"torchlight" poems
Sleep, darling
I have a small
daughter called
Cleis, who is
like a golden
flower
I wouldn't
take all Croesus'
kingdom with love
thrown in, for her
---
Don't ask me what to wear
I have no embroidered
headband from Sardis to
give you, Cleis, such as
I wore
and my mother
always said that in her
day a purple ribbon
looped in the hair was thought
to be high style indeed
but we were dark:
a girl
whose hair is yellower than
torchlight should wear no
headdress but fresh flowers
6.9k
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
made his pallet on the threshing floor
where all day he had worked, and now he slept
among the bushels of threshed wheat.
The old man owned wheatfields and barley,
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded.
No filth soured the sweetness of his well.
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.
His beard was silver as a brook in April.
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate
or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said,
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.
The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling,
clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes.
His heaped granaries spilled over always
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.
Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen.
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome,
but to him in his old age came greatness.
An old man, nearing his first source, may find
the timelessness beyond times of trouble.
And though fire burned in young men's eyes,
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.
4.4k
When you close your eyes
do you know
what it is dawning
as a torchlight on the silver glass
of your soul?
Does your heart like mine
throb with words
crying out to breathe life
into the darkness of your world
and for once,
be understood by all?
If our words could stand up
and dance in the light
of a moon shining on love
they could be loud enough
for others to learn.
Until everything said
played out in a scene of seconds
full of trust, never ending
or needing
to be discerned.
My heart speaks the language
that your heart understands.
Our thoughts
are one and the same.
Your heart too,
speaks the language
my heart understands.
Each of our words
cries out to breathe life
into the darkness,
oh......
if only they could dance.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
~
*Salvation comes with a price--
Pried open doors,
choir songs of fingerdust
resurrecting goldrush,
and a pretty little
cromulent called whitewash.
New century martyrs
have risen up to burn books,
and quotes,
and tongues,
and every contrariwise thought,
--is this intuition or inquisition?
What ascends is trapped within
tenebrific clouds,
returning to barren ground
when it rains unholy prayers.
They don't crusade for you or me.
They contest for dominion and mastery.
Those who believe are mooncalf.
This torchlight of intolerance
sends out skyrockets,
and away it goes!
trending on your homepage:
Past generations
burning at the stake,
at the hands of sinners clothed as saints,
in cathedral oblivion,
dismembering their future
in the blood of their own children.
Amen?*
~
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC
Endure what life God gives and ask no longer span;
Cease to remember the delights of youth, travel-wearied aged man;
Delight becomes death-longing if all longing else be vain.
Even from that delight memory treasures so,
Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,
As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.
In the long echoing street the laughing dancers throng,
The bride is catried to the bridegroom's chamber through torchlight and tumultuous song;
I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.
Never to have lived is best, ancient writers say;
Never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day;
The second best's a gay goodnight and quickly turn away.
2.3k
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
I leave the warmth of the feast
Out into the pleasant night air
A cat walks in the garden
Quietly atop a stone wall
It's eyes reflect in torchlight
Like two carved emeralds
I watch from the stone bench
As he snags a damselfly from the air
Pinning it to the mossy stone
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
Nine is still hugging-new-kitten time
filled with loud giggles, school-loving fun days,
a pig-tailing best time for friend-making.
Nine likes browsing through pages
of favourite tales curled up warm as toast, shawl
clad or napping on Dad's welcome lap.
An eye-on-best-chance-time is nine
for young girlish schemers, secretive play-time,
torchlight snacks with sleep-over pals.
Grown from doll-cuddling but baby
crazy lipstick-red nine acts the high-heeled lady
then raids Mum's bed for cosy snuggles
Life swiftly draining under-ten days
brings teenager-cool ways but not for a while,
beauty at nine has an innocent charm.
When that nine-candled cake makes
its sugary entrance I wish, as she bends closer
to blow months more maiden delight.
But just a reminder dear daughter
being nine still means early nights, clean teeth,
earned treats and a tidier room please.
(Written for a friend a few years ago)
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
I'm taking a lovely trip
to the historical Roman Baths
there's hot springs and Roman temples
I'll be following the Romans' path
A mystical work of the gods (they thought)
built between 60 - 70 AD
illuminated by torchlight
An evening tour maybe?!
I'll pop to the house of Jane Austen
she wrote of romance and love
And 18th century style gardens
where we'll take afternoon tea 'til we're stuffed
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Come to me, my dearest one.
Let me get inside you more;
naivety is your nature,
thus eager to please
and to be pleased
—time flies like a fleeting bluebird,
a fairy in its blue bright spirit,
and still you’re nearing my presence.
Almost there, so be afraid of me,
and yet fond of me,
for I'll never let you stray off anymore
—stop your wandering, no more—
and ‘tis the proof that I hold you so dear.
I long to relish that imminent moment
where you’ll give me the enjoyable tickles
while struggling in my arms tightly locked,
kept held in my blooming *****
in ominous anticipation.
Alas, I'm much eager to please you so
—and I do expect, you would feel the same;
that is what I know from your eyes
trying to shun my eagerness,
still neglecting my attentive gesture
beckoning you to join me,
but you will hide it no longer,
for all of your struggles, big or small no matter,
fans my fanatic yearning for your soul.
So accept me, my foolish child
(so carefree, but still shuddering)
as the dim evening clouds
would shroud the skies above,
sealing off the passage of light
that was once so brilliant,
but now without a reason to exist.
And you, the courted,
don't just stand there
when I come to embrace you heartily,
so induce me—do ****** me,
and betray your fear
to be accepted by me, and only.
Do me a favor, and this shall work
as a token of passion for me;
the perfection is all yours:
the purification of our intents,
the petrifaction of our conscience,
the completion of our unison,
ceasing the compliance
with the rigid standards
of the unworthy.
Wings of the butterfly collapse
altogether, and you will be
awaken, knowing that, my love,
you are truly a butterfly.
Like a pair of moths,
we fly into the torchlight burning incandescent.
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC
Days are splendorous,
in the royal color wash,
and frost,
of November.
Four thirty is a burning torchlight
of reminiscence.
November,
older,
wiser,
But similar,
in the way that air,
is a rustle of crisp leaves,
and emotions that,
stretch across the horizon,
like an autumn parade.
Familiar,
in the way that,
shifting parameters of light,
invigorate and disturb.
Prodigious,
whispering of enchantment,
and it's Siamese twin,
disillusionment.
November,
That lingers like a somber melody,
or a dense beat,
hanging on the evening wind,
Whose disruptive energy,
is portentous,
of wakeful nights to come.
That shimmers,
and shivers,
and sings,
sending a mating call,
to ravenous winter.
November,
is a communicable pheromone,
am aphrodisiac,
A crescendo.
The yearly succubus,
crowned,
in her raucous display,
of jewels,
Her ingenious distraction,
as she drains the world
of warmth,
and daylight.
And I am hallowed.
November's champion,
riding the dark,
like a faithful steed.
A cowgirl about town.
An outlaw,
blown in on a strident wind,
Primed to partake,
of libation and lechery,
because I am restless,
and it is too brisk to wander.
November is distilled,
and flows like hot cider,
steaming in the faces,
of days it leaves cold.
It is one thousand proof,
and permeates breath vapor,
each small fog,
that lingers like an apparition.
Shades of November,
fettered from dissipation,
as winter,
in search of answers,
clutches at the evidence of its becoming.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.
Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.
It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.
The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.
Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to
your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.
The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:
a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 9:56 AM UTC
Sloshing round the bay road
through the foot-deep potholes,
glorying in the rain-lashed dark
as the wind made the phone-lines sing
I saw him. Brown, dishevelled, shivering -
a leveret, bamboozled by torchlight
diminished in his dripping fur,
wild eyes wide and startled.
Trying to leap aside, he caught the fence,
rebounded, tried again,
landing this time in a muddy sheuch,
a wired brown ball of panic.
"You'll not last long in this, wee man,"
I muttered, scooping him up,
dropping him into the deep dark pocket
of my raincoat.
Home we went, where two boys waited.
I quickened my pace, eager
to be the father bearing surprises,
to widen the cast-list of this adventure.
We dried him off, the boys enchanted.
He unfolded. He raised his head.
He bounded round the kitchen
on impossible elastic legs.
"Let's call him Charlie!" cried Robin,
and we did.
Charlie the Hare.
Alien, crazy, impatient.
When the rain eased
and Charlie was dry,
I put him back in my pocket
for the journey round the bay.
The last I saw of him
he was bounding out of sight
indifferent to the interlude
engaged in other things.
Those wild eyes that looked beyond
had no place in a cosy kitchen
this was no pet, no human companion
there was no understanding
But every time we see a hare,
the boys say, "I wonder if that's Charlie!"
and it glows against the backdrop
of nature's unfathomable canvas.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
ghostly beings in ghost-town streets
tourists dressed in night-gown sheets
empty shelves; empty shopper
tempus fugit; clockstopper
november fog; chilly bones
midnight leaves me so alone
i can't feel your warmth right now
can't see you in torchlight now
no miracles, no visions
no stars for me to wish on
just us and the freezing air
just you captured in their snare
just me and my own shortfall
a ghost who loves a mortal
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
*Riddle me this,
Riddle me that,
I have a riddle,
Just for you.
Can you answer it?
If you get it right,
I'll let you go,
If not, well there'll be a price.
You see,
I love riddles,
And I've always gotten it right,
Let see if you'll get it right:*
**I travel by the moon and stars,
I can't abide the sun,
But banish me with a torchlight,
You'll see me turn and run.**
What am I?*
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
Bright pale eyes and
long fair hair
She was a born
adventurer with a
rebellious flare
Insomniac,
she came by the lake
every night
Shining like a
torchlight
against the moonless sky
She wondered how life
was like on the
other side
And curious by heart,
she decided to find out
Stepping into the cold
black water, the air
was dead still
In the eerie silence,
she boldly
started to swim
With graceful
strokes, she approached the
opposite shore
But halfway the freezing lake,
her body could suddenly
move no more
Wide-eyed and
panicking, her cries for help
echoed in the open
Sinking, flailing
limbs and screaming 'til her
lungs grew swollen
Drowned,
she never reached the other
end of the lake
But in the nearby
village, an identical girl
still lives today
Bright pale eyes and
long fair hair
Nightgown dripping wet
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
Pinky promise
Holding hands
Arms on waist
Now let's dance
Set lips free
It's alright
Left confused
In the torchlight
I am grateful
That we're here
We embrace
I pull you near
Run through darkness
Leave our friends
Return before
The night ends
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
Today a ten-year-old girl
threatened suicide at school because
a trusted uncle had molested her.
What kind of ******* world
has this become?
Police were called,
Child Services arrived,
statements were taken.
no doubt social workers
were stirred into the mix.
I am a man of the 20th Century,
just old enough to remember outrage,
to remember when too much was taboo,
to remember personal honor.
When I was a kid, this monster
was snatched from his bed
by righteous neighbors, dragged begging
to a private place beyond help
and been beaten nearly to death
by the fathers of other potential victims.
Imagine a circle of men, ordinary men,
mostly World II and Korea veterans:
insurance men, car salesmen, farmers,
store keepers, salesmen, even a lawyer
tightening the circle in the torchlight.
The monster begged, pleaded, wept,
wet himself, **** himself, whimpered.
The sheriff watched, smiled,
and then rearrested the pervert for resisting.
Had he lived, the monster would never
have touched a little girl again in our town,
knowing that his life would be forfeit
and end abruptly and anonymously.
Probably, he would have just slunk away.
This new state of bureaucracy cares nothing
for the victims it claims to protect.
It only wants the paperwork filled out correctly.
I was 11, 1962 in a quiet sleepy town.
My father took me to see what evil brings,
the best lesson he ever taught me.
If I had been old enough I would have joined in
without so much as a twinge of regret.
You liberal ostriches can call this brutality if you like.
I call it community action, community justice.
People protecting what is there's to protect
when the official guardians just go through the motions
I miss the 20th Century. I miss justice.
~mce
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
I stare out of my window at the midnight street:
Desperate lovers roam back alleys, hoping one day they’ll meet.
Creeping shadows cast from dimming street lamps haunt the pathways;
Yawning teens sit awake typing up long overdue essays;
The dreams of the unsuccessful hang in the sky with the stars;
Drunken mugs trip over their own feet outside the city bars
A lone tree stands to attention in the middle of a frost bitten field
Fear ridden walkers use recycling bins and garden walls as shields
Workaholics typing themselves into oblivion
Athletes run laps hoping to become an Olympian
Stray cats and the heart wrenching cries of the homeless haunt the alleys
Holiday goers walk by torchlight through hundred year old valleys
Hopeful wannabes sing their shoulda coulda wouldas by the crack in the kerb
Whilst I sit… staring at the wall thinking of a perfect verb
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
The night takes its form
In stages of still blackness
and inky silence.
Ibu knits by the staircase
squinting in the candlelight
while reciting pantuns;
Abah trudges through the water
with a kerosene lamp
and a yellow umbrella
muttering to himself –
All is still on the water’s edge.
I look out the windows
torchlight in my hands:
Water is everywhere
Lawns and roads
In every house and every car
its murky reflection
placid, unmoving, brown;
The night brings with it
A cacophony of noises:
From the candlelight
A cricket calls to its mate
A bloodthirsty mosquito
buzz in my ear
the gentle patter of rain
on the roof
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
Venus flashes in the horizon
a distant torchlight,
invisible constellations
seep the sky's sonority,
the mysterious
assumes a drab
uniformity,
construction inches closer,
stale reptilian cringe...
tired gaiety of headlights
groping home,
that carefree shepherd
within, long lost
and forgotten...
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
what is life
throughout
the
vast universe
but
a thick soup or patridge
stirred in a cauldron
then oozes out
through
channels and canals
kindled
from the
torchlight of Prometheus
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Torch flame and red wine.
I'm doused in paint and sweat
Stomach curdled in hunger and irritation.
He is late.
He usually is.
The wine was for me.
Nevertheless, I let him sip from my glass.
We argue. Pardon...discuss.
I win.
I usually do.
We watch the bottle vanish.
We recline.
We muse.
I relax into my own sore muscles
including the muscle in my chest
tell a story that sharpens its ache.
He stutters.
I startle as
he kicks his chair out from under him.
Tears flicker in torchlight.
Hands clasp too fervently.
Questions.
No. Actually...
...just one.
I knew the answer, but was
left
utterly
speechless.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC