Written: August 24, 2026, for: Week's Poetry Challenge: The Color Blue
Blue, a zealot turned arrogant,
fervor fading into hauteur,
devotion darkened into disdain.
sapient in its sway,
dulcet as hymns
and still a shade of seashell.
It limns the sky’s scriptorium,
A selfish scroll of sequins
Stippling clouds with crevice cracks.
A symbol for suns that sail away.
desuetude drapes the shore—
The ocean exhorts
a savage screech
a spindle scream
against scree and stone.
Blue epitomizes arrogance.
indulgent in its rejection,
a wicked shade,
funny but sad,
a spirit of saudade.
It speaks in sonic waves, furtive, fecund, effete—
a hallucinative hymn unraveling across the horizon.
flecked with fanfare froth
Blue is the ache of elsewhere,
a pertinacity of longing,
an obvious evil,
yet a harvest of comfort—
an ethereal respite,
a lullaby of light.
And silence, salient, settles—
blue bows its zealot head,
a final hush,
the sky exhales,
a lucid lull remains.
unearthed belongings...
gasps of pleasant astonishment;
e u r e k a!
white elephants galore...
many treasures, too!
fallen into decades of desuetude
old clothes and shoes
to be donated to charity;
some books to be thrown away.
a silver locket, I thought lost;
inscribed with the word "Dreamer"
on the inside.
birthday gift many, many years ago
from my first love. wow!
Desuetude
Written: by Miracle man
8/27/2019
Yard tools, and I,
are in a state of desuetude.
This inactivity is responsible,
for my dysphoric mood.
But each day that I’m found,
in a vertical position.
I know God’s not ready,
to scrub my life’s mission.
Desuetude is a state of disuse.
"The docks fell into desuetude."
Trump In State of Desuetude
Trump would find self in another feud;
He had fallen into a state of desuetude;
Things worsed;
Were cursed;
We wondered who next will be screwed.
Jim Horn
Why do some people
Find self-destruction
So romantic? Why do
I run to embrace death
When I am so terrified
Of it? Just a moment's
Contemplation of the
Stark realm obliviate is
Paralyzing, yet there
Lies imperforate peace
With contemplation of
Its dour welcome, to
Bury my face deep in
Its bosom ... dark,
Warm, soft, peaceful
Desuetude ... ruination.
Friends with stipulation,
Friends with stipulations is another way of saying your heart could be under
rejection with termination and deportation.
This is a friend that picks his or her situations for their own manipulation.
I sit here in darkness with strings of loneliness pulling at my heart.
The pain of seclusion is pulling me apart.
I am not a person of solitude nor can I handle fortitude.
I feel I am a person of desuetude.
This is from the so called friends that have made a choice from a conclusion
and put me in a cage exclusion.
I am just wondering were is that friend with validation,
that friend that stands with you in any situation.
That friend that holds your hand and guides you
through the end of any devastation.
This is the friend with no stipulation.
Courage lay bleeding
In an abyss of despair
And he lay
Mulishly silent
More dead than alive
In tranquil pristine desuetude
The warrior
In unaccountable muse
Annoyed but sympathetic
Tried vainly
To raise an appetite
For death
Despair himself
Sat superstitious
Of this deliberate chaos
And loathed
The shifting reverberations
Of solitude.
Doppelganger, you touched me,
From desuetude tales, with redolent reach,
Raising my halo, armoured,
Beyond all the charm of infallible speech,
Filling my lungs, punctured,
Drawing my breath, vast,
Raising my every hair,
Beneath, this phantom limb’s cast,
For touched, I won’t preach,
A imperfect tense, gorged,
To signify, a world, visible,
And touched, I can’t teach,
An opulent heaven, waiting,
I can’t answer, what was never known,
And in tongues, I don’t conflate,
An epiphany that’s erstwhile,
With the wherewithal of penumbra’s sun,
For touched, I touch Scintilla,
To become pyrrhic, I pretend a halcyon,
My doppelganger, you touched me,
From desuetude tales, with redolent reach,
Raising my halo, armoured,
Beyond all the charm of infallible speech,
Filling my lungs, punctured,
Drawing my breath, vast,
To exhale a world brimming,
I am the harbinger,
I am my past,
My toe just stubbed the stubborn
piano's iron foot;
it really hurts, torments
like a cigarett butt;
stay home, don't walk, doc said,
take a day off or more;
I tried, but now I'm bored to death,
not only sore.
But boredom quickly breeds some crazy
thoughts, you see;
it seems my sleek ergonomic chair
sits on me
as I mull on my desuetude
in ennui
and ache to be stirred as sugar
in steaming coffee !
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