Imagines Poems | Examples

This world is gloomy night sans thee

With lamps, fiery skies,
Pearls and spires all so many,
Sans thy light of eyes
O thou doe-eyed young beauty,
This world’s gloomy night to me.
_______________________
Translation (Tanka) | 29.08.2025 | beauty, dark, world
Note: Here is a verse (in Anushtubh meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). Here the poet imagines world without his doe-eyed beauty-- dark even with sun, moon, and brilliant jewels. Here is the transliteration of the original Sanskrit:

Sati pradeepe sati agnau,
Satsu naana manishu api |
Vinaa me mrga-shaava-akshyaa,
Tamah bhootam idam jagat || 16 ||

The Poet's Vigil

In the quiet corners of his own mind,
he walks alone,
a poet whose pen drips with moonlight.

He counts the hours by the hum of his thoughts,
each one a lantern swinging in the wind.

A thinker —
he weighs the weight of names,
dreams of the laughter not yet born,
imagines a tiny hand curling around his own.

In solitude,
he builds worlds of words,
hoping one day a child will wander in,
pick a flower from his sentences,
and plant it in their own heart.

The waiting is a long horizon,
but he watches,
because even a lone soul
knows the fire is not for himself alone.

Miss Holroyd Regrets

The cage creaks upward.
The ancient Otis,
ascends slowly from a first floor past.

He dreams on...

Outside the remembered apartment
the fat round nipple of the doorbell
reminds him of her -
Rosy Holroyd,
who once, without being asked,
shoved one of her large **** into his mouth.

He punches the doorbell with a flat thumb,
imagines her undressing,
getting those ample bosoms warmed up.

No response from behind the door!
He feels disorientated and foolish
as the dream once again sinks his hopes.


The cage creaks
as it jolts downward through decades.

Alone in the elevator; gradually awakening,
his lips open and purse
like a lonely goldfish.

Endless conflicts

I'm torn between two distant worlds ~
one steeped in wickedness and sin,
the other pure and righteous;
my mind drifts like oil on water.

Alluring is the glory of heaven,
promised if I remain pure and holy,
yet enticing is the frivolity
hidden in jollity they call "sin."

My mind imagines the afterlife the Bible depicts,
yet I savour worldly pleasures my flesh can't resist.
Even when I long to retreat from every sinful street,
my soul burns within with these endless conflicts. 

What if the promise is merely a myth,
and I found out that piety robbed me of earthly pity?
Would that not be a loss of two cities –
one paved with gold, the other left cold?

Dust Devils

The hegemony of height
gets too much.
The city robs me of the horizon 
and hides it behind towering
cathedrals of concrete and glass.
Even trees conspire to fill 
the gaps and extend their
leafy reach to obscure the sky.
I long for uninterrupted distance,
horizontal vistas of the open sea 
and the flat, unfenced expanses
of the inland with its views
to infinity. Something in me
seeks wide spaces, craves 
room to breathe, imagines
sparse outback plains punctuated 
only by the height 
of dust devils wandering 
the vastness that stretches there,
lifting up the silence
in spiralling columns of prayer.

Manic

He left her for a bony 
with halitosis.
She thinks of humiliating him
recalling that final orga...
hears again his sob of pleasure.

Then his hurried dressing, his coldness.
She wants to humiliate him,
to stomp upon his bullcrap soul.

One cigarette after another.
she draws the smoke into her lungs,
into her belly, feels the fumes
turning to vengeful wraiths.

Imagines pleasuring him once more,
using him up.

One last warm splash,
then leaving abruptly, yet a look back
to relish his wide-eyed undoing -
junking him from her body forever.

Peters Envy and Rage

Peters rage never wavering even within the night sweats as cancer ripped through his tiny frail body he still imagines what his brother has if he could just grab his brothers lovers to covenant then perhaps he’d gain just a little more life he craved the smile his brother wore he craved the notion of just taking his brothers life shattering his brothers heart into would grant him at least a pretend love Peter has his own family but craved his brothers life until Peters rage grew heavy and constant the pain became unbearable unimaginable but Peter still craved his brothers life destroying his happiness proclaimed he could just become his brother that he could laugh heartily his heart grew cold and hardened until no love could ever enter again he died of a broken heart severe pain remembered only by the deeds of his brother not his own as he became his older brother in death

Stuck Separated together , part 5

She’s awake, though, wide awake, her mind miles away, spinning stories she knows aren’t true, dreams she knows will never come to life.  She imagines, with a kind of detached satisfaction, what it would be like to touch someone else.  Not him. Never him, but someone else. Maybe the neighbor’s wife, his her golden hair and too-long lashes, always standing by the door, ready to smile, but not really seeing anyone.
She imagines it, the way his hand would feel tangled in the hair of someone else’s husband, someone who’s more than a man, someone shaped by her mind and her desires, someone customized to every inch of fantasy she could dream up.  She’d be touching him, in a room far away from here, somewhere in a world where the sheets don’t smell like stale promises, where the blanket doesn’t suffocate.

In the silence of the night, alone in bed, she lets her thoughts drift

In the silence of the night, alone in bed, she lets her thoughts drift,
She wonders what it would be like to feel the warmth of a man beside her,
To have him kiss away her fears and touch her soul with desire and tenderness.
She imagines his hands slowly uncovering her secrets,
And his lips tracing shivers on her skin, like an artist of shadows.
She wonders, does it hurt? And if so, how long until it turns into pleasure?
What does it mean to feel him deep within her, to sense his firmness and unwavering desire?
She longs to know that deep explosion, that fulfillment promising universes,
To experience the pleasure that has not yet come, but feels near, like a dream.
In the quiet of the night, between desire and imagination, she weaves untold stories,
Waiting for dreams to become reality, like a song that has yet to be sung.

Dreamer and the dreamed

As entity in the dream we conjure
 we know not we are both the dreamer and dreamed
how then may we wake up when we are in trance
In bondage to illusions we ourselves streamed
In hopes of escaping a reality that is unredeemed
How do we exchange one prison for another
Even if one seems better than the other
In hopes of finding peace
or something as rare as a Golden Fleece
A sea of imagines and illusions
A hope and a goal
What truly is a dream?

Threads of Enchantment

Her Impression imprints and invites
Delightfully smiles
Seductively replies
Her reflection reflects that night
Aspiration desires to be right
Whether the notion seems a bit bright
Souls reunite and excite
Sprinkle the sparkles and penlight
Strangers strike
And rewrite what’s inside
Devotion defines
Inclination inclines
When coherence collides
And faith decides
Emotions swiftly guide
Her Impression imprints and invites
Wondrously Wonders
Mystically twists
Gloomy shadow fades away
And her brightness circulates and portray
Thoughts replay
Imagines convey
Her Impression imprints and invites
She survives and is alive
Thrust of hope will describe
Beauty designs
Emotion divines
Her Impression imprints and invites.

The Poet Speaks of Madness

The poet speaks of madness--madness similar
to what?  What was spoken before this silly syllabus?

Each ant, lifting and carrying, adds bundles of dried
and curled rose petals to the soup simmerings.

Now, each ant stomps rose petals into a silken
gown, as if one could insult a shimmering insect.

The poet further sings of madness, high pitched at
times, then sliding an octave lower for suspense.

The ants love to nap on rose petals, dreaming of
rose scents which they store in their sinuses.

Rose petal soup simmers in ant kitchens calming
an parents and poets--driving ant babies senseless.

The madcap poet imagines herself simmering,
relaxing in a fragrant kitchen full of ants.

An Old Man's Lament for A Lost Ideal

I am weary of politics,
its plastic people 
and the endless lies,
the glorification 
of the outrageous antics 
of the rich and famous, 
the intolerance 
and exclusivity preached 
by most religions, 
sensationalist media 
who seek to deceive
and divide for the sole 
purpose of ratings.

I am tired of excuses 
and the way in which 
honest people are exploited, 
the power of big corporations
and angered by the mistreatment
of our planet. I am sick
of the promises made 
by a world addicted to wealth
and the necessity to own
the latest must have gadget
and the modernist doctrine 
of the primacy of the “self”.

We have lost our way
by abandoning the sacred,
the soulful connection
to the earth and what lay
beyond. My old and perhaps 
naive mind imagines an ideal
where the world and life is not 
configured to serve our most 
unholy needs 
but to those that will lift us
towards the greater good.

Sweet Stars in Texas

 

          Somewhere....in....Texas

              ....A Teddy Bear...


        Stares at the stars, alone on her bed,
        Waiting happily for her to come to home.
        He recalls her ribbons, the brightest of reds,
        Never knowing, in God's heaven she roams!

        The girl's mother, tiptoes softly in.
        Pretending that her daughter is still there!
        She caresses the bear, an emotional win.
        The mirror reflects sadly, the room is bare.

        Tears on the beloved Teddy Bear start to fall,
        She remembers her daughter's lovely toes.
        Mother imagines she's coming down the hall,
        Oh, to just once more, kiss her sweetest nose!

                                11/12/2024

Doctress Ploshfurn

Doctress Ploshfurn
A precious work of stained temperglass



	The Doctress is a miracle
with the countenance of a lava lamp

	Her hair floods the room 
	Her eyes warm up the bed


		Witty, intelligent
		Sensible, sensitive

		Creativity beyond measure
	of what mentors could ever give

	How could the language of an individual
	with a soul of glass so stained
	be so colorful without being crass or profane?

Tempered, perhaps.
Her heart breaks when someone dies
She goes to her office, shuts her eyes
imagines reading books
looks around
And sees a man pulling a computer on a pole with him
beeping in a steady rhythm

and still in his gown, still pale from almost touching the light
embraces the fragile stained-glass lava lamp
that is our precious Doctress
weeping with joy

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