Best Brocades Poems
Affluent and formal
pink lilies deck the tables;
we await the
sweet, affected
laughter of our friends.
Bedecked in bouffant hair-do's
perfumes, ermines, jewels
brocades and buckled shoes,
we dazzle, yes! We dazzle
with our mirrors, and our decals,
our precious art, and plaster,
exotic candelabras,
but I can't wait to make my
exit to wander in the gardens
and let the scented air restore
my soul
To get completely
lost in moonlight and
fragrance of the night
never to return,
to that balcony, nor
endure, the boring empty twitter
that temporary glitter.
I can barely wait till daylight to
mount my noble horse
and gallop miles and miles
and miles away.
To feel the solid earth resound
beneath his flying feet.
I have crossed that fragile threshold
into madness.
I can no longer be a Duchess
Suzanne Delaney
Categories:
brocades, fantasy, farewell, identity,
Form:
Free verse
Life's Tapestry
Life begins: a single thread
Inlayed throughout as one
Faceted; a tapestry
Entwining hopes and dread
'Sembling extracts not quite done.
Torn brocades of woven silk
Aloft on dusty walls
Pull at strings of mother's milk
Ellipsing vacant halls.
Shadows press the looking glass
Towards the light then fall.
Running colours fading fast
Yaw past the muted call.
©deborah burch
2.07.2013
Categories:
brocades, life,
Form:
Acrostic
The weightless float of morn throttles
like a softly-bathed woman: white, tangy and bubbling
with a sprig of mint and dew;
petals’ chests opening a gate of chastity, undressed.
A path of upturned twigs rips free and slides along veils
of bridal mist; misty in a way leaves become pastel
strands ; where footprints of grasses become delicate
as it is daring , calling forth my name,Eos...Eos.
Brocades of lace robe my wind—a breaking moment
for these flushed arms to sprinkle the pour of studded foliage
cradling morning's wake...soon,new lovers play
the choral flute bearing freshly-wed fruits: the smell
of earthy breeze drifts upon my mantle of humid, winged caves.
Gently daylight wakes, as I, Goddess of light and dawn
open the first rose shimmering ' neath my tapestry
weightlessly white, no one dares to speak.
Who Are You Contest
Categories:
brocades, inspirational, time,
Form:
Free verse
frantic talent
among willow shadows
capsized boats
in trawls meshes
the spiders spinning brocades
lights at the window
someone waiting for us
an ardent desire floating in the air
set free
the moon soal wandering
a cock
sifting the stars with kikeriki
in the lake full of waterlilies
waves of silvery clouds putting out the night lantern
slowly the dawn caressing the forehead
under the feather sole
bridges lines
can be seen
far away beings coming nearer through
their hearts accord strikes
contrasts
deepening disappearing
in a continuous back and forth
a wind shaking the white chrysanthemums
the cottages hats appearing from the fog
though it is hot
autumn stitch
shaking the nut trees
the fisherman’s wife is alone
all over baked apples steam
unhealed wounds
weeps towards the murky sky
at the poor’s gate
there is an icons painter
getting a bowl of food
with the love colours
the trees and sky are painted
my friend
I give you a tear
of its light
( translated by Margareta Mioc)
Categories:
brocades, inspirational, september,
Form:
Lyric
IRONY
My joy that I wasn't born a Nigerian
Is that my parents are Yorubas
I would have been limited to Naira
Mo dúpé pé mo lókó nílé (All thanks, I have a hoe)
Mo láyò pé omo alápatà sá lèmi(I rejoice, I am the butcher's offspring)
Nigerians should say alhamduliLhai
That our legislators are not as corrupt as our president
The country would have met with a great recession
E wá womo alápatà bó ti n jàsán (behold, a butcher's meal begging for a piece of meat)
Eni tó lókó nílé tó tún fowó ó kómí kiri(and a shovel merchant handpicking wastes)
Nigeria is blessed
With green pastures
And various rich liquids
Láyé Olúgbón, mo dá borùn méje(in the reign of Olugbon I owned seven different brocades)
Láyé Arèsà, mo dá borùn méfà (in the reign of Areas I owned six different brocades)
Nigerians are blessed
With great leaders
And various 'politricks'
Láyé Olósèlú mo ra àrán, mo ra sányán baba aso( in the reign of politicians, I owned linen and silk)
Ení pé ilè yìí o dùn ení kó wá bòmíràn lo(who dare thus pasture is not green should please make an exit)
The rich no longer cry
They are the beneficiaries
Of the poorman's labour
Sisésisé wà lóòrùn tó n làágùn (the labourer are dripping with sweat)
Jeséjesé wà làbétè tó n jè 'gbádùn(the beneficiaries enjoy the clubs)
Oh God of creation
Guide our leaders right
Perhaps, to spend our labour well
Bámúbámú mo yo x2(My hunger is satisfied to the fullest)
Èmi ò mò pébi n pomo enì kankan(I doubt if there is any languishing in hunger)
...
Whenever I see a Nigerian
I see along the irony of a country
Where hunger is an offspring of plenty
Nìnú òpò ará ìlú n jòwón(despite the riches, inflation is at its peak)
Nínú oyé, èése táráyé tún n sunkún oru?( and though its winter, the masses sweat is still profuse)
I hope to change the condition
I wish I could turn this irony around
And make a great change of situations
Sùgbón níbo laó ti bèèrè?(But where hence do we start?)
Tani ká kókó gbá lówó mún gan an?(who should be our first suspect?)
Sájépo lájà ni àbí eni tó báa gbà á sílè? (The looters or their abets?)
Where from should one start
Rewriting the story of this country?
Àbí e ò rórò bí? (Can you see?)
Òrò n bá rò ma ròfó, èfó n bá rò ma mún jèko (that this issue begets another)
Irony nlá leyii je, it is a big kàyééfì (this is a big kayeefi, irony nla leyii je)
Categories:
brocades, africa,
Form:
ABC
The king was incandescent,
In the brocades and creped damasks,
His knights and his attendants
All surrounded his gilt throne.
A multitude was gathered,
For the seasonal oration,
Warming sons and fathers
By his sure and sovereign tone.
The king was still at speaking,
When the son entered the palace,
With his retinue and meaning,
So the people turned to see.
The son, he uttered nothing,
But stood waiting for his moment,
The king stuttering his telling,
Told the instability.
Studded gold and diamonds
Graced his chain of office,
He looked from the medallion
To the son who was the heir.
He’d tried to give his scion
The respect for the appointment,
Was everything a cipher,
But a thing to bring despair?
The son banged on a table,
In a growing faster rhythm,
So the king commanded able
Men to step and defend.
The son left in defiance,
Knights and others, too, departed,
And the stones echoed the silence
Of the beginning of the end.
Around a corner of the palace,
Beyond hearing, down a hallway,
The salvers and the chalices
Were clanging for the feast.
A servant and her daughter,
The girl was only seven,
Were among the cooks and slaughterers,
Of fish and fowl and beast.
Nearly overladen platters
Left the kitchen for the gentlemen
Who will argue burghal matters,
But will drink until it's moot.
The girl saw fascinated,
That a single seed bounced at her,
The cook said, "you can eat it",
As he knifed the bloody fruit.
Categories:
brocades, angst,
Form:
Rhyme
THE ISLANDS OF IMAGINATION
Our trek was in the mind, no ifs or buts :
Our trek was amongst the yards of trading estate factories.
First factory had piles of metal off-cuts -
Pick ‘em up with ease -
With brass or chrome machine parts imperial -
Gold and silver from the Indies’ isles.
Then the shirt factory’s end-of-run yards of material
And excess thread on huge bobbins, all styles -
Brocades and muslins from Ophir.
Tyre factory offered piles of sheet rubber to Zeus,
Aztec latex offerings to the gods of myrrh.
Factories like islands offering their exotic produce.
Between the factories rusty railtracks, the best,
With oceans of wildflowers for mum, more than enough.
Today’s computers find imagined treasure chests
On make-believe game islands…but we found real stuff.
………………………………………………………………….
Note….as boys we often went hunting thru the yards of factories collecting interesting stuff being thrown out
Categories:
brocades, childhood, imagination,
Form:
Verse
[Continued from Part Three]
Thereupon the elder gave them all a single cart.
It was tall and broad with gems adorning every part
and had bells on all four corners plus a balustrade
surrounding, with a hanging awning offering shade.
Valuable jewels, that were fastened with a cord
made of costly fibers, and the trimmings they adored
embellished every inch that their dazzled eyes explored…
How their faces now lit up at such a rare reward!
Also there were many flower garlands suspended
with a plaited ribbon on the top that extended
all around the border to make it look more splendid…
Oh, the awesome marvels of this cart never ended!
It was fitted well with vermillion-colored pillows;
satin fabrics, silk brocades streamed about in billows,
soft the carpets on the floor with which it was furnished;
brightly shone the vehicle, radiantly burnished.
To pull the cart there was a huge white ox, extra strong,
perfectly-proportioned for a journey very long.
In form it was superb; it had impeccable hide.
And with regular hoof-steps to match its steady stride
the ox could go as fast as the wind on any ride.
Yes, this powerful cart was the elder’s joy and pride.
There were numerous guards, furthermore, for protection,
attendants, squires, retainers— quite a big collection.
The children climbed in, overjoyed at the selection
of the man, for this cart suited them to perfection.
Equally, it satisfied all their predilections.
So, at once they drove off into the four directions,
absolutely happy and enchanted without bound
at the unrestricted freedom which they now had found.
[Continued in Part Five]
~ Harley White
Categories:
brocades, allusion, destiny, fire, life,
Form:
Narrative
summer haiku - 6-25-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
summer finery
summer weaves a cloak
brocades of pinks and daisies ~
tadpoles learn to swim
Categories:
brocades, summer,
Form:
Haiku
Life never handed her brocades
no silver lining accolades
Diligence, her saving grace
dreams and faith interlaced
She would know the deepest loss
become the one to fight the cause
Sheltering the brokenhearted
the lost, lonely, and discarded
Her loving choice to enfold
seeing the goodness in every soul
Each fiber of her very essence
weaved with humble reminiscence
Though she never sought recognition
may Creator know my appreciation
For angels and sisters, one in the same
born as one and the second became
Categories:
brocades, angel, appreciation, humanity, native
Form:
Blue Stone
Sagittarius piano fingers waltzing splendidly upon my laptop.
I can hear your nervous ticking heart clapping and tapping—
Collapsing there— as the meat philosophers send their brocades—
You never told me your name— whether real or frequently imagined—
As you came through my back door with nyloned legs shaking,
Your virgin-scented pearls shining inside my blue-eyed machinations,
Your curious feeders seeking certain electric favors with lip gloves.
Now you give your blue stone to me as one would gift a rich beggar,
To regale the climes with thousand island cadenzas and madrigals.
Sagittarius piano fingers dancing like salad fire upon my laptop.
Categories:
brocades, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
The pine tree stands straight in the clouds,
For it is ashamed of any curves and bends.
Various wild vines do not concede defeat,
They cling and climb to the top to compete.
Autumn flowers are in bright purple and red,
Charming and beautiful like brocades spread.
Neither humble nor pushy the pine stays calm
And let the sunbeams poke through its palm.
Seeing that the cypress spits out seeds to imitate
And the crane humbly shrinks its neck to vacate,
The pines are anything but splendid eye-catcher
Can it deserve "the three friends in a cold winter"?
The tortoise and the crane both enjoy longevity,
But their appearances are of different variety.
They both are wise and have the same ends,
Despite different shapes they become friends.
The crane has a dream of soaring into the sky,
While a comfortable life the tortoise does deny.
Thus they each bite one end of a bamboo stick.
The crane flies with the tortoise to clouds thick.
But it cautions the tortoise and says “Silence,
Otherwise you may fall to the ground at once.”
(tran.)
Categories:
brocades, philosophy,
Form:
Rhyme
His earnest quest for survival
Has meant off-and-on revival,
Bus boarding to far-off crusades,
For weeks avoiding nice brocades…
Not anymore one who’d bubble,
Sometimes chin with a week’s stubble:
Arch enemies in connivance,
The injurious for contrivance;
Had in dreams poisoned his noodle
And Christ said “Straight into puddle!”
Enemies flexing raw muscle,
God making it Divine Tussle…
His fervent quest for survival
Has meant much speedier arrival
For their camp’s redemptive prayer
That should fortify John Sayer.
Categories:
brocades, analogy, conflict, evil, religion,
Form:
Rhyme
Brocades of shimmering silk,
In ornate trays of sparklers,
In manner that was timorous,
she shone like a twinkler,
as she meandered through the gather,
as if minding even the feather,
she almost transformed the weather,
that was the power of heather,
As she pouted her lips,
her whites lightened the room as if camera flash,
she smiled in dimples,
that gorged her pink white cheeks,
her clear eyes,
went in for fleeting ,naughty peeks,
made men after her intensely in seek,
that was years ago,
when heather had her first outing,
now time had taken its toll,
and heather was rather,
after bearing life's full weather,
she is nothing but a story often told,
when buying vegetable,
everybody picks the fresh and ignores the old.
Categories:
brocades, inspirational, life, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
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.
.
.
chiaroscuro = an art style using strong contrasts between light and dark
en bloc = at once, both
Categories:
brocades, class, riddle, society, teen,
Form:
Free verse