Best Talismans Poems
A sweep of milky waves flood onyx sands
converging under endless summer skies
of northern lights in iridescent bands
Icelandic talismans of tales sublime.
A glassy sea of crystalline degrees
sustain a mass of icebergs in its pews
that lift their icy eyes in melting pleas
to wrest the dying of their waning hues.
Aurora beams reflect unearthly lights
against tall umber cliffs that stand below
the vivid landscape raises to grand heights
a trippy, tie dyed phosphorescent show.
In seldom witnessed, lonely obscure lands
a sweep of milky waves flood onyx sands.
Written on 5/21/2019
Note: Laura Leiser has been a good friend for several years and was the one who invited me to try Poetry Soup in 2016. She leads a writer's workshop that I am blessed to be a member of, and is a talented poet in many styles, writing of nature, family, faith, whimsical topics and vignettes from life. I hope you can take some time this week to check out some of her poems. Happy Birthday Laura! (June 10th)
Creation is your most beloved theme:
"Icelandic talismans of tales sublime".
So many forms you've written, it would seem
you never lack for metaphor or rhyme.
Your faith in God so strong, with nuance blest
in poems 'giving godly grace' to all.
Heroic crown of sonnets - I'm impressed!
a masterpiece that holds my soul in thrall.
You write of moments from the life you live,
of lovely grandchildren - one girl, one boy.
As you have given freely, so I give
my birthday greeting - may it bring you joy!
So grateful for the heartfelt, warm invite
six years ago that led me to this site.
The
imagined force is recast and concentrated into an inorganic
material.
Intentional,
possessing the owner's future with satisfying
charisma.
The
talisman, as some are known to be, is the resulting
changeover.
Better
days lay ahead of the object holders, who will be the subject of good
fortune.
Prehension
of one's life worth and outlook will be exceedingly
awesome.
Blithesome
accesses the favorable
heart.
Impart
the wealth produced, amongst
others.
Effectuators
are doubly loved for that
realization.
Fruition,
when done unnoticeably, is agape
love.
Hereinabove,
the exceptional natures are
emphasized.
Harmonized
beginnings are the effects of the talisman's
aura.
Acts of contrition, on knees if I recount
Beatitudes, eight, sermon on the mount
Charity given, is blessings received
Dalai Lama, a Buddhist deity
Ecumenism, it understands and unites
Fascism erodes individual rights
Gaia, Greek goddess of our mother earth
Heresy, one's belief, another's mirth
Idolatry, the worship of false gods
Jehovahs Witnesses, the sidewalks they trod
Kama, Hindu god of the erotic
Lex talionis, is somewhat exotic
Mary, Christmas holds that she was a virgin
Naturalism, this belief seems to burgeon
Orthodoxy, keeping with old traditions
Penance, requires sin and admissions
Quaker, informal for Society of Friends
Ramadan, are you relieved when it ends?
Sabbath, is it Saturday or the day after?
Talismans, sometimes, subject of laughter
Universalism, bring us together?
Values the thought of happy ever afters
Whatever your dogma, does it really matter?
X amine your heart, reject idle chatter
You should maybe contact your Spirit Guides
Zenith of acceptance with us resides
beautiful photo of the church taken by Jackie on Instagram @jacci_eo
3.
Death, the Master, wears a thousand faces.
The white smile of the skull
Lies behind the 5 O'Clock shadow
Beneath, perhaps, those laughing eyes
Looking your way across the bar.
When the shock begins to fade I turn off the news.
I turn once more to the business of living.
To ponder overmuch over why such things happen
Is to invite the spirit to drain down to hollowness.
Before we cast off at night
Onto the uncertain seas and shores of dreamlands,
We might do well to take a long look down within,
Call up and kiss the swarming demons goodnight
While they stir in the strange shadowgaps of the long dark
Resting there on the fringes of consciousness.
Give ear to the language they speak down there,
Learn dark things from the rumble of their mystic, thunderous litanies.
Call for an uneasy peace with the Legions within,
Hold them back, if you can, with our talismans,
The magic words: Reason, Judgement, Morality.
Tumble then into a warm bed
Forget the Furies roaming just outside
Awaiting dead hours to do their work.
The deeds of the night
Will be revealed
When the mist wraiths steal away,
When the sun bleeds rose light
Across the white face of dawn.
There was a time when feathers found me like talismans, they came.
Without their down, I was grounded, the sparrow thought to lend me flight.
Now, neither up, nor down do my eyes go, for the third eye is my frame.
Flight takes a lonely path, stirred by each wanton wayward breeze.
The sky above is not for me, the spiral path of mystery, my hook, my lure.
Ah, not to choose but taste of both would, I dream, be heaven for me.
Now, within my window’s pane I’ve hung a catcher of dreams
I’ve found a way to fly inward and rise upon the fragile breeze of mind.
Feather’s hang among the circle’s weave, they are the tokens I keep.
Sijo String
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue 1 2014
Artist Carol Cavalaris
Therewithal, profluent life ettles it's while.
Thitherward, from Death's bleak campanile
Grim antiphonals serenade.
A capriccio, the slashing swipe of the reaper's scythe
will serenade.
Stringent Death forthwith anoints the mithridate to
Life's cantankerous and rankling ado
Hither now come, anon recondite Azrael, neither protend
nor annex this throttled contretemps.
The antiphonal of the reaper's cavalier scythe
Shall now serenade.
Awhirl, like kerfs demarcated
Years, bollixed, muzzy and brattled
shall holus-bolus expire.
No retaliation to death's gloomy surcease
No ingenious riposte to the reaper's final cleave.
Bootless now to don the amulets,
squeeze the jujus,
Kiss the talismans,
clutch the periapts or
Attire in steely cataphract.
The serenading of the reaper's scythe,
it's efficacy shall blithely cleave.
Bedim mine eyes from life's assailing
Bedim mine eyes from life's poltroonery
Vocabulary: barghest-a goblin fabled to portend misfortune; monody-funeral song;
antiphonal-chant; protend-to protract in time/lengthen; riposte-n. in fencing, a quick
return/thrust; brattle-v.-to make rattling or clattering noises;
cavalier-supercillious/disdainful/haughty; muzzy-hazy; attaint-v. to condemn; rankle-to
give pain/nettle/gnaw; contretemps-untoward accident/hitch; throttle-v.to
choke/suffocate/strangle/stiffle; bollix-v.-to bungle or botch; holus-bolus-adv.-all at
once/altoghter; mithridate-antidote against poison; cataphract-suit of armor for the
whole body; poltroonery-n. cowardice; a capriccio-musical piece characterized by
improvisation; ettle-to intend/to prepare; campanile-free standing bell tower; kerf-a
groove or notch
Azrael-the angel that helps souls from living to enter the afterlife; recondite-not
easily understood/abstruce;
periapt-a charm worn to ward of evil; juju-object believed to contain magical powers;
contretemps-disruptive unforeseen event; protend-to hold out or stretch forth
Humanity is transient and fleeting -- save
For what memories and dreams may linger....
Too much violence, again.
How flawless a wolf does feign.
Down in the humming cellar,
The guise of a gentle fella.
You have made the beast laugh,
Always expecting a puppy half,
Through centuries of fantasy,
With phantasmagorical empathy.
And the Moon -- what a joke --
I turn in anger and smoke,
It, mostly, soothes and calms,
Devoid of talismans and balms.
Begging for peace and salvation
In fleeting moments of meditation,
Between the madness of transformation,
I ponder my sorted, wolfen fixations.
for Aidan in row 5
At the edge of the sky, there is a crimson slash
seen through the leafy scrolling of trees that soldier
the perimeter of the lake. Overhead there is only
gray, as in the war zone of my heart where there have
been far too many casualties. Lamplight in a window,
abruptly extinguished, takes out what illuminated
a mid-November Crepe Myrtle, aflame with
leaves destined to fall; yet, it rises regally red
in royal transformation, before the dark comes. Then,
with no preamble, a carnelian blush spreads
the clouds as if punctured with a pin. There is always
the unexpected. So, Take heart. "Be of good cheer,"
parting words from my dying friend, Cyndy, from her
hospital bed. "Be there when I come," I reply.
Even so these days, I cannot stop grieving for the lost
and missing. At noon Mass on Sundays, a boy, four or five,
heavy glasses dominating a small face beneath a luxurious
crown of curls--the image of my dark haired, sweet-armful child
of the past--sits on the floor in safety between his parents'
chairs. He's busy with his books and toys, until he's told
it's time to go to the priest at the altar, and they
help him to his feet. Come, he will, but not alone--
clasping in his two hands his necessary companions:
soldiers, centurions perhaps, the protection of a Praetorian
Guard; talismans and amulets, with which he would not
part. As for myself, I have none of these, not of plaster,
not of flesh, but if I could hold this boy in my arms,
I believe he would heal my heart
Amphibian antiquities from the age of normalcy
Pathologically festive creatures of the night
Verdant phosphor moon frogs bark their insistent mating call
Adorned with talismans, chanting mantras of maroon heroism
Conflagration of croaking becomes ritualized war of tongues
Imaginary walls dissolve in a primitive hallucination
Reveling in the sour, smoky breath of temporary lobotomies
Delirious mating rituals driven by besotted blind instinct
Hopping from one log to another as they founder
In brackish muck, the shore hidden in the velvet mist
As thousands of concealed pupils hungrily constrict
Like squirrels bouncing blithely down the high voltage wire
Deaf to the jeers and taunts of the pavement below
Until light's fracture pursues them back to their lairs
Scurrying for the inky, viscous holes in the soft, cool bank
4/23/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
There was a dense fog upon the land
not a fit night for animal nor man...
the moon did change its silvery view
replacing it now was a blood red hue....
There just beyond thicket of the marsh road
lies the endless tar pits of bubbling black
It has been told that should one fall in it ~
There would definitely be no turning back....
Oh, how the populace did dread passing the pits
for all knew what dwelled within it...
Goblins dared not cross over it... and the vampire bats
would not go anywhere near it...
Even the witches feared this Halloween night,
as they packed their caldrons and potions...
preparing their broomsticks readying for flight...
too escape the diabolical one, known as Dark Blight.
Alley cats sat on fences and drank black draught, tonight
thence, sang they a harrowing song full of fright...
As the draught turned their multi-colored coats
to the colors of pitch black midnight...
The domesticated dogs remembered
their kindred brother wolves....
Soon they gave chase to lost souls,
while howling at the man in the moon...
So it began... with large boney fingers liken to ashy white talons
Dark Blight emerged scatching its way to the surface... its massive black shoulders
bearing a skull revealing eyes which burned
liken to red hot coals with yellow pupils set a glow...
With a sinister grin he did appear from within the pitch black pits
pentagrams and talismans were etched upon his sinewy back....
such slimy black skin mirroring centuries of horrors from many Halloweens past.
Oh, indeed there would be no rest for the weary wanderers this night...
Unless, a champion should appear in time to put things a right....
until then Dark Blight would continue to pass through the night; slithering upon his
belly ~
all the while leaving a dark trail as red as raspberry jelly...
Even the Ghouls knew and would stir clear of the sweet sticky pools
The Gnomes stood careful guard over homes,
whilst watching over all babes and fools....
For such tender flesh made the Dark Blight's lips drool...
The crows cawed thrice and the hoot owls hid their eyes....
Oh, the night was nothing nice, as blood chilled like ice....
Who would put a stop too the dastardly Blight...?
Earth left shattered, broken ground
Call of duty raised the dead
Screams are felt, no need for sound
Blazing orange spotted red
Douse the fires with blood shed
Pillaged homes and raided farms
Burning bush may well have said
All men rise when called to arms
Self appointed judge condemns
Sinner’s mind admits defeat
Inner torment from which stems
The need to kiss the judge’s feet
Criminals don’t need to eat
Let them perish, do no harm
Vengeful wrath salivates sweet
All men rise when called to arms
We have the right to hatred blind
Protect our treasures from the sway
We have the right to silence kind
Determined not to go astray
Careful planning day by day
No surprises, no alarms
Denial is the only way
All men rise when called to arms
Sleeping children dream of love
Clutching talismans and charms
The time has come to rise above
All men rise when called to arms
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are messages
Were written with an encrypted language
And need deciphering
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are words
Were written with all languages
And need reading
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are scattered dreams
Were robbed from the years of the life
And never come true
Only when the love shines in the hearts
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are a silent call
Only the familiar souls can hear it
The secret of its silence is still unknown
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are sharp arrows
Were made of senses and feelings
That are hitting hearts
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are migratory souls
Looking for homelands
All borders were closed in their faces
Till shining the sun of freedom
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are dresses and shrouds
Were woven from threads of the destiny
For showing the suffering of the humans
To know that sadness and joy will end in the grave
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are spells and talismans
Were written from the whispers of the devils
Uncovered the tricks of witches and charlatans
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are shy sighs
Were imprisoned unjustly in depths of the chests
Escaped from the dark prisons
Looking for remains of happiness in luminous prisons
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are hymns and prayers
Were written their tunes from the lights of angels
For curbing the desires and the lusts of sinners
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are stories and novels
Were written from the bloods of innocents
They are still without ends
Until the hope begins with writing the conclusion
Tears are not just drops
That fall from the eyes
Tears are white doves
Were created from the love
For spreading the peace
To preserve this day, I pick red plums wild
Within my soul, I dream a while
A vision ancient, to me smiles
Of plums growing wild in thickets dark
There for taking by man or lark
Beside running waters where beaver barks
I hear the drum for miles
Smoke signals lifting high in sky
On summer's breeze they drift and sigh
Indian village steals my eye
Women gathering, pounding, grinding
Saving fruits for summer's ending
In cakes for winter's cold day feasting
'Round evening fires, high and dry
Painted ponies heading west
Hunter's talismans cover chests
Put their knapping skills to test
Not one willing to be the lag
Arrow drawn to down his stag
Rights this night will be to brag
Whose spearpoint flew the best
Allegiance to "Great White Father" sworn
Many moons later, treaties torn
Their ways, their days, their hopes forlorn
For wild plum cakes and venison stews
Thought safe in tepees 'neath cold skies blue
Sore gleaning here in peaceful view
For them I shall forever mourn
While picking I shall forever mourn
With shaking hand I write in dimmed light
Strings of words robust burst and slip from my pen
With a grave heart I write
With a frail heart I forgive
It mimicks the sound of life
Of love and such things
Such fragile things which tend to burn in the sunlight
Things that are made all the more deceiving
A heaviness that lasts
That sticks to the ribs and heart now heavy
That rewrites itself till mad
Drawing circles around itself till silly
It punctures and weens
By elastic grip it clings
Turning right what was once impossible, or so it seems
In again, gone till forgotten completely
I rise on unsteady feet
Overseeing all that lies around me in heaps
Careful now not to impose or create hostility
For the hand is sensitive and unreasoning
By strike of silent blow it extends
More willing than most and less willing to forgive
What's scribbled in haste and panic hard to comprehend
Yet to the hand it stands on its own merit
For hope it seeks-
In the words it creates
Like prayers from an incompetent though loving beast
In braille it signs all of its messages plain
For fear that I may shrink
Become pale in its presence
For its divine love I seek
None other than that which the hand so frivilously speaks
From sleep I awake
To pages filled and marked
Dressing myself in them
As if talismans or some form of holy art
To make me, to REmake and refashion me clean
But never doing away completey as so I'll not forget the beginning
With shaking hand I scribble unpredictably
Lacking grace and intelligence and formality
But this is all I know
This pen and its speech
What it feels and the depths from which the words come from
These words, unlike any man, now standing up for me.