"tinseled" poems
We reside in a circus tent
strung with Goldilock's curls
Blood-red rose petals drizzle
from flesh-tinted ceiling drapes,
floating over
bodies reborn.
Blood-red rose
petals the color
of a lion's heart that beats
rhythmically,
imprisoned in the ivory-white
cartilage of a rib-cage
close to cracking,
threatening
an untamed liberation.
Who has enough audacity
to draw so near
to trust his head
between unpredictable jaws
or
tinseled with moths
to dance
illuminated by street-lights,
like snow that never falls.
Now she is laughing
with ethereal camaraderie
at the physicality
of Earth reality
illuminating
how limited vision is
before the lights start flashing
human and star dissolve
as explosively
irreversible chemical reactions
The ringmaster,
tossing Saturn's turn,
a voice like wind-chimes
an honest sparkle in his eye,
welcomes one to roam
where hearts dance freely
in ever-lasting starlit flame,
Concluding:
As long as we thank love for feeling
we'll never fall again.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 2:43 PM UTC
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.
She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?
She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.
She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.
She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.
What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?
Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC
How shall I tell with tinseled word
The beauty that is thine
Can tongue so rough or phrase absurd
Express creation divine
If thy hand by chance would brush
Then clouds, course as gravel fly
Lest they be touched and with jagged husk
Disgrace the vaulted sky
A glance be cast from thine eye alone
The sapphire brought to shame
Must steal away no more than stone
Its blazing fire tame
Remove thy veil, thy countenance revealed
Glorious Sol his face must hide
Averting his gaze, his luster concealed
Giving place of pride
Should thy lips favoring, a kiss bestow
Rubies abased, on bended knee
Acknowledging a hue beyond that they know
Become versed in humility
If poor verse could induce thee to concede
One exquisite facet of form or face
Then thine eyes and mine should be agreed
Upon thy incomparable grace
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 9:24 AM UTC
Hanging flirtatiously from each branch,
the sparkling sheen of tinseled treasure;
Rising high cloaked in forest green,
alive with winter's joy and pleasure.
Icicles shine in their silvery light,
within Nature's captivating scene;
Bewitched are we who stand and watch,
mirrored reflections in flashing beams.
In all its glory the bounty glows,
magnetic in its magical gleam;
A Christmas gift for all to share,
within a blessed heavenly scheme.
And with a star placed high above,
soon a mystical sight unfolds;
As golden streaks of ancient lore,
share timeless tales for young and old !
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 2:01 PM UTC
When we find ourselves
bewitched
by the once-again
betwixt a barest bare
season (of not-there)
and the rock-hard
reason (for there-is), let’s
Place the lemon-sour wedge,
where it can be tasted
with expectantly peppered
peeks and the snowy soft pines
for a gifted we we’ve been
too white-elephant
wary to unwrap.
There’s a transplant
future. We pretended
it (to-be
forever sutured to our bristly back-
then), and it meets the it
it was beneath a scrub-brush
Christmas tree we’ve stowed
Carelessly in the cramped space
where our sameness
lets crawl the other. Tinseled,
pre-assembled, past-
their-prime-time specialty
brands of static
clinginess have diminished,
But not-enough,
as the persistence of any-man
attraction shows,
would if it could bring
Whitman’s samplers
of sentimentality
to cuddly bear on a leftover
Choice (What’s-next,
warmed over and over). We
will stick to it,
fuzzy ornaments
on the crackly loud, paper-
thin present. We didn’t give
up but we did give away
Boxed-up angels
in exchange for one red-ribbon
day, its frilly bow tying us
so tightly to
the pressed-down rule
of our highest of highly
evolved thumbs.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 5:51 AM UTC
christ you hang tinsel on a wooden cross
(drooping) your unsmiling figure
by the christmas tree tinseled too
silver clever ringlets wreathing
hung by hands delicate
ornaments dote 'pon
the boughs swinging
swaying
in
some unfelt
breeze they jounce
those
lovely sparkle sprinkled
spheres
mingle in the arms
of pine and soft
cinnamon
smells
cru
mbl
i
ng
wafts increase
from
the hot busy
pocket
of
the kitchen
into soon sleeping hands
my body enters
to the sound
of small
laughter
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
We’re no strangers to perceptible sacrifice
so, we’ve put all flavors of fun on ice.
Einsteining overnight - alone - is
about as exciting as a windows phone.
But I’ve been-to-the-show as a pinckney,
and in my years of parental-stalking analyses
the juice is definitely worth the squeeze.
Soon holiday parties will be made gold
by candlelight and champagne cold.
We’ll decorate with reds and greens
and surrounding ourselves with tinseled things
we’ll sing songs of angels and newborn kings.
But not just yet, no, not now - now tis the pre-seasoning -
a time of unrest, stress and testing - and God help
you if they’re not impressed with your reasoning.
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 10:21 PM UTC
*Nutmeg firma , fractured window abstractions -
of quivering pools , of desire abating thirst
Life giver , abundant wavering ripples finding -
grassy shore , tinseled in gold , copper , bronze -
precious metals , beads of sweat traveling rippled flesh , every -
desperate breath filling life's circuitry till its
conclusive end
Foot trails laced in dandelion , purple wire ,
terra-cotta stone , marble and granite
The birth of monuments riddled o'er the fescue -
expression , Bluebird followers , curt winged
purveyors of decay , August clod bank rows , barbed -
wire orderly plats , distant wavers of unrelenting sun-glow facing -welcome centurion lodges*
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
The blue tinting of your numbered set,
the coloring of such beauty only possible
after facing the, before absent,
present mortality...one needs more
time to become jaded,
so for now I am simply tinseled.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
The Toast
by Michael R. Burch
For longings warmed by tepid suns
(brief lusts that animated clay),
for passions wilted at the bud
and skies grown desolate and grey,
for stars that fell from tinseled heights
and mountains bleak and scarred and lone,
for seas reflecting distant suns
and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown,
for waltzes ending in a hush,
for rhymes that fade as pages close,
for flames’ exhausted, drifting ash,
and petals falling from the rose, ...
I raise my cup before I drink,
saluting ghosts of loves long dead,
and silently propose a toast—
to joys set free, and those I fled.
Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme. Keywords/Tags: toast, death, time, passages, dreams, clay, flesh, ash, sun, sunset, age, grave, end
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
Within the Octave of Christmas
For Eldon Edge, Patron of Christmas Bonfires
The wan, weak winter sun has long since set
And on the edge of stars a merry fire
Sends sparks to play among the tinseled frost
That decorates the fields for Christmas-time.
Within this holy octave, happy men
Concelebrate with beer, cigars, and jokes,
This liturgy of needful merriment.
Because
The Holy Child is safe in Mary’s arms,
Saint Joseph leans upon his staff and smiles,
The shepherds now have gone to watch their sheep,
And all are safe from Herod for a time.
Our Christmas duty now is to delight
In Him who gives us joy this happy night.
Dec 25, 2017
Dec 25, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
Within the Octave of Christmas
The wan, weak winter sun has long since set
And on the edge of stars a merry fire
Sends sparks to play among the tinseled frost
That decorates the fields for Christmas-time.
Within this holy octave happy men
Concelebrate with beer, cigars, and jokes
This liturgy of needful merriment
Because
The Holy Child is safe in Mary’s Arms
Saint Joseph leans upon his staff and smiles
The shepherds now have gone to count their sheep
And all are safe from Herod for a time.
Our Christmas duty now is to delight
In Him who gives us joy this happy night.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC