"triad" poems
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and ***** in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.
5.3k
Every morning I longed to be by my mother’s side.
She was kind and true.
As true as the facts anthropologists find to prove our human roots.
They say we evolved from monkeys and such.
I say there are always lies in between truths.
My mother promised to keep me safe.
She made my world a rainbow dune.
Her all-natural perfume gave me the ability to touch the sky.
Her rhythm and tune collided to bring out a pleasant triad.
I touched the blue and white with my bare hands.
No, I did not hesitate, for she was kind and true.
She gave me life and spirit too.
So easily, I assume.
Now all I see is a flooded platoon.
I was all too naïve to believe in the wicked disease.
My surroundings were made out of candies and sweets.
I am disgusted by her attempt to keep my life platonic and safe.
My mother manipulated my innocence without a care of the sea.
She had forgotten to introduce gangsters, and demons into my docile life.
I was only six when it happened.
My beautiful, heartwarming mother took her life.
She abandoned me to face the demons all too soon.
I was thrown into the streets and lived an uneventful life.
Lee found me lying on the street with tears streaming from both eyes.
The rest of my childhood was spent watching Lee slaughter innocent souls.
I saw too much from my own baby blue eyes.
There were screams and body parts rapidly falling from sight.
I knew all too well that Lee was my savior, so I tried to fit in as an alien might try.
Too soon did I become what my mother would never praise and I did not put an end.
As children, we are too weak and need guidance to live.
We mirror what we see, no matter how wrong it may be.
I needed the right soul to look after me.
I did not have that and so I fell into dark tunnels, you see.
I am not to blame, so why blame the innocent and not those at fault?
Those that walked right past me when I was only six could have helped.
They had the upper hand, I did not.
I never did, I was just a little innocent kid.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love
from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come
continues still perhaps in empty homage
of a sa ta na ma
personage of ((Shiva))
white bones pierce the sky
in upward curtain-seethes of heat
beyond imagined burning hells...
the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life,
sands of absolute defeat.
shadow trust imparts
a silent teacher's mantras;
soothing psychic words,
"Bala" and "Adi-Bala"
carry over dunes of morbid thirst--
the gape of ancient serpent-maws
choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons
fissured by immobile sun--
their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream
in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line:
god-fated tutelage of seedling savior,
lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew
shining arms horizon's arid form:
despite begrudging honor kings expect
when offspring given after years
in hard-earned sacrificial grace:
yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage
to which is pitted youth to slay--
despite allay by symbol feminine,
as if to question her abode would conjure her
in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf--
with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat
the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic,
forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical:
"we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy;
before your son our asthras lay their weaponry"
.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
You unscrew the jar; Orion’s climactic sigh spills—
A cello’s low A hums—our triad, C and E—the night skies.
Your thumb caresses pulse down my throat, andante, it drills
through myth—not his hunt, but the damp heat between our thighs.
We’ve plucked Lyra’s rusted chords, restrung her spine
to thrum with your breath, not some dead muse’s cords.
Stars crack like old records; we skip, we refine—
our bed, a cradle for light, shed our sheer white peignoirs.
You fear the jars dim? Let me mouth the black core
of Cassiopeia—choke her brittle groan,
then laugh as you arch—my crescendo, your score—
each note a plum’s burst where her language had flown.
Your teeth score my shoulder. The dark soars, unconfined—
We swallow the arias. Let the void choke on mine.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC
*I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.*
-Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V.I
The world I fathom rhetorically orbits
around the whirr of a dust-peppered
triad of turbine limbs
inbreeding infinitely as electricity's
treaty permits
into a smorgasbord whirl of
processed plastic white
A remedial sun I compose
to counter outside's oven bulb
in the world I do not fathom
Heat's ****** of humidity
is not lost on me
with no canonized sense
even to establish it with
And even my own remedial sun
restricts a reality-knighting touch
with its ozone cage pried open
in unseen haste - a victim
of college's fugitive waltz
encased in the jazz fusion dance hall
of the world I cannot fathom
Is there a dual left-footed
interpretive dance of a carbon dimension
outside of reality's steaming kitchen
to fathom me?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
I
Tired
the long road ends
by a sea wall
The engine dies
to cries of estuary birds
to halyards’ **** and tinge
A lake of light set in night’s cloudscape
brims over the western marshland
to seaward a dense darkness
On the ferry’s step
ear close to the brown water
a part-song sings the ebb tide’s flow
II
Threading into the marshland
a braid of cloud-reflected water
of oval sedge and common reed
In amongst the brown canes perspective vanishes
only by mind’s foreshortening or body’s levitation
is there sight beyond the creeping rootstock
By the river path a leaf
pearled with glazed dew glistening
dew grabbing the photographic eye
Standing backs to the horizon
a sculpted triad of bronzed ancestors
watch over the summer rites of music
III
This ****** field
moves clamorously under the feet
waiting waiting for the sea’s kiss
Proud-coloured the boats here
resting poised on railway sleepers
beside their tractored guardians
How to know which way to turn
which view to hold for memory’s stamp
this patient sky this slow exhaling sea
This foreground flow of white-grey-brown pebbles
each sensibly-sized for the hand in the pocket
yet substantially-singular on the window’s sill
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:12 AM UTC
The fog shall not lift...sapphire, ruby,
emerald studded chimeras roam the
primordial soup.
The hysterical triad of a bleating goat,
lion's roar, dragon's inflamed screech.
The implacable lot of sublime vision...
reels the shadow of a halo.
The shadow of what's opaque...an
ominous drumbeat of the collective
unconscious.
Pagan hybrid...chimera--sulphurous
manacle of delirium, pomp and glory
of madness.
Releasing opiates within the plush
chambers of your Gaian skull.
Lunar stone's throw to quashing tides...
bone-fetching chimeras 'neath their
moonlit charge at flesh.
Chimeras, no mere inhabitants of an
exotic petting zoo...pattering the early
puddles which became The Face of the
Deep.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
I was doing research in Hubei
Where they executed Yu,
That deity soldier glorified
By Buddhists, Taoists too,
I sat perusing manuscripts
That dated from the Ming,
And came across a reference
About Yu’s finger ring.
A ring of gold so broad that it
Would fit a peasant’s wrist,
For Guan Yu was a mighty man
His ring, an amethyst,
Set round with groups of diamonds
It was lost the day, they said,
That Sun Quan had ordered them
To lop off Guan Yu’s head.
They lost it for a thousand years
It turned up with the Ming,
Was lost again in battle with
That mighty force, the Qing,
I’d heard it round the market place
A whisper, now and then,
That ring, it might have surfaced
In the village of Maicheng.
I scoured the streets and alleyways
For signs of old antiques,
Researching as I went, I walked
Around the town for weeks,
I found a backstreet corner shop
One night, and open late,
Run by a dodgy Chinaman
A total reprobate.
He had links to the Triads, they
Would come into the shop,
A shifty group of gangsters with
Their stolen goods to pop,
From where I sat with manuscripts
Up on the second floor,
I’d look straight down the staircase
Watch them come in through the door.
One day they brought in a bundle
Tied up in a burlap sack,
Threw it down on the counter, said:
‘What do you make of that?’
Fang Zhang then opened the parcel and
He pulled out a giant hand,
The flesh the texture of leather with
A monstrous golden band.
The ring was almost immoveable
The hand, with fingers spread,
Could grasp a maiden around the waist
Or crush a warrior’s head,
I held my breath as the Triad tried
To disengage the thing,
And all the while the diamonds flashed
On that massive golden ring.
Fang Zhang paid over a block of notes
That looked more like a brick,
There must have been a million Yuan
From what I saw of it,
The Triad left and I caught my breath
Fang Zhang had pulled it off,
He threw the hand in a ******* bin
And then I left the shop.
He hid the ring as I walked on through
I had to get some air,
I’d caught a glimpse of a famous ring,
A thing I couldn’t share,
They’d say it didn’t exist, that I
Was dreaming, if I tried,
They thought that it had been lost to view
The day that Yu had died.
I went back down the following day
The Police were there in force,
They stood out front and barred the way
From normal ***********
They told me through an interpreter
Of the ****** of Fang Zhang,
His face was black, for around his neck
Was a massive, ringless hand!
David Lewis Paget
(Pronunciation: Guan Yu - Gwon you
Hubei - Who - bay; Sun Quan - Sun Chu-arn
Qing - Ching; Maicheng - My - cheng
Fang Zhang - Fang Shjang (soft J))
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
Hello Dear Friend,
It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:
You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over
Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.
But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.
Remember: those who look— will find,
Your Dearest Friend
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 2:17 AM UTC
You are...
The epitome of insanity
The goddess of hypocrisy
The rebel of gracility
And the idolater of vanity
The paramount of mistress
The fixative of my embodiment
I am a failed triad of disappointment lacking your physical, emotional and ****** completeness
I'm fueled by love of my adversary's scrimmage
And broken by my lechery
Thus making me facil to your incogent persuasion.
And infatuated by your complimentary image
Though you are the demoralizer of souls
The extension of my patience
By the obscureness of your oomph
Why in the foolery are you the axis of my goals
You're an abhorrent char to my mind
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
Thunder, and Lightning decided to open up their relationship.
Invited me to join them in a Triad.
Thunder and lighting have this eternal connection,
Belong together
I love watching them dance
Perform for me impulsive without leashes
I worship the trust that requires
The loyalty, faith in each other
Flying wherever they want,
Loving loud and without boundary
Knowing this storm belongs to them.
Safety, Definition: that moment after every passionate lovers kiss.
We are worshiped as the same storm.
Now I have the oppurtunity to build intimate connections with thunder.
With lightning.
Thunder has this base drop palpitation
Our hearts twitch in time just to align
The feeling of her crushing my butterflies
With firm hands, a passionate kiss that lasts only seconds.
Lighting comes in these quick bursts
I never feel like I can look at him long enough
Bright, dangerous
Knows he could **** me in a second
If he only touched me
He will never touch me
Only dance
Never long enough
Keeps me craving more
Likes to give me that headrush
When he returns.
As for me,
I was content just worshiping them
Every second they weren't worshiped,
Wasted chances, lost time, missing puzzle peices.
I didn't expect an invitation
This chance to see them honestly
Two seperate beautiful creatures to worship
Instead of one savory storm to feel pulse through me as one dancer.
I'm just an awestruck boy staring at the sky
Lost in endless baby blue, warm off sunrays, or choosing my favorite freckles in the stars
More lovers to distract me when they are gone.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
I watch the piano strings thrum
They shiver like my bones
At the sound of a Minor chord
I watch his pale fingers glide over the keys
They move as swiftly as I do to his lips
They are just as cold
I watch his face as he plays
His calm visage broken by a diminished triad
My heart broken by the pain in his face
I watch his lips move
Mouthing the words he's written
I weep that I can't hear him
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
yestereve we succame
A lengthy ballad of longing
formerly one of obstinance
flared in a cacophony of passion
Whilst usually twirling in a seemly epitome fashion,
yestereve a caprice thought laid heavy on hearts
as there was no doubt of desire
nor were there objections to her
for even when my affections consumed you
lady desire was just an inexorable
yestereve she picked petals from a Sinensis blossom
there went the pain
any semblance of grudge
along with sanity
reason
and lastly, walls as carefully constructed as that of Pyramus and Thisbe's
such vulnerability unmatched
for your sweet scent lulled me from the arms of reason
for reason, although safe,
is the most intricate and fragile part of the ballad
and the first to fall victim to the cascade
What a fool I must be to have gladly forgotten the kinks of your hands
or the freckles on the back of your neck that form a perfect triad.
The way your upper lip curls when you grin
made my glissade blissful and passionate
Your flustered twirl
the very epitome of aubade
Ignorant of the harsh retombe of reality
Your flustered face En L'air
Every touch a pleasant surprise that formed a grand symphony
A moment of unfiltered emotion
A heavenly ballad
so cruelly of yestereve.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 2:37 PM UTC
Writing is an expression of self
Working is an expansion of wealth
Medicine is just an extension of health
Why does life feel like destruction of self
that ends either when you've run out of wealth
or when you're sick or extending your health
by denying your feelings an end they deserve
writing is really the end of yourself.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
There is a darkness in him that compels me.
Every move he makes, it entices me and pulls me in.
A charming smirk, a twitch of his finger,
As he lounges in black velvet--nails sharpened to a point.
It's dangerous, but I can't withdraw, can't pull away from his touch.
His personality is like a drug. It's abusing, but it feels so good--so raw and primal.
I'm suspended on a silken thread, waiting to fall,
Anticipating it.
But all he does is smirk and take a drag as he paints my skin with ink.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
The notes go across the page left and right ; up and down
Do, Mi, So, Mi, Do, So, Do sounds the triad
Nerves begin to increase as I look at the unknown key
The walls around begin to cave in as the ground swallows me whole
Voices in my head say "you can't do this"
My confidence is replaced with doubt
Do, Mi, So, Mi, Do, So, Do plays again
Then it suddenly clicks
The key is known
The interval Do, Ti, Mi is easy as pie
The dotted eighth notes are perfect
The high Do to La doesn't trouble me like always
The low So ends the sight reading
I walk out of the room with a breath of fresh air
I know I just slayed the judges lives back there
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
Is a circle truly infinite?
Or does it have two ends that meet?
Perhaps hundreds of beginnings and ends.
Music, Science and Magic
form a perfect triad.
Each two defining the third.
Like the aurora of Father Jupiter
making music with Europa.
Dancing like children in a solar wind.
Defying divine chaos.
Do your best to distance keep
lest you brave the eye.
Mystics trace the path.
Travelers... we fly.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
a once-concerned man in the mirror told me,
the best things in life are free.
so why is it my life revolves in threes?
three colleges,
a four-year marianist institution,
with less morals than a mosquito,
a two-year community college,
overlooked as tall egos look down upon,
and on to a four-year vincentian valued
melting *** of hopeful inspiration.
three majors,
a degree in engineering seems futile,
as i already understand the mechanics of life.
a degree in business is impractical,
as i already know how to sell you on strife.
a degree in english completes my triad,
as i already know it's the butter to my knife.
three years
one for the money,
two for the show,
three to get ready,
four, oh, help me so.
three reasons,
1.
2.
3.
it seems i'm still searching for my meaning here,
pursuing a hare at tortoise-speed.
if only i could kick it into third gear,
i'd catch up to my purpose, and plant
three
more
seeds.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 8:21 AM UTC
ouranos is pulling a thread
in and out of the pinhole stars
as earth slips it's orbit -
atlas dreams of endless oceans, waves
and his planet sleeps on driftwood,
careening quietly from its perch,
boundless in its fleeing fall
from tired shoulders and arms.
the planet sifts through stardust
and it's occupants rifle through reason,
fiddle with contrition.
what information was misread -
who's to blame for the falling sky?
time moves through amber and sap,
too slow to count with blinking digital numbers
or those in ardent analog.
why do the clocks' hands have icy fingers?
glaciers call the seconds years
and so "time" is no more -
the sun cannot thaw the hands
that push the past away
and pull the future to articulate itself.
the present is collateral to the two
in their eternal twirl through non-being.
the duet becomes a triad
and the triad: a singularity,
but it is not a violent transition -
no, it's edges are soft.
they are soft.
the mind calms at this softness.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Melancholy is a tritone
Or an unresolved major seventh
A better life is literally
A half step away
Yet I ring out detectable tension
And you cringe when I am articulated
Enjoy your major triad
In C
Coward
Irving Berlin could only compose with black keys
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 12:47 AM UTC
Frangible fairy wings, I'm sensible.
Your following triad keeping you at bay.
I'm the Seraph you seek, lighting your heart,
Return to the source, Your celestial sphere.
Always infinite in your awakening. You are a Cherubim.
It's time, Awake.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 7:11 PM UTC
It's 4:10 in the AM and I need to write
My second *** and diet coke is taking affect
Partly because I'm running out of diet coke
and partly because I want so desperately to be in this state of mind
I need creative release.
(This is ironic because I'm an artist.)
At least, when people ask me what I do... I say I'm an artist
But lately I can't
Just.
Can't.
I've run up against some demon
Who chants "thou shall not pass, thou shalt NOT"
He is likely a remnant of my last relationship.
I see her everywhere.
I think she drives a silver sedan now
So whenever I see one driving past, I shiver.
There are a million in my small city.
I see ALL of them.
I smile when they pass
So on the off chance she is occupying the driver's seat,
She will know that I overcame her bitterness
I am hypocrisy through and through.
The tobacco on my shirt stinks of all the false promises I've never kept.
It is a vile reminder that I am a cliché wrapped in a gas station burrito
I am naked here.
I am exposing all of the parts that I've vowed to keep inside.
Inside where the A/C can keep the sweat from revealing itself.
My creativity is a joke.
(I don't understand the punch line but I continue to laugh.)
She must have gobbled up the right hemisphere of my brain.
Maybe not her, but the ever-present ghost of what I agreed to allow into my soul
Her white-hot beautiful and angry ghost
Why can't I remove her violent spirit from my bedroom.
Jesus Christ hear me as I cry your name.
Exercise the ghosts of my last three years.
I sweat realism.
You would disagree if you saw my paintings.
Playful.
Happy.
Primary triad displayed proudly.
It's that part of me that says that this very poem needs editing.
It needs to be set right.
It needs.
THIS POEM IS SELF AWARE.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 1:19 AM UTC
Detached, our distant smiles seem for another,
for another dream that might insist upon one happiness,
joined in the winter by a fine fire of our hearts content;
Upon this earth, we are but slaves to love:
to give and to be received, to take and to be taken.
My heart yearns for the in between, and yet for the extreme...
To be eviscerated by the spinning flame and scattered by the wind,
to feel the torrents of a thousand wounds, and to taste blood and sulfur on my tongue
and yet still compelled to love, though selflessly compelled.
Silent bonds to lap at the nectar of your heart
lull me deeper, deeper, into the altar of your mystery,
showing the distance between us; the cold and heat are but a dream
to be accepted, learned, and in learning lost.
I have sung songs for you, on the triad steps you stand,
Perfect in the eyes of men, and in me a seraph, yet my impatience climbs those steps,
grasping at the subtlety of your stares.
For you I would stand alone, watching without a care,
wondering, and wandering the earth, lying with some woman, deaf to her heart
that beats like yours, and only yours
Simple condemnation breathes into my neck,
through my lungs, and from my breast
curled into the center, emanating vibrant
warmth of the hidden fire consolation from my face;
I know that you are the mystic heart,
sent to consent my transcendental start
in life as in death, and in death as in pre-life
to discover the mystery of our mystery.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC