Best Filigrees Poems
Do not stay too long in the mirror
I will descend in your memory
Do not stay too long under shower
In tactile filigrees you’Il remember me
Do not stay too long in the mirror
To stop the raindrops is very hard
To stop the plip plop is very hard
I will come out as your bard
I know you will let your guard down
I will be your bard in the drizzle
Do not stand at the Jasmine window
At the window sill your hair I will blow
Do not stay too long at the window
In the north wind I will be the snow
You'll madden yourself for the flakes
To stop the pink surge is very hard
To stop the fountain is very hard
I will be there as your bard
I know you will let your guard down
In the surge I will be your bard
One day the rain drenched you and me
Do not go out in rains toward the sea
I will make you think of me madly
I will be with you in huddled love spree
Together we will walk toward the sea
To stop the past rose from coming is hard
I know you will never forget your bard
To stop the fragrant shadows is very hard
I know you will let your guard down
To stop the past rose from coming is hard
Do not stay too long in the mirror
________________________________________
3/1/2016
...for Hart Crane - In Memoriam - (1899-1932)
Words of purpose, carved and struck,
as chipped from granite's cold confines,
fashioned into filigrees
that shocked and startled feebler minds.
The Bridge, that span of subtle magic,
metaphor of time and space,
stretching skyward, swooping low,
connecting man to style and grace.
Letters of sophistication
sent to those who praised and scorned,
ever striving for perfection,
friends were used and heroes mourned.
A man at odds with bland conventions,
drunk, debauched, yet tried and true,
companionship oft cold and faithless
fostered with a dockside crew.
On a ship, confused and homeless,
wandering, he yearned for ease,
the ocean summoned this poor vagrant,
in its depths he found his peace.
Dainty lacy fingers of ice like crocheted filigrees
Are creeping across the cold, blue windowpane,
Like tri-mast ocean schooners on stormy seas
Dainty lacy fingers of ice like crocheted filigrees
A tiny spider is brought to its tiny fragile knees
Trying to find a bit of warmth, I’m afraid, in vain
Dainty lacy fingers of ice like crocheted filigrees
Are creeping across the cold, blue windowpane.
Written January 29, 2022
THE AIR-OCEAN’S PLANKTON
Snow falls like icy ocean-plankton. The air swarms
With their immense unsullied nebulae swirling in waves,
Tiny immaculate individuals in an innumerable host,
A silver-ivory myriad to be harvested.
Trees taking gulps of air-plankton, great chunks of airy snow,
Stretch lattices of arms and hands skyward to catch them,
Each numb finger and thumb laden to the very nail
With its neat impeccable pile of alabaster fishlets.
Sky-net filigrees, their great interstices seafoamed,
Filled with unblemished air-fish, blank white plankton:
The trees overfill every empty arm with the light white host:
Like women grasp fleamarket bargain necklaces of pearls.
Time Like Crashing Waves
Time, like waves crashing on a smooth-faced sand,
Leaves imbedded ripples on shores of memory
And drop-offs marked with steep undertow warnings
In foamy filigrees etched on recollection
Of abandoned shells searching for lost pearls
Rogue of ever rolling thunder reveals
A pulsing tide of perpetual motion
A seething thrust in ebb and flow unstoppable
The hidden undercurrent of volcanic change
From dawn to dusk and through midnight
Rolling breakers storm the beachhead
In gyrating riptides rhyme and rhythm
In white caps dripping with sweet juices
To expose beauty hidden in the shallows
Veiled beneath blistered wild gales
Spindrift masks forgotten sandcastles
As flowing swells returns dreams
To the impatient pounding waves of decades
Elusive in the mists of unrelenting surges
Sinking into whirlpools, forgotten in new tides.
8-12-22
Contest: Simile
Sponsor: Hilo Poet
*~*
In my heart, what I thought to be love
Was simply my own desire
So brief...
Gone before time could tell it even happened
Like a whisper
Barely heard in the shadowy stillness of night
I tell myself it's over, you're gone
But in the same breath
A voice whispers quietly to my heart
Assuring me that perhaps
You may have really cared
I tell myself it wasn't meant to be
But in my remembering...
I find that thought elusive
Too painfully conclusive
It weaves its memory in and out
Like a fine needle sewing its fragile threads
Delicately twisting them intimately
Amongst the filigrees of my mind
The magic was so mysteriously enchanting
I tell myself it's over...
But my heart refuses to listen
My mind says to forget you
That no one's worth this kind of sadness
My soul doesn't need this heartache
I tell myself I didn't really care
That it was all just a momentary illusion
But...
I never did lie very well
*~*
...for Hart Crane - In Memoriam - (1899-1932)
Words of purpose, carved and struck,
as chipped from granite's cold confines,
fashioned into filigrees
that shocked and startled feebler minds.
The Bridge, that span of subtle magic,
metaphor of time and space,
stretching skyward, swooping low,
connecting man to style and grace.
Letters of sophistication
sent to those who praised and scorned,
ever striving for perfection,
friends were used and heroes mourned.
A man at odds with bland conventions,
drunk, debauched, yet tried and true,
companionship oft cold and faithless
fostered with a dockside crew.
On a ship, confused and homeless,
wandering, he yearned for ease,
the ocean summoned this poor vagrant,
in its depths he found his peace.
Through hazy mirrors
A doxy appears to be doused
Within suicide languages
Hips bemoaning white filigrees
Caressed by a famine of beatitude
designed to elicit tragedy
Cast the bridges that ply the bright seas
Sweeping proud ashes beneath its streams
They go past unnoticed with hazy bent wings
And cease not to lose their footing for the light they bring
Scalloped the fringes of silvered seas
Surging lace filigrees that unloose tight seams
Passing the marbled halls their veiled voice stays
And seals up all hallow canyons left by their waves
Loosed the moonbeams on all bare shores
Bringing new aligns to our poor peppered bites
By lingering light the heated wealth lies taken
And all peoples’ hoarded gain by revelation lies forsaken
...for Hart Crane - In Memoriam - (1899-1932)
Words of purpose, carved and beaten,
chipped from granite's cold confines,
fashioned into filigrees
that shocked and startled feeble minds.
The Bridge, that span of subtle magic,
metaphor of time and space,
stretching skyward, swooping low,
connecting man to style and grace.
Letters of sophistication
sent to those who praised and scorned,
ever striving for perfection,
friends were used and heros mourned.
A man at odds with bland conventions,
drunk, debauched, yet tried and true,
companionship oft cold and faithless
fostered with a dockside crew.
On a ship, confused and homeless,
wandering, he yearned for ease,
the ocean summoned this poor vagrant,
in its depths he found his peace.
In the corner there...
Under the defused lights,
With spectral highlight’s here,
There, they float near and afar.
An apple sits in its technicolor glory,
It's not fully red or crimson or scarlet
Greens of sage and emerald
Dances in its hues,
Corruption is setting in as time passes
under these searing spots
as rot comes like a little death
spreading to the rest,
The rust of fruits oranges,
nectarines, bundles are of berries,
sliced in aromatic spice,
bloody droplets of cherry’s puddle,
next to a crystal chalice
of fine facets and filigrees
cut to trap light, to express
spectrums of color glitter and refract,
Standing starkly next
to the draped sacred rosary
and the sweet-fruited flesh.
Dust comes to rest
A raven of stately lorn,
blue on to black night into
nocturnal feathers bore
eyes deep as ink wells so black, onyx
dipping into hues blue in the reflect.
A haunting vestige that knows breath, nevermore!
Amidst the abstract, crowded
silent room linger
Still, stranger odd ornate objects gather...
from oblivion's shores.
A compass of intricate design,
sextons of aged patina brass,
Crack mirrors and mercury glass.
Mechanisms fine-tuned for sailors
to chart uncharted seas where “there be dragons”.
Deep, driven is the shaft of daggers hilted blade
Casts its long crucifixes shadow
Here on books of quaint and forgot lore
Tomes of cryptic grimoires,
archaic mysteries, ill-begotten biographies,
Black Bibles of some unknown deity...
Or leather-bound abominations
found in the depths of god-forsaken tombs.
Stacked like sand blown Persian Ziggurats.
To were a white horror stares
bleached bone and hollowed sockets glare
it grins sinisterly but it's harmless if you dare
But why would you care
Around this still life of oddities
Things found a life lived out fast
Hallmarks of someone long
forgotten history left in this corner
under these lights for someone
to render in all details
of its fading glories
Life is still at last.
...for Hart Crane - In Memoriam - (1899-1932)
Words of purpose, carved and struck,
as chipped from granite's cold confines,
fashioned into filigrees
that shocked and startled feebler minds.
The Bridge, that span of subtle magic,
metaphor of time and space,
stretching skyward, swooping low,
connecting man to style and grace.
Letters of sophistication
sent to those who praised and scorned,
ever striving for perfection,
friends were used and heroes mourned.
A man at odds with bland conventions,
drunk, debauched, yet tried and true,
companionship oft cold and faithless
fostered with a dockside crew.
On a ship, confused and homeless,
wandering, he yearned for ease,
the ocean summoned this poor vagrant,
in its depths he found his peace.
...for Hart Crane - In Memoriam - (1899-1932)
Words of purpose, carved and struck,
as chipped from granite's cold confines,
fashioned into filigrees
that shocked and startled feebler minds.
The Bridge, that span of subtle magic,
metaphor of time and space,
stretching skyward, swooping low,
connecting man to style and grace.
Letters of sophistication
sent to those who praised and scorned,
ever striving for perfection,
friends were used and heroes mourned.
A man at odds with bland conventions,
drunk, debauched, yet tried and true,
companionship oft cold and faithless
fostered with a dockside crew.
On a ship, confused and homeless,
wandering, he yearned for ease,
the ocean summoned this poor vagrant,
in its depths he found his peace.
...for Hart Crane - In Memoriam - (1899-1932)
Words of purpose, carved and struck,
as chipped from granite's cold confines,
fashioned into filigrees
that shocked and startled feebler minds.
The Bridge, that span of subtle magic,
metaphor of time and space,
stretching skyward, swooping low,
connecting man to style and grace.
Letters of sophistication
sent to those who praised and scorned,
ever striving for perfection,
friends were used and heroes mourned.
A man at odds with bland conventions,
drunk, debauched, yet tried and true,
companionship oft cold and faithless
fostered with a dockside crew.
On a ship, confused and homeless,
wandering, he yearned for ease,
the ocean summoned this poor vagrant,
in its depths he found his peace.
Belinda is so happy she has found her wings
Now she can flitter and flutter and do other things
That young, pretty fairy nymphs are prone to do,
She can cover and hover over sweet flower cups
Like lilies of the valley and lonely johnny-jump-ups.
She can dive and drift with the hint of a breeze,
And hide from the birds in the tallest of trees.
Belinda is so happy she has found her wings,
All pink, purple, and yellowish spots in-betweens
Like transparent filigrees, as fragile as tatted lace
And if you like, she’ll give you a kiss on your face.
You’ll see her, a tiny butterfly, going about to and fro
But Belinda, the fairy, will be watching you grow.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written November 6, 2022
Submitted to "Be Creative" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper