My heart is gladdened by warmth
Of expanding gratitude and zeal,
For God’s provision in our cosmos
Of a powerful and beautiful field.
It embraces with all comfort and joy
My armature of incarnate substance,
As I go about this very terrific circuit
To deify indeed the Creator’s existence.
With a whole galaxy of devotion,
The mission continues to run its course.
It continues to pursue an endless reward,
Spinning about to the pulse of life force.
USPS Stamps Contest 7-24-25 Stamp Chosen American Treasures Louis Comfort Tiffany 2006 Tiffany believed stained glass was a spiritual experience.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Through a Tiffany Window
Touched by the whisper of a coral dawn,
Morning opens a casement portal
And steps into a garden –
A crystalline cathedral -
Where the alabaster breath of dawn
Enchants dusk
With rippled amber rhythms
In between ascending yellows
Spoken as a love poem.
First light
Shapes daylight
Fragments of lavender
Perfume iris’ blooms
Roundels of golden petals
Sing
With southern smiles
In magnolia blooms
Spoken as a tender sonnet in glass.
Serenity speaks in daybreak
Hushed murmurs
Of a trickling river,
Born in blue-grey mountains,
Silently slide
Into azure waters
As opaque morning mists
Float
Above sapphire stillness
Frosted grace
Clothes hills
In rounded curves of blues
And moss
Aurora’s triumph snug
In lines of armature
The glazers journey
Hones broken shards
Into beauty.
She is eighteen and tattoos are the latest rage." I'd like a tattoo please" she asks. I see a young girl in a messy ponytail and wonder if she'll pick something gaudy, then I will have to oblige.
The boldness of youth
can appear so uncouth
yet reveal so much truth.
"I want a tattoo of a winter vine. One that won't fade with time" As the machine begins to “buzz” the armature bar hits the coil and I begin to work. Stretched on her upper arm I notice the discoloration of skin, a slow petering bruise.
Eyes color of snake
she is all heartache
I take a break...
"Why did you choose a vine?" I ask, as the coil tattoo gun soothes her ears. "Last memory of my mom is from a trip to the winery. She told me the sap sinks into the roots and the vine falls asleep until the next year.
the tendril climbs
this is her time
not mine
From her handbag, fifty old crumpled dollar bills. " How much do I owe?" she asks. I say " No charge." She smiles and then leaves, as if on cue...
I adored your shape as a bottle of red wine,
But, close to spirit, you are the larger words and straight lines,
Thus crashing between logic and sense,
Whereas you, have been sold your soul to dark side.
There’s a commoner who cried to the cruel nature,
Who doesn’t appreciate the hunk’s armature,
Behold the truth, of the words, from the madman
Who talks with the tense of being mature:
“Being mature, is turning the mirrors
Into the windows.”
I been not to hesitated to searching truth,
As I look at the abstruse words of a tooth,
You never learn how to baulk or fend off the climature.
Alas, my fellow arch-pessimist,
Whom hither the gray zone, thither the lebensgefahr.
A god mended in string and wired corsets, armature.
The blackened police the striders in the dark…
a crippled plaything,
a hymn of the tourniquet and tethers.
...an earth-bound deities song.
...of the corrupt entertain fears.
The black politic of crippled idol giggles at noon.
The laughter of the loon in the maelstrom of the melancholy.
Mechanics of pale things.
...fear the eyes of the black chromed officers.
Enigmatic and mysterious thin men in rusted black armature...
draconian laws of rooks.
Hymns for an inky book.
Stratagems of military men and political puppets,
see the crippled thing unwind.
The god entwined.
Broken shells and barbed wires,
Rusted gears,
Twisted springs,
Men in black cloaks,
...suspicious eyes,
lords of crimes, and dire deeds.
...of the broken god mended,
in string-wired corsets and armature.
The dark police the sable striders.
riders on the storm in the darkness...
as corrupted something abides!
I mean, long Victorian verses pining for a pure lover who never scratches her own ass.
The bronzed paeans to those who died in war or a meaningless cause.
Or the inscribed moans of the armature bard holding a petunia.
I hate it.
BUT
“If music be the food of love, play on.” OK, OK. I love Shakespeare. But he is Shakespeare.
And then I always had a thing for Viola.
And the Tower of Song. Lennie can and does bring tears to my eyes.
Or “45 years from now” the vaulting words of Stan Rogers. Gone too soon. “I wish I were in Sherbrooke now.”
So maybe I do like poetry. Some poetry.
But I don’t like my poetry. That’s for sure.
So there.
Despite your proclivity for the dramatic,
your latest love saga limps barren of marrow.
Perhaps your heart’s unfruitful seeds need a harrow,
lest your spent nuance-fields shrivel up traumatic.
You brag and attest that cupid well tends your quest,
leaving raw, arrow-clad women piled as discards.
You secretly fear lust might pulse your heart to shards,
yet with temerity, you divest, then detest.
Wimpy-lame best names your decrepit armature.
You feel sure you have sent many down pain’s vortex.
You think yourself debonair and worldly complex,
but such false cheers just you hear in dark’s aperture.
written for contest that required the italicized words be used
Strange just got stranger
Long journeys nothing but adventures
Been writing since a freshmen,
No armature: more like a senior citizen
Blood red, blue hat
Tall and still growing!
Passing all levels; destroying all obstacles,
Walking on black and white flooring
Indigo man: greeting's to all the yellows
And greens,
Can't forget about violet
Those benevolent folks,
Hocus pocus...and potions are purple,
Life as a marathon and I'm cruising
slow as a tortoise but focused:
riding slow and steady,
A process be no stress,
Angry folks on my back
Like hounds but I got bones,
If you catch my flow!
Now whose a good boy?...
Villanelle: The Dilemma of the Non-Violent – 4
Test not people of a violent nature
The choice is not that simple: run if you can
The situation calls for plans more mature
Yijing’s ‘Withdraw into your own armature’
May not the violent deter nor you ban
Test not people of a violent nature
Like as not more cunning than immature
Your lofty thoughts and plans put under scan
The situation calls for plans more mature
Not everyone can alter Laws of Nature
Yet it’s everyone’s duty to make a stand
Test not a people of a violent nature
If you let grow your own virtue in stature
The seasons will follow through according to plan
The situation needs no plans more mature
Can evil people cloaked rude in ill-nature
Succeed where violence breeds not in Man
Test not people of a violent nature
The situation calls for plans more mature
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Power in the night time
flowing down those pole wires,
bless electricity!
your breakers not thrown,
bright light for everyone to see,
bless electricity!
armature moves,
electro-mechanical,
bless electricity!
tesla coil fires,
transistors begin switching,
bless electricity!
amplifier energy,
music notes play,
bless electricity!
Furious I rushed to strike,
My fists were all made and,
The inner violence riveted all on target,
I swiveled and swirled on my toes,
And took that mighty sweep,
As my muscular armature shook and sweat,
My thighbones turned taut,
And leg muscles screwed up like hell,
Chest huffed and heaved up and down,
I knew the moment had come to deliver,
And deliver with bang I did,
The target did not move and was hit real bad,
I had almost killed him but fell short,
Because before I could try again he had taken off,
And honestly I did not have enough for that second blow,
And with every passing day and foe,
I feel the same,
Something inside of me is drying up fast.
Shishir Gupta
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.