed with alcohol)
Dec 7, 2023
Dec 7, 2023 at 4:15 PM UTC
Each is given their canvas
Open air along the brief respective flashes of time
We whittle gasping attempts at a connection
With only any placeable frames that we’ve collected
Hammer dissonance to Xanadu
Feather in the contrast as a method of description
or discretion.
_______________
Building a context
heft upon a quickly fading gust
Just a divvied introduction of trust as a reflection.
Left as signal threading the reverence into message
Let me bury symbols in code and seed a weapon.
________________
________________
Let me choose a frame and build a picture growing out to the edges
Filling seconds with deference
Knowing breath is the setting, for where the grey areas are
Levy loosening gaze, and form a tinctured impression of the glimpse I’ve incepted, though the lesson I’m guessing won’t fare to carry the cadences very far.
Tarry not for fear of ones inept reflection, bury not thy fierce direction.
Into the void.
Into the depths.
To build the frame.
To will the question.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 11:43 PM UTC
The end was nigh, he scanned the sky
For portents, dark and deep,
He’d sensed some troubled signs within
While tossing in his sleep.
He told his wife to pack some things,
The least that they would need,
But she said, ‘You must leave alone,
I’m staying here, God speed!’
He found he couldn’t change her mind,
No matter that he tried,
He told her of the darker times
That he had sensed, inside.
But she was quite content, she said,
‘In fact I’m quite serene,
I shall not run before the tide,
It may be but a dream!’
The Castle walls with hallowed halls
Held shadows grim and bleak,
Where muttered shades from former days
Would flit from moat to keep,
From tower, to hall, to bedchamber,
He cast his nervous eyes,
Where even in the flagstoned floors
He thought, ‘There evil lies!’
The evening skies were tinctured with
A weird orange glow,
And then the Moon rose up above,
A baneful, blood-red show,
While winds that howled like none before
Now clattered at the eaves,
And whispered down the chimney’s core,
‘God help the one that leaves!’
He wandered round the halls at night
And shook in some dread fear,
At sounds of chains, and distant pains
Deep in his inner ear.
He stood up at the battlements
And scanned the dark surround,
Where gargoyles leered, to spout their cheer
All on the hallowed ground.
‘But surely you must hear them, Maud,
They’re plain, so plain to me!’
‘I only hear the chirping bird
That flits in yonder tree.
Perhaps your mind has been disturbed,
You need to rest at night,
I’ll lock you in the Castle Keep
Until your dreams take flight.’
That night, asleep, but fitfully
He heard a horse’s hooves,
That clattered in the courtyard, echoed
With its iron shoes.
And then he heard his wife, who whispered
Like some painted *****
‘He’s almost driven mad, I’ve locked
Him in, and barred the door.’
Then like a charm that runs its course
And sets its victim free,
He knew that she’d been feeding him
With Belladonna tea.
He waited for an hour, and then
Burst hinges on the door,
And sought his wife’s bedchamber
Where her lover felt secure.
‘I told you I’d sensed darker times,
Such darker times, for you!’
He said as he approached the bed
And ran her lover through.
He raised the sword that dripped with blood
Then stood with drooping head,
While she went pale, to no avail,
In moments, she was dead!
David Lewis Paget
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
I knew it the first of the summer,
I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
But couldn’t you be my friend?
Couldn’t we sit in the twilight,
Couldn’t we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
To bind us, and nothing more?
There was not a word of folly
Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects—
The moon and the worlds above,—
And our talk was tinctured with science,
And everything else, save love.
A wholly Platonic friendship
You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
Though both were in their youth
What would you have said, my lady,
If you had known the truth!
What would you have done, I wonder,
Had I gone on my knees to you
And told you my passionate story,
There in the dusk and the dew?
My burning, burdensome story,
Hidden and hushed so long—
My story of hopeless loving—
Say, would you have thought it wrong?
But I fought with my heart and conquered,
I hid my wound from sight;
You were going away in the morning,
And I said a calm good-night.
But now when I sit in the twilight,
Or when I walk by the sea
That friendship, quite Platonic,
Comes surging over me.
And a passionate longing fills me
For the roses, the dusk, the dew;
For the beautiful summer vanished,
For the moonlight walks—and you
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
a glint of the Earth in delight
is in bare sight and how we leap not with
our body but with our mind.
a handful of air swallowing
the air – love that somehow
half-rhymes yet not even so entirely with hover
shows the infinitude of possibilities
when it was not your palm that reads
an incipient star but a moon half-bitten
by an outraged soul when it was not
your body
I have found
but an isle full of noises
and I so much the quiet,
shall not return with the wind so as
to set sail and farther off into blackening space
onto a realized sea tinctured with
such blue blood, o sea, which somehow
rhymes with but the end of
you and I coming to be –
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
Velvet paper tinctured pink,
A red rose at its crest;
The whittled feather, bathed in ink,
Set to bare its best.
A lambent candle close at hand
With dancing, flitting flare;
Where evening translates its command
And nothing stirs the air.
Words are authored, truly writ,
Where, from the soul they flow;
As on the page they snugly sit,
Affection to bestow.
Filling out each careful line,
Each one a work of art,
Hand and mind, with pen, entwine
Concerted to the heart.
And when the tender prose she'll read
And tastes the chaste romance.
She feels a shivered chill, indeed,
Deep in her breast ~ per chance?
And as the fondest words engage,
Seen through her moistened eyes:
A teardrop falls to blot the page
And stays and never dries.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 3:12 AM UTC