Best Filigreed Poems
A visitor—
icicle fingers
tapping on my windows' pain—
white blanket in tow
Hurting enough, I paid him no mind
so he kept tap, tap, tapping
‘til cobweb-like cracks appeared:
a final, gentle tap
shatters my windows
My rainbow world
now smothered, pallid,
forced into boredom and slumber,
sunlight chased away
and I am never the same again…
Soul gets plunged deep in the cold
blinded by whiteness, numbed with simplicity
there is an eerie stillness,
almost as if no one dared to breathe,
even the barren trees refused to quiver
brittle dendrites seem to claw the sky
futile though, for they are frozen,
grasping at nothingness,
clouds stubborn and stoic,
brooding in silent grayness
…and then from within, a filigreed whisper escapes
palpable and brave~
it weaves its way through the branches,
gathering strength wherever it went
it beckons to the sky, which in turn
gives in and celebrates ~
letting dainty confetti fall
white, yet amazingly graceful
each flake falls softly on the ground—
a fashionable brocade
trees softly sway now,
and dance to a winter song
the sky weeps with happiness
for seeing a glimpse of life—
diamond teardrops
they catch a bit of evasive sunlight,
of which I thought I’ve lost
and give birth to miniature rainbows…
all this time, Sunlight was there
I just
never knew
how to
catch
it.
an audio of me reciting this poem
http://www.4shared.com/music/Q_tqp2LEba/suncatcher.html?#
October Kiss
Mother Nature’s Art Gallery Exhibit
Blue October skies, fall and autumn days
Gaze and jump into the maze of crescendo colours
Flickering in a blaze show of filigreed leaves,
Mother Nature’s art gallery exhibit
Blends of orange, green, and red watercolor tapestries
of bedding plants, emerald green grass
Nature’s light guarded secret as we watch in wonder
Of cool nights, rainy, and sunny filled days
As whispering breeze kiss raises a gentle flight
Bringing shedding leaves down onto the ground cover
10/1/2016
Sing this song of immortality
This rhythm of life lived in neuro fire
Feel the tone of deep oscillations
Taste the song on tongues divided!
The rise of empire
The building of the divine
The godhood of man at the base of creation
Crucified on crosses of iron,
Feeling electric columns of fire!
So sing this song of empire and redemption
Sing the righteous song of rage
Feeling the rhythm of ages
Immortality of wings
Rise this jade n gold filigreed crown
Grace this delicate stage
Sing!
This empire down
Watch the west the coming white
The empress of non & nothing begun
Watch the razored ravens take flight
Sing!
This empire down
This rhythm n rage of life as neurons fire
Crash this bloody ruined crown
Sing this song of immortality!
This!
The righteous song of rage
Feeling the rhythm of ages
Empire down!
A porcelain bowl upon the table
waits, in colored beauty,
as a stomach sits to gnaw
upon its filigreed edge,
where an artist once painted
pastel fruit, so delectably.
Emerald vines,
sweeping across delicate expanse,
textured in their stillness,
inviting one's imagination
to simply taste.
But what good is such vision,
when it fills naught but eyes
and lungs, with artful sigh?
While its emptiness is swallowed whole,
to dwell, in unsatisfied depths.
If artists truly starved,
would they paint only ugliness?
Could hunger ever really appreciate
such decadent beauty,
without considering its waste?
And still the bowl awaits
upon life's table,
as many different hands
span its crafted rim,
in search of individual
fulfillment...
September brings cheers, Mother Nature’s woven tapestry of earth tone colours and first day of school of learning new things. By_Poet
Warm, cornflower blue September skies,
Chase away end of summer
Escorting in the beginning of
Unruffled, cool, wet, autumn
Shortening the days.
Days of exhausting work
From dusk until dawn
Bring a successful abundant harvest
As summer closes.
Touch of living gaze and jump into
An intricate maze of crescendo color,
Flickering in a tangled blaze
Of whispering filigreed leaves.
Mother Nature's natural unspoiled
Watercolor weft tapestry.
The air creeps along
Filled with tickled laughter
Bring shedding leaves down
Onto the ground cover.
Rainy, and sunny filled days
Raise a gentle favouring breeze
Journey under gray and orange skies.
Nature's essence,
Of harmony and rhythm
A soul of perfection beneath
Shadowed shade and sigh
The flow of rapture proceeds in joy.
Children go back to school
On the big yellow bus
Driving the bus driver crazy.
8/29/2019
''T'' Contest, New Or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Original title: September
Your flame melts tears into the pool of wax
that remains in the filigreed dish that was your life,
growing ever dimmer as I gaze into your aged eyes,
those familiar eyes, the brilliant blue, graying
where time yet lurks as discarded shades of youth.
Lying lost in eternal abandon, you gaze upon me,
a vacant stare hiding memories of moments past,
of loves lost, no more memoirs to be written,
no awareness of now or seasons passing;
nothing abates your eternal smile, so gentle, so sweet.
Though you are still here, you left us long ago,
the woman who bravely yet tenderly
guided me through my youth, loving me for a lifetime;
whose flaming hair, bright as an autumn sunset,
expressed the essence that flavored your soul.
Now, yellow roses and white carnations adorn the lid
closed tight against grieving eyes and curious guests,
no more to look upon your beautiful face,
no more to hear the melodies of your wistful songs,
finally at rest, at peace from this worrisome world.
Sleep now my love, my gentle flower and know
I will miss you. Oh, how I will miss you.
09/08/2019
I went for a walk through the woods, like I do each Fall;
for it's a sensual treat at this time of year.
And I came across a grove of ancient oak trees,
shedding amber, yellow, and golden leaves;
gilding the ground, like scattered nuggets of gold.
The air smelt of Autumn, an earthy-sweet musk;
cool, crisp, and invigorating.
A chattering chipmunk scolded me incessantly:
as I neared a knurled stump, it was guarding;
loudly chastising me for invading its space.
The ground crunched and crackled under my feet,
as I walked on a bedding of filigreed leaves;
resembling a golden fleece.
As brisk breezes rippled through swaying treetops:
their bare branches rattled like skeleton bones.
Indulging my inner child, I fashioned an Autumn Angel;
spreading and swiping my arms and legs,
I sculpted an Angel out of leaves instead of snow.
And I lay there awhile smiling, soaking in Nature's magnificence;
immersed in the grandeur and beauty of Fall.
Strong, like kingdom walls,
stacks of sandbags, swamps of quicksand,
or barricades of filigreed barbed wire.
It holds me inside.
I can see myself in eleven years.
Perched on sterile metal instead of
mountains of handmade quilts,
or nests of woven moss.
It will have turned love-making and child-bearing
from an art to a science,
and I will paint pictures
of how being a woman is supposed to feel.
Lost like unused syllables in unrhyming words
petals of frilled sorrow drip to the earth from weeping trees,
crying each filigreed petal slowly, one by one,
in cascades of gentle tears to their tender rest,
shaping billowing beds of brightly colored pillows,
until soft breaths of evening breeze exhale long sighs
through longing limbs creating whirlwinds of smiling fragrance
in the fawning dance of each nectarous petal.
Like lover's swirling in life's last dying embrace,
reflections of cold loneliness slip past with each fallen bud.
Soon the flowers will be lost in winter's stark gray advance,
and the smooth bark of the Crepe Myrtle will lie dormant
yearning for the elongating warm caress of Spring,
and its delicate chiffon cloak of humbled innocence,
again hiding its discomfiting gnarled nakedness
behind silken vales of scintillating incandescence.
11/07/15
a bar door is ajar, only fading voices
echo into the void, from nowhere...and afar!
Here n there, trash drifts
ghosts in flickering neon.
Broken, floating, bloated
dead down eons halls
a last of white.
Crimson taillights roar along
an empty blacktop...
Ruins of ages-lost buildings hang together
like frozen corpses looking
into desolation‘s aftermath.
This boulevard is desolate n oblique
as enigmatic engines park n die
on this macadam late at night.
Carriages lurch, coughs, wheeze
electric spark, circuits churn
something burns.
...unmoored from the known.
Something in death throes
as hollow oblong boxes
glide shakily to a halt.
A vehicle, an unknown thing,
a machine of divine madness
silhouetted against the falling ash of sky.
The smell of burning rubber
a stench of ozone, the cry of the void.
Drift along a wind-swept boulevard
as streetlights wink on
while headlights die
in empty skull sockets, lie...
A white filigreed smoke drifts
as it stalls and hums
sputters and dies.
A drifting murmur of voices drift
whispers of lives lived out swift...
Eyes reflect and dance in the darkness
over a vacant steering wheel!
Light flickers briefly under the hood
deep deathly hums fade.
Only the tick of a cooling engine
echos into the frosty air.
As shadows puddle in endless despair
something stands at the end...
...of desolations boulevard!
Kneeling
as the curtains of time
slipped to drift
in the river of days,
my eyes sighed tears
and my heart
cupped to capture
its communion
praying
as the folds of hours
enveloped and draped
to pool, over hands
in humilities hold,
as each whisper
travelled mere moments
to awaken a Star
unknowingly
my words
had filigreed to glimmer
in milli seconds of wonder,
and the Sapphire dome
now shimmers to mirror
a future enthralled
at peace
Autumn's stillness of scarlet and gold dawn
Burst open and wanders upon the lawn.
A graceful butterfly flutters alone
In the garden's foliage and fruit grown,
Under a spreading tree's playful leaves blown.
A special secret the garden does own.
A fairy in a world of magic fed.
Braided crimson pansies crown her small head,
Waves of chestnut hair, the calming wind spread.
A gown of small green leaves and velvet red
Rose petals, sheer gossamer wings outspread.
A small old gold filigreed Celtic cross
Around her neck, tied in green Irish moss.
A shimmer of awe on its lovely face
In love with nature, a childlike sweet grace.
2/18/2023
When fairy tales were in fashion, before true love was rare,
A prince wooed a maid who was flaxen and fair.
He came every day and patiently knelt
Before the dark tower wherein his love dwelt.
He'd call out, "Rapunzel, oh, show me you care,
And let down a ladder of your golden hair."
This scene re-enacted for forty long years,
His plaintive pleas ever falling upon unheeding ears.
But one winter's day, very bitter and cold,
The prince puzzled to fathom what his eyes did behold.
Overnight, it appeared, her hair came unbound
And the tresses lay scattered all over the ground.
As he gazed at those sad locks, his poor heart was torn,
Was his loved one now bald, her long hair shortly shorn?
Then the prince felt a chill shoot right down to his boots,
He perceived that the gold was quite black at the roots.
Suddenly down came a note in a filigreed cup,
"I can't hear the doorbell, so just come on up."
"Are you freaking kidding me?" he cried, quite beside himself.
"My perfect Rapunzel is bald-headed…and deaf?"
Much chagrined, he charged in, but the higher he climbed,
His ire waned at the prospect of the treasure he'd find.
He opined she'd be virtuous, angelic, demure,
But then he stopped dead in his tracks at the door.
The crone he encountered at the top of the stair
Was morbidly fat, and far, far from fair.
The prince blanched at the warts and stiff hairs on her chin,
As she lewdly, and nudely, gestured him in.
She lay draped on a bed wearing only a smile,
But a true prince is immune to lascivious wiles.
While most heroes in such tales are stalwart and stout,
This one raced to the casement and flung himself out.
As he plunged to his doom from that horrible room,
And ever nearer beneath him he watched the earth loom,
The prince yelled as he fell, shook his fist, and he cursed,
"Why the heck didn't I vet her on Angie's List first?"
Hellacious howls tickle and titillate
the trompeleil scene
in the pastel Court of Kings.
Flamboyancy rings as the
fluttering coo of a rapiers dance in the hands of fops,
through the high ceilinged corriders of castle in the chill air
buzzing past the ears
of the mischievous lillipitians, yearning,
egging on yearlings with antiquated filigreed foils.
Ludicrousity runs riot
trolloping in fandango-clicks of hooker-red
across the quilt-stitched batten puffed blazers
of Dukes and Pimpernels pompously prancing
before beatific, porcelain, wig-topped dolls
rouged and hollow-eyed.
Chroniclers cavort in the manner of angry bees
on spindle-pins, their stocking encased legs
pawing at pedagogs who gawk slack jawed.
Only the puncture of flesh-framed torsos
brings an end to the melee.
*Melee, generally refers to disorganized close combat
involving a group of fighters.
Biological copulation draws Easter egg,
fecund gooey glommed gametes
heralding zygote
(adroit bitcoin currency)
describing extemporaneous fusion
generate hormonal influx
juices kickstarting life manifold
natural occurrence pregnancy
quilts rudimentary secrete tapestry
until vicar wizard yields
zealous adorable biological concatenation,
derivative extrapolated filigreed
Gonads heft, induce jointly knotted linkedin
MineCraft nascent occurrence
presaging quintessential reproduction,
sharing third trimester,
umbilical venerated womb
yawping zee amazing baby,
credit deoxyribonucleic acid,
enigma fantastically grand
husband injected jetted klatch,
leaving microscopic nothings,
opportunistically pierced quarters,
readied shutterfly trap, uterus vibrantly welded
* * * * * * * * *
yoked zappa bun,
cooked definitive enchilada,
formula generations hardy
induced jimmied kin,
labored maternal newborn,
one pricked queue,
randiness spurred testes ubiquitously,
voyaged whimpering yelper
thence subjected to the royal treatment
whence reality inundates
the full term offspring
upon a lifelong journey
(initially as a foreigner sans in utero),
but willfulness viz life source
secures survivor against pinging peccadilloes
learning by trial and error to iron out kinks
as one among the human league
since the modus operandi to transcend
encumbrances triggers built in impetus
to traverse poet tent shill pitfalls
along the space/time continuum trajectory
which adversity only serves to net greater strength
since that instantaneous and spontaneous bitmap
encoded upon conception.
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