Gilding Poems | Examples

The Last Indulgence, Or Maybe The First?

I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.

The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.

When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.

I take long baths,
the water climbing like hours,
the body softening, rehearsing its exit.

Every errand feels ceremonial:
the grocer weighing apples,
the cashier stamping receipts—
as if recording my presence
before the page turns blank.

I buy the trinket, the sugared cake,
because why shouldn’t the condemned
glitter a little,
lick the spoon clean?

The hours leer,
their faces blindfolded.
Any minute the rope could tighten—
a phone could ring with pardon.

So I go on feeding myself,
scraping honey from the jar,
gilding my throat
for the last song or the first acquittal,
as though I might vanish mid-bite,
or else be called back,
my name suddenly rinsed clean
from the record.

Beneath the Gilding

The corrupt officer schemed throughout his years,
Amassing great wealth beyond his peers.
But once retired, his heart did stir,
He dreamed to be known as patriot and social worker.

The social worker preached to keep things clean
Yet dumped the trash where it should not be seen-
By roadside or river the rubbish he threw 
A bitter irony the people knew.

The patriots and reformers proud and tall,
As they liked to be addressed by all,
Encroached upon the public land,
Taking more than they had planned.

They speak out against corruption's blight,
Yet ask their children to thrive in its night.

The social activist, with care and knack,
Got government contracts through the backtrack,
Jobs for his kin, all neatly aligned,
Through hidden doors, deals well designed.

The society nods, though it may shove
The life one chooses to live and love,
Need not align with words they say,
Actions and truths may drift away.

Aureate Dreams

Flood of anonymous agony 
inundates the debris of hope, 
weed-webbed wasteland
of receding reverie
erodes in delirium  
within turbulent essence,
wreckage of life piles up,
            unlived,
transforms rapture garden 
into winter badland 
of foreboding discontent,     
            perceived.
 
Future meadow waits 
to be sauntered
            sanguine,
invents fantasy alchemy,
making magical gold
from ferrous aspirations,                            
gilding rusted crust 
of weathering present,
           metamorphosed,
marigold ecstasy blooms 
in the Midas-touched mind,
           mesmerized.
 
Wrapped by golden rays 
of garnet sun,
setting sublime  
beyond the content ocean,
entranced mind rolls
in twilight zone 
on sapphire life waves,
            broken, 
yearning psyche is drawn 
within the anguish trough,   
crashes on existential shore, 
shaped by the shadow 
of pearlescent past,
           petrified
in the collapsed sandcastle  
on the beleaguered beach
of the stilled time,
enfolding the blanched grains
of aureate dreams,
          d i s i n t e g r a t e d…..

Mister Elvis Presley

Mister Elvis Presley 
Sang his songs expressively 
In Aloha From Hawaii,
He sang them just for me, aieee!

I was 15 when he sang just for me
Straight from Hawaii via TV,
My heart skipped a beat,
I jumped from my seat,
His music had changed my reality.

Elvis has now left the building,
Gone is the music and gilding;
He died much too young,
How many songs left unsung?

An Autumn Angel

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.

Paradigm Of Contrast

For the contrived inducement of fixated being,
the transmuting tenet of uniqueness, 
the personified indented identity,
changes in the self-devised palette 
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon slyly cocooned,
paints the shifting façade of deception.

In the ostensible enactment of life’s incredible drama, 
the performance perfected in one-act play 
with the obsession of passion professed,
gilding the consequence crafted by alchemy,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another, 
is an axiomatic drive of the dormant design. 

Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade  
on the tangible visage of virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into 
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality, 
reflecting the real rendering of identity, 
rinsed with the primal hues of persona
of the distinctive disposition embodied once.

The spasm of schematic perception splits the mirror, 
the shapeless shards of shattered pretence 
scatter as discarded debris willfully abandoned. 
Transformation creates the deluding entity, 
an alien in its own renovated realm,
completes the illusive paradigm of contrast.

Autumn Sun

Low in my eyeline
extruding flat silhouettes
gilding in relief

Tired Rambling

If I throw her off a building,
Will it make her go away?
If I fix the cracking gilding,
Will it make him want to stay?
If we tear up the canvas,
Will they stop staring at me?
If I destroy all my sketches,
Will the demons leave me be?
...I'll carry the weight of my sorrow,
For fear of breaking my heart again.
Or I'll leave it 'til tomorrow. 
And instead, I'll wait for Jane.

Mare Haiku by Horn

Go to Rhyme Zone to find words which rhyme.

Here Is My Mare Horn Haiku

Gilding is a Neutered Male
Yearling and Colt and Philly
Mustang Male or Female
Thoroughbred 16 Hands High
Wither
Pinto
Appaloosa
Feral Horse
Quarter Horse
Hobbled
Spayed mare
Pony
Shetland
Chincoteague
Assateague
 

called spayed horse a spade
was leader in long parade
off course may have strayed

words that rhyme with mare
a  tall horse who has long hair
would won race by hair

call spayed horse a spade
by God each horse was made
around with we have played

when a horse did ride
countryside we would abide
Trump we had to hide

PassionFlower

                Tickle stamen dances with the dew.
Released, scent in the air,
fragranced sweetly K-new.

Bubble your brew of pheromone v-aperture

My attention from your look of capture  

Brook mirroring syndication of air
Vagrant incendiary caption of 
captivation sniff stare
Female patterns in holding 
Memories mansion room unfolding, 
scaffolding, molding
Fingering you to be most there

Ole Factory building, crescendo of 
harmonics produced gilding as eyes water in their Venused trap closing
in seduced dosaging (passaflora incarnata) 
carnal erotica 
mooning with purples and pinks, 
flash of ovary, seed, 
flirting with your dopamine, audacity

Flames of Scarlet

The gilding of the canopies
calls upon Autumn's Midas touch.
Whereas amber and orange leaves
get inlaid with gold filigree.

Jack Frost's icy kiss ushers in
the gilding of the canopies.
And with yellow and crimson tints,
Autumn dabbles in abstract art.

Fallen leaves crackle underfoot
as squirrels scamper for acorns.
The gilding of the canopies;
warns them it's time to gather nuts.

The honking geese once more fly south,
over blazing flames of scarlet.
For Autumn colors started with
the gilding of the canopies.

Breakfast For the Ducks

Near the fountain stands the male
In iridescent glory,
But his mate begins this tale,
A true Manhattan story.

These same ducks have made their home
Outside a high-rise building.
I see them swim or sleep or roam;
The truth requires no gilding.

This morning, early, as he waits,
The female, with intention
Of what she now anticipates,
Insists on prompt attention.

She marches right up to the door,
By which a doorman’s standing
And opens up her beak to score
The meal she is demanding.

In full regalia, he complies
And grabs a baggie waiting,
Then shoos some pigeons to the skies,
Their hope for food deflating.

He sprinkles breakfast for the pair,
Who gustily start eating
And I walk on so I can share
This urban morning meeting.

Walking On Air

summer was upon us
the sun gilding everything in sight
surely this was heaven



AP: 3rd place 2023

Shape Shift

For the maneuvered inducement of compulsive being,
the transmuting tenet of uniqueness, 
the personified indented identity,
changes in the self-devised palette of color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon furtively cocooned
paints the shifting façade of deceptiion.

In the ostensible enactment of life’s amazing drama, 
performance perfected in one-act play, 
and with the obsession of passion ostensible,
gilding the consequence crafted by metamorphic alchemy,
the surreptitious shift from one actor to another, 
is an axiomatic designed drive. 

Out of the limelight, the clandestine colors fade  
on the visage of the virtual makeup,
the pallid original face morphs mystically into 
the veracity mirror of fragile actuality, 
reflecting the real rendering of shape rinsed with primal hue
of the unaltered distinctive disposition it embodied once.

The spasm of contrived perception splits the mirror, 
the shapeless shards of shattered pretence 
scatter as discarded debris abandoned. 
Metamorphosis creates the deluding creature, 
an alien in its own transformed domain,
completes the contrasting paradigm of illusive shape shift.

Church Bells of the Clock

Sunday sits unmoved.
The theater pipes on fire.
Restorative proved -
join the next door choir
in heart, soul, mind and strength of eye,  O God!

Paired with our pastor.
He wears grief well and joyous,
heav’n’s alabaster.
Suff’ring does not destroy us.
Precious silver and gold stored up,  O God!

His Spirit stirs us,
absent of steepled building.
Our faith’s profession,
together as church gilding,
one mediator between man and God.

So close and so far.
Only a quick winded walk.
Peace and calm, on par,
are the church bells of the clock.
Cruise left us scarred. Christ’s balm in hand. Glory!

All is well. The lift,
week away, our friendships keep -
with God there’s no rift.
Insufferable pride, let sleep -
All Knowing grants healing we need. Glory!

9/25/2022

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