Engraving Poems

condone

It's the time since feeling sandy grit scratch between my toes

Transparently do I remember, although the years have flown

Chilling memories sitting here, Ice cold and nervously alone

Once a place was my escape, to flee a troubled home

I never liked the water, even now that I am grown

Only would I climb the rocks and carve my name in stone 

The sharp edges of a tortoiseshell, engraving with its bone 

Despite a life so undeserving, forgiveness I have shown

But I shall never forget their malice, nor their actions will I condone 

 

Summers Sparkling Journey

Summer’s Sparkling Journey




Swinging, sideways we two, in a striped hammock.
Green, grand,leaves that grinned, engraving our love on 
summer’s clock.

Hearts, your hands, holding our summer’s warm heaven.
Wishing, wanting, now, to be, excited and thirteen again.

Graceful,gravel beneath our soft feet at eve.
Mr. Moon's magical, romantic secret, mystery,

That desirous, tan glow on your face, ever melodically sweet.
Delicious, delightful, lips that ever so  full, did softly meet.

Secretly, did, we, like Romeo and Juliet, did in barefoot feet, 
Meet so soft.
Sparking stars, observed us, under moon glass, kiss under stars, 
aloft!

                              7/15/2024

Differences

As Space knows no true
vacuum – (in a vast sense
always exhibiting abundance of
space) -- so near Nature,
fills with infinite mystery, 
delights in difference

though rudiments may compare
no two blossoms exactly alike

a slight, odd, curl in a petal

shade or hue its own
specific blend

no twin with definitive 
blessing and sin

unlike governments
always attempting to lump

pigeon-hole

engraving community hallmarks on its
peoples

though they have individual hearts

and individual souls -- 

Zephyr

“The effervescent beauty needs to be embraced,
for it may drift away with the wind” –Quote by poet
 

The onyx hair untamed 
Some swirl in the squally stream  
Some lace lilting lattice on ivory forehead 
Locking the charisma of the evanescent mind 
Lest it flies away from the face in the zephyr. 

The almond eyes unclosed 
Eyelids blink to the tune of butterfly flutter 
Eyelashes align with silver strings of starry sky 
Hold the dulcet facade of dream-drenched charm 
Lest it floats away from the face in the zephyr. 

The flower of luscious lips unfurled 
Dons the lilac luster of the sunburst dawn 
Dew drops shine on petals with sparkling allure 
Engraving the curled contours of the mystique smile 
Lest it flits away from the face in the zephyr. 

The cherubic cheeks unveiled 
Spread jasmine scent in the seductive air 
Caressing the face suffused with glow of aurora 
Paints the passionate portrait of gorgeous glamour 
Lest beauty drifts away from the face in the zephyr.

The Moth

What is mist in my demeanour,
makes me fray when I am touched,
the thread is just a little leaner,
when the rug is pulled too much.

Adjust the light, 
reduce the glare,
the eyes will compensate the glow
with just the right influx of air,
the breath will gently ease its flow.

Call from the candle,
the patterned handle,
generates the heat of light, 
and when it’s bare without a sandal
the iron brands you in the night.

Aware of the feast,
release the craving, 
the best will save it in a jar,
wearers might warn us by waving,
when our engraving made its mark.

A stark reality to territory,
we covert the dark to rest,
the part that sparks our own clarity,
and every fight is but a test.

Caressed the stretched out wing and body,
the rack and ruin of a maiden flight, 
the pressed at best now torn and shoddy,
unless the pest drifts to new heights. 

Despite the knit of what was woven,
the proven cloth still dares to shred, 
the holes return to join the stolen,
fitting to nourish on what was said.

White Stones Silent

o the vast lawns of white stones silent....as a sparrow
tends her new clutch

only in engraving they speak soldier's names....and
the wars they fell in

men and women of brave....as the bugle weeps in
taps too young in sleep

hearts in cadence stilled....wars are storming
bastards of fire roaring death

soldier's stories whispered in....aligned standing
rows of everlasting

The Face In The Crowd

The face in the crowd

Walking through time

The church on the hill

That day

Etched forever in silent loathing

No word, no reason, long, long, gone

Fifteen years

The face, older

In the crowd

She wanted to scream at him

Just say something

She began to follow him

Watching as he walked into the graveyard

Stopping beside the solitary grave

Touching the headstone

Finally disappearing

She approached the grave

Reading the inscription on it

The name stood out

She kept staring at it

Recoiling in disbelief

The name and date

Fifteen years ago

The wedding day

It didn’t make sense

She began to study the name

Touching the engraving just to make sure

Looking around, searching for him

Her head spinning

Nothing made sense

Finally falling to her knees

The face in the crowd

The face in the crowd

Walking through time.

Perpetual Poetry

 “Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” Rumi

Life can be an incomplete glossary,
speech a haunting ghost,
in search of a perspicuous poem - 
to express unspoken thoughts.

I remember when she said,

"Cue me poetry"

So, I became her perpetual poet,
engraving sweet soulful words
upon her bitter spiritless lips.

Fate had turned her into the Queen of Darkness,
but my heart glows in the dark.
Together we illuminated like a trillion twinkling stars, 
outshining the enigmatic effervescent moon.

Her essence infused a refreshing presence, 
like morning sunshine after a night of rain.
Slowly she became a pilgrim of my poetry,
and I, a sojourner lost within her soul.

As I wandered through her secret chapters, 
my word weaving revealed her book of scars, 
each drop of ink resembling her tepid tears. 
Each vexatious verse purified through 
a catalyst of catharsis, healed her wounds.

We are like quill and scribe, 
vowels complimenting consonants, 
completing an impeccable vocabulary - 
without her there is no muse.

Icarus

Growing up I've always admired the story of Icarus & the sun 
But as I matured I learned that I actually resented it and here is why... 

I am the sun 
scorching, burning Icarus.
My heat leaving imprints of his flaking feathers 
Upon his skin, engraving his bones. 
The wax slowly melted making his harness heavy, 
Weighing down his harness; he has nothing to grasp onto 
Just his 
f
 e
   a
     t
       h
         e
           r
             s

I am the ocean as 
He sinks down to the ocean floor 
Trapping his lungs with salt water 
leaving no space for a scream, cry, or merely a whisper for help
And surely no chance to escape the grasp of the waves 
Never will he feel the sun upon his skin again 



As he is forgotten my waves will keep on 
crashing and trapping anything that comes into contact 



As he is forgotten I will burn within my dancing flames 
till they go out destructing myself and everything around me 

As I am forgotten...

Thirsty

THIRSTY

           My thirst oozing with champagne in goblet
            Melting into our mutual craving
           Following indigo line on sunset
          Misty dusty dusk, sky is engraving.
                               
          The tingling tremor, the lingering urge
           Watching dormant desires being drowsy
           Effervescence of love cascades to surge.
           Amour oscillates somnolent dozy.

           We float and sink in pearly passion
           Dear , come closer! My most precious gem!
           Memories of our love are in procession
           Our ethereal unison to claim.

           I am yours you are mine, fledged forever,
            In Earth or Heaven, joint endeavour.

Snapshot

The face of spring shines 
On the convivial tapestry
Spread on luminous landscape 
Of vibrant vivacity
With the dreaming blue lagoon of the eyes
And the petals of lotus of luscious lips
Painted on the silken canvas 
Of charming countenance
Engraving the narcissist features of innate pride
With marks of suppression syndrome subdued. 

The wheel of time turns 
On the wrinkled canvas
The spider of winter in twilight hour 
Weaves the web with endless senile lines 
Hollow eyes gaze forlornly 
At the weathered wasteland
The lips lose the patina of the wilted flower 
Hedonist psyche refuses to gauge the grief of loss
The face morphs into metaphor for panorama
Captured by the snapshot of concealed charisma.

____________

April, 28, 2023
For A Brian Strand Standard No. 1212 Contest

Filagree

"A filigree of snow is fragile and lovely, 
but even more beautiful when they are etched together."
                                                        ~ quote by poet
 
Fine filigree motifs are being drawn on my window 
Painted by the wind, holding a brush dipped in snow
Each pattern a fragile engraving in a different design
White roses climbing a trellis on their flowering vine

Soon, the frosted filigree will occlude the landscape
Snow covered hills blanketed by an alabaster drape
Never quite as beautiful as the white laced tapestry
created as if embroidered with snowflake majesty

My fingertips trace the threads as if they were fine lace
A meshwork of embellished tatting, frozen in place
Chilled, for a while, is this frost on each glass pane
until sunlight reigns. Such is their plight, their bane

Elegant scrollings that sparkle like diamonds, bright
Each delicate filigree will quickly disappear from sight
when radiant beams come alive at the waking of dawn
to become nothing more than puddles watering my lawn



February 18, 2023
Writing Challenge -F Words Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France

Lone Lane Lighted Up

Untamed ebony hair cascaded, 
some swirled in sensual squall, 
some laced the lattice of lust 
on your ivory forehead canvas,
engraving the contours of charm, 
configured the captivating last visage . 

The dove eyes danced in the blue sea  
on the melody waves of fervor,
the eyelids fluttered with butterfly
with image of your last dream on its wings, 
floated in the folding air of yearning, 
lest it drifted away in wilderness wind.
 
The crimson cheeks suffused to shine
with the radiance of blooming rose, 
spread the seductive scent in zephyr,  	
caressing me with the touch of longing, 
created the colors of glowing glamour, 
put on your last portrait I painted. 
 
The rose buds unfurled on luscious lips 
with the lilac luster of sunburst dawn, 
the mesmeric allure sparkled 
like pearls of dew on petals of pink rose,  
flashed the spark of your last smile,
lighting up the lone lane of my memory.

_______________

January 29, 2023
For Brian Strand's Your Pick Contest

Clerihew Beert

Osias Beert the elder
caused something of artistic
He helped still life 'breakfast'
engraving the genre to last

Misanthropic Squabbles

walk by the burial ground
ubiquitous queues of lichen
awninged tombstones string out

engraving summarizes
bold subheading
who was adored by whom

I slide the dainty floret stipends
turn into gleams
scattered embers
riding the withdrawn wind

Written: September 27, 2022

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