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Trevor Morse Poem
Ouivre, ouivre,
my Ovus Star,
a bit premature
immortal,
for there we are.
Again, and again,
we do sojourn.
I am yes... so
terribly in love,
but a bit ironic.
Our path as one
harmoniously, plutonic.
There are many, many
foundations Elemental.
To you my Heiroglyphic Monad,
a bit John Dee, an Angel at the
Window.
If thee suffer, dire
agonies, a bit widowed.
Be a courageous summoner
of spirits, altruistic
virtuous.
A graceful tidbit
of gentle music,
in utero, a triad teaching,
Wolfgang Mozart, toi Asmodeus.
A whimsy fair-gypsy lady,
a mythological Magic Flute,
mine you yearn to play,
a malady.
A Hermetic philosophy
suggest a whee Feminist.
Duality Luna, luminary
A trois, virgin Diana,
suggest an Agrippa von
Nettesheim.
Le Mors, history past
Beelzebubian,
a' tres joli
Cherubian.
Attainability
cerebellum, cerebrum
vena sacrificulus,
parry only valerius,
Heroine erroneous.
Divination, divinity
hence, epicus Mortuus.
A fancy Miding Mallecho,
mysteriosis.
An Apparition
proclaiming amnesty,
apparthied.
Come once humanity,
come twice, Judaeus
Christio. Our souls
allied.
Furthermore, henceforeward
questioning Faith and its
epitome of Fable.
Through an act of man
to woman fine,
young, and able.
Sexuality in visionary
quest, Ceasarian
Tantrism.
A renounce all knowledge
flesh, "invisible mistresses,"
consummation "'isms'. . ."
my "Miss."
Divinitas tetigit
Excelso Anxietic.
Mysticus Dolor. . .
Heavenly angel Ovus,
as we soar.
A gayly expressive,
our Osirion knowledge
progressive.
An abundance exuberated,
serpent wisdomatic,
A co-union of spirit, momentarily
spurratic.
So, oui my love, romance
E plurubus scientific.
A yield, yours and mine,
Seraphic.
Transmutation, Aquarius y
Angelique, a beautiful devas
kingdom dynastique,
a new world of expressive
faerie.
Forevermore, forevermore. . .
A slight perchance merry!
Copyright © Trevor Morse | Year Posted 2006
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Trevor Morse Poem
As stars reflect
the knowledge
of the sacred.
The boiling seas
of the Cosmos
churn acrid.
Upon the nurturance
of Venus', passionate
quivering calls
exclaimed.
The essence of
God's wrath
lovingly made tame.
As the chariots
of love, upon the
courtships of epic
virtue, possess.
Our goddess sisters,
import the specialty
of rule, for which
the governs
obsess.
As Boreas' trumpet
sounds ecstatic
bliss.
The Rosicrucian
passion bells
hither, a faint to
a swaying and
hiss.
As the murmuring
embers of the
divine left
receded.
Hour of humanities
no time of present,
so subtley,
defeated.
As upon death,
a mummy spreads
its rein.
The resurrection
of the Sons of Man,
all for not,
in vain.
The seduction of
fertility and the
mysteries left to
relish.
All made bitter
upon showers
of mourn,
to embellish.
When upon
the merry company
of our divine,
Saints, roused
along Lethe.
A brother to
you, oh dainty
beholder of truth,
as yours in
Seth.
The disillusionment
of our fathers
petty, immortal
opportunity
made solemn.
The wisest of
men, why,
amongst the
true, made golem.
Take precedence,
then and now,
where'st upon
your throne
of pride.
As the winds
of wrath swarnly
blown, our savior
side to side.
In due notion
a precedence
of time,
without respect.
A fulfillment
of God's love,
our souls to
resurrect.
As Dragons
drew the chariot
of night,
and profound
duration.
A cowards sword
in hand, his
skewer's elation.
As stars reflect
the knowledge
of the sacred.
Humanities, why. . .
derision for dole,
left shaken.
As prophets
emit, as seen
thus. . . .
When stars do
let fall
the Sun,
pray thee,
a heavenly Venus.
Copyright © Trevor Morse | Year Posted 2006
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Trevor Morse Poem
There upon the courtship,
proclaimed, a sorrowful
spirit hearkened upon
this ballad of misery
and burden. For her
grief and unrelished
despair, the angels
of Michael, our saintly divine,
answered, whil'st upon
the hour of marriage royal,
an unwanted surprise,
a battle declared, as the
essence of Faith
exuberated.
This day of celebration,
joyous, the sun's vibrance
a galliant shiny array
of angelic symphony.
The court's jester prepared
daintfully as the council
gathered for the wedding
and celebration.
Crowds upon crowds
of commons and
majestic royals gathered
in anticipation, for
a marriage vow of
royal to peasant a
spleen for gossip.
Geinere's beauty and spirit
made so ever-beautiful
and bountiful, her Magdalenic
passion, though hidden
from the stage, her garden
of love like no other
Atlantis. This ballad
of acceptance Cherubic
as the maiden Geinere
was given away. The
gathered pupils from
near and far, sighted
tears of admiration
and also of disbelief.
The King. . . his pious
disobediences, very kept
subtle, for betrayal's
embrace, here to far,
loomed as an ominous
hawk awaits its
swoop. As the candles
of the holy triad were
lit, joyous spirit
and unition embarked,
as tragedy did fall upon
this royal majestic whim.
A messenger, grief
stricken, hence
matters slowly, a
voice to the King.
"My King, this glorious
day made tragic,
for our kingdom under seige
soon, a chance to the North."
"Speakest thou, this
action made, a declaration
of war, for no mercies
we have, can'st determine
our strategic foe."
The King's voice grave with
anger and unsuspected
turmoil. A call to the
Prince, oh the mighty
heavens did begin to
crash. Bolts of resilience
and vigor shot from
the oncoming enthralls
of vengeance.
"Messenger, retrieve
the preparations, summon
forth our army at
once. My son!"
Trumpets blew, as
alarm and anxiety
did ensue, instilling
paramount fear, though
only matched by the
mighty holds of fate.
"My Prince, calmest be,
our sudden birth of
unknowing, pray we share
our time spent precious,
for a call to arms for
certain." Geinere, her demeanor
shaken, her Goddess crying
out as the premonitions
of glorious battle, and dying
victory echoed throughout.
"My love, I regret these
tragic circumstances,
our labors, pray not
lost to this ardorous
hell that has come upon us."
The king speaking,
"my Prince, my son, I will
await these temptations of
Belial, ever so gracefully
with the fullest respects,
yours to mine."
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Trevor Morse Poem
There upon the blasphemous
grassy knoll, a maiden,
her lovers' temptations
of the past.
Amidst a silky
silhouette, a dainty stroll
flaunting a crimson masquerade.
"Your invitations of subtle romance,
be they adventurous, unfulfilled,
shall we not exchange vespers?"
The angel Azriel passioned. . .
A soft Belial did exchange. . . .
"Perchance your suggestion faint,
a slight hint at curiosity?"
"Pray you Belial, mystery for the
whimsy, my gentle romance."
The maiden's eyes began to twinkle
slightly, a hint of passion.
The fullness of her bosom
so exquisite and so
tame, she patted herself
on the thigh, exquisitely, softly.
She would listen to the
rhythms of her heart and
praise the moon. . . .
"Azriel your infinite
sensuality is perplexing,
an embrace to the musers
of sophistication."
"Belial. . . are you true?"
"Always, of the most
royalties in shadow."
Belial's vehemence was like
a steady rhapsody-
a melody to the songs
and essences of the
crying angels, his interests
in this courtship affair
piqued, unbeknownst,
foreboding.
A howling wolf nurtured
his wanton's decree.
"May there be no
misgivings between
us. Our romance a flounder,
this time upon a dreary
meadow, passions of the
blooming Spring."
"The maturity of the
season burgeoning as
a goddess basking
in the twilight."
"Belial, amidst your
presence, your magical
enthralls, I am
a virgin of chaotic
confines, an orchestrating
phatasmagoria, bellowing
echoes of innocence."
"Where'st upon your
throne of pride, do
you betake such ambience
and cunning?"
"Another courtship, another
attempt at fate,
falling away with thee,
embracing your sacred
art of serpent
masochism."
Her lips very supple,
very appealing, she
was a cupid to
Belial's delight. . . .
The Dragon emulated
its horrorific
delight,
the trees began to sway
as howling winds
enveloped.
A nightbird swooped,
like a predatorial
owl, scornful wisdom,
a galliant interlude.
The moonlight shown
through, revealing
the shadows of
a saga of melancholy
and the wicked
kingdom.
The angels gently
opposed their own virtue.
Cascading glances of
despair and burdening
lusts erupted within
Azriel and Belial. . . befallen.
The cries of passion
were softly felt, hence,
a lovers' quartet of
silent lucidity.
A beseeching cry of lechery,
portented gayly,
Azriel gave way
to Belial's surmise.
"She will suffer. . ."
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Trevor Morse Poem
Madness exuded like the
war cries of epic battles
and sagas' past,
the myth of man and
the passionate woman.
As the eruption
began to procure its
preparations, Prince Alarumdives,
a moment with the King,
solace, questioning divinity.
"My father, what troubles
plague us? The trumpets
do sound, do us not, impede
decision, for moment's wisdom,
pray we gather and bring
forth a judgement non-grievous."
"Alarumdives, Alarumdives. . .
why we struggle; and endure,
our precious privy, our passion,
our victorious role, a
maddening hysteria,
turmoil, envy? Malice?
These perilous endeavors
that this kingdom, rightly
now, yours and mine,
forevermore, must uphold,
boldly, righteously, justice
and its decree."
"Father, this constance,
unhappy we, if respect
is compromised, be it for
balance, ignorance I
plead, for precious love,
my Geinere. . . ."
"Alarumdives, your wisdom
exceeds you, a gentle
harmony passed. Be it
sincere, your declarations
to cherish, this unition
of marriage, not as
virtue, for loves' royal
to the commons, not.
Can'st be, your labors,
this battle staging as
war closely approaches,
a test, shall worthy
proven, joy then."
"My father, this Luciferus
impediment, a call to
arms, due parry peasant
royalty. A falling star,
my mercies upon, this
calling of crusade, of
scarlet tides of Eden's
embrace, goodness surely
redeemed. As graceful knight,
I embark, these ardors
of dire tragedies, kingdoms
indifferent, be it of ill-virtue,
of ill-decree? May the spirits
that beckon bring forth
victory."
"Alarumdives, much needful
preparation, call'st to
arms, for the galleys
of this kingdom bulging
with cannon. I am to
the balcon to esquire,
gather, hence I salute."
"The masterful sounding of
the ram's horn, a call
to bravery!"
The hills of high, there
did stand, a large
platoon, the flags of
Scotland, a summoning
to port Wales. Torches
afire, blazening with
the perils of passion
and vixen angelic.
Viewing from afar, a
messenger apart, battle
today, no question.
As both tides
prepared for climax,
the gallians, sure
mighty, though as
the Gods did pray,
only a taste, hints
of nothing more.
The horns did exude,
and battle, that
erupted, was as
the raging winds
of Tyr. . . .
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Trevor Morse Poem
The maiden's nipples
swollen, her bosom
flush with excitement,
hailing her goddess as
she slighted very
eloquently, puissant.
The goodness they
shared was of sinful
reproach, a somber
obedience of lovers'
admiration.
The dusk laden sky
flickered with prose,
the sorrows of
Belial's romance of lost
mysteries and his
vengeant domineer,
his bravado, his
masculinity, cascading
like spirals of chaos
and the chimes of
instilled darkness
climaxing to the
sojourn of forbidden
pleasures.
Gently now,
Belial eased this
fair lady to her lover's
demand, her patience
swelling between her
thighs, burning. . .
eternally.
- - - -
I.
Awoken from a dream,
a fair common was she,
her beauty unsurpassed
only by her soulful
demeanor and natural
prelude. Her femininity
and subtle prowess
always the victor,
her passion a hearkening
rose upon a lonely
desolate scorn. Her
feelings a bit feverish,
there now, nothingness
and the harlots of
misery and the massacre
of saintliness. The venom
there pulsing now,
was evermore raspy,
and only to the
delight of our royal
antiquities, vespers
of envy, of anger's delight,
of beckoning glee, a
madman's exuberation to
the deafening hysterias
of mischief's vertigo.
A marriage. . .
arranged, a stiffening
King to his Prince's
triumph over darkness.
Yes, this common peasant
and her divine bounty
was as a peril of Eve
searching for her lost
Eden.
There being no more
reprise, bitter, for her
burden, she was to share.
Somber eyes and
a broom for everyone
to take hold. Yes, the
beauty of a fair maiden
this, so vast and of
such masterful drab,
splendor to all of
the shared treasures
in spirits.
Rage!
A taunting basilisk,
enslaying our vat of
christendom and devotion.
To this day, of prayerful
morn, maiden Geinere,
awoke, scarlet fever.
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Trevor Morse Poem
Geinere's frailty
was that of an abandoned
child, lost in the world.
Her hurt was so that
of anguish and desperation,
her heart burdened by
his hateful words.
His domineerance, his
drunken righteousness,
protruding as a writ
man. A careful prodigy
was he, as his stupor
conceited to arousal
and a display of power.
"Geinere, calm thee now.
Closer, though not
as baffled, as I, for
you are in dear service,
fulfilling thee! Serve
your King graciously."
"My lord, pray thee no. . . ."
"Our bitter wench felt,
be this night, hence everafter,
I make thee worthy, art
the entail."
Tears erupted from poor Geinere.
Her soul departing as the
King's demands advanced.
Her innocence and essence
robbed of her, cheated now always,
a sullen amort. Her woes,
her unheard cries, her
tender virginity taken
from her, now left mad,
sadness and melancholy,
would be her muse.
Pain,
agonizing sorrow,
though unrightly welcomed.
For upon this eve of
tyranny and degradation
a seed of humility was
planted with no roots
of nurturance. The
passion shed would remain
a scar upon the royalties
of a forgotten King
and instill a harlotry
of peasant virtue upon
the dear maiden
and this dire kingdom.
As Geinere unwillingly
embraced the bastardly
disobedience of the
King and his dark
vespers of misery, her
turmoil greatened,
her flower taken,
her essence floundered.
The act maliciously foresaken.
"Oh angels, plentiful,"
chimed the King,
his behemoth of
propriety and lust
now ripe with vigor.
"In thy hopes of your goodwill,
overpowered, as vassal
actress, a call for
repeal."
"Begone Geinere!
Out of my chamber,
accusations found,
for I am certain, upon
your unwanted fulfillment
of matrimony. A
gift of guilt for you
hereafter!"
The night faded
as a moon blush tainted,
fell from the heavens.
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Trevor Morse Poem
As the angels of
laughing ladies,
gently anticipated,
the doves of virtue
and grace, beautifully,
a bastard of mote.
A master of beauty
the essence of dazzling
affects, the whimsies
of witch, sorrowful,
attaint, ghostly dialects.
For the princes' coming
the giddiest of sickly
man-staggers. Proudly
the poltergeist wrote.
For triumph, proclaimed
victory, the blood of lazars.
The caduceus of darkness,
chastity and grim,
our righteous in light,
Sons of God, they resurrect.
As the light of
Venus, our amorousness
of pathos, an alliance
of golden virtues,
a dynasty brilliant.
The blood of evening,
vespers of red tides.
An eidolon choir,
the phantoms,
revenant. A man
of prickly ears,
keen senses,
an aporetic.
The blessing bestowed,
now upon, the harlots
of misery mysterious.
Her knowledge, her spare,
her wisdom, her wit,
the crux of
ancient Hesperides.
The jealousy,
dear Jeezebel,
the maelstrom of
eidetic hysteria,
an endorphin heretic.
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Trevor Morse Poem
Presumably ovid,
with qualm,
wit, and wisdom,
as to the smallest orb,
give way to our
very own,
Christendom.
As horn-mad, to
fetch me about,
the Kings, they play
mighty,
their Queens,
a jester and pout.
Though ancient
as jointure, the merry
plenty they must,
with the lyric
of masterful lyre,
a temptation
of lust.
The beauty of
maidens,
the fullness
of their breasts,
made ever-virtuous.
As the sun sets,
vertigo,
the nestles
of primrose and cressets,
giving way to the lecherous.
Oh. . . the love,
of Jesus,
our very own,
the saintliness of Magdalene,
the diadems of
the Goddess throne.
Amidst a canonized
hearsed, our beloved
Sun, rightfully lets.
The essence and infinity
of Magdalene, again
a Nemean regrets.
As the green fonds
of the winter fern
shed its nurturing essence.
Waves of nostalgia blazened
by the mid-December
days ripening afternoon.
The snow covered pines,
the aroma of fresh coffee,
the feigned ecstasies
of the struggling artists
made fragile,
and at no attempt.
Piercing thoughts of verse,
no love made without quarrel.
The day began as it always does
in December,
amidst melancholy and sorrow.
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Trevor Morse Poem
Nowhere now, Geinere
awaited her day of
unrightly judgment,
her only hopes of
victory brought thoughts
of remorse and
further difficulties
for herself and her dying
love. No embrace
could be made.
Her silence would
remain, for accusations
of such made, was
sure death for thee.
Her soul became
fierce, conjuring
redemption for this
instillment, a fall from grace,
her skillful prowess,
her warrior bringing
forth chaos. Lightning
crashed as the tumults
of her Goddess'
vengeance squalled
from the uproarious
heavenly sky.
"These leperous times of
love's decay, porches
of word, betrayed.
May our devotion
sate our divine
qualm, a subtle
devil delays, for
biddings may take
afar. Be it region
my fate, due your
rank and garb. For
thee upon a graceful
whim, perchance pray, your
folly for your conceit
and vindication.
My reputation banished
into the fathoms of a
conceivable Hell,
this lifetime.
These thoughtless
lusts, be it not perverse,
unholy absolute!"
Tears of silence beckoned
the oncoming storm,
a prelude to the
saga of love made
true, dire consequences
of chaste and grim
truth.
- - - -
The next morn. . .
- - - -
"Geinere, my new
found love, your
beauty and essence
of the divine.
Can'st be so
familiar, for the task
of royalty, a tragic
array of misgivings
found." Prince Alarumdives
spoke ever-softly, akin
to the King's arrogance, though
ignorant of his wicked deeds,
this past eve.
"My Prince?"
"What'st my father
demand, for your saddened
face, this morn?"
"He has foresaken you
my love, our marriage
troubled, his grievances."
"I see my love."
"I am sorry if our
unition burden
your reputation, be it
not true, for a taint
crimson mine to yours
and your own."
"No Geinere, you know
my love for you, the
deepest perils of valor.
You are my passion,
my grace, my spirit's
nestle. My love for you
Geinere, the fullest,
a garden of blossoming
joy, yours and mine.
Happiness take'st with
thee, goodness and
romance's virtue."
"My Prince. . . ."
Her eyes welling
tears, her pain her
bare."
"My Geinere, tomorrow
yours true, for thee to
wed, our grace and
passion fulfilled,
the kingdom royal
renewed."
"Yes my Prince,
pray our vows, not
to become shrewd.
May my Goddess, now
Christom, strengthen
my soul."
"Geinere, what'st that
troubles you, may I
ask?"
"I am at no mercy,
let us parry this,
yours made true,
may your father's
blessing bestowed not
compromise a
spiteful discourse. . . ."
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