Long Purls Poems
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Written: September 1st, 2023
Would You Love Me If I Wasn't A Poet? Sponsored by: Silent One
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If my words lacked flow, unadorned, and dry,
In the minds of those who mope and roam.
Poetry purls and parades its philharmonic prose.
If my ink dwindled, leaving pages bare.
Should you still sense my soul's splendor?
Where waltzing words entwine and endeavor
Would you still cherish me sans the poet's guise?
A stunning seemliness, a seraphic stake.
Now, we anticipate this mutual toast.
It's a tradition we've upheld, you and me.
for countless years.
However, what if I never compose?
What if my verses abruptly cease?
Will you still inure infatuation for me?
If my words no longer intertwine?
Will my verses strive to heave delight?
Even if they lack their former bright?
You offer unwavering support, truly!
My muse is born from deep happiness.
Delight in my dulcet discord—a deed
Without your input, my words carry no value.
It feels as if you favor my fantastic flexibility.
Poetry is in my blood; that verity is obvious.
Even if terms at times tangle.
I'm afraid you'll amplify apathy one day.
face futile files and fragmented facts
Still, your urging ubiquity dulls my iniquity.
A placid pithead packed with pride and purity.
Despite the ups and downs
You ceaselessly stood by me.
As my skills strive to strike success.
You are my source of strength.
In each verse I write, you praise
My poems find solace in your gaze.
But what if I stop being a poet?
Will you cast a blind eye?
Will my words still be worthwhile?
If I can't glide amid the lyrical birds,
I long for our ties to rise beyond rhyme.
May our love defy the flow of time.
You admire me beyond words.
But your mate is utterly unattainable.
Our steadfast solidarity supersedes art.
Throughout full room sprays of sweet nothings suffuse
Mellow are memorial moments, mirth as well as my muse
High-floating foams, filled with redolent renaissance
Gently freshen up and fondle my hairs
My hairs, eager to inhale inspiring air
Grow fixated upon and fused with her familiar fragrance
Daisy-cutting eddies, gurgling into grokking gobos
Cozily cluster around and coddle my feet
My feet, hot to trot Cytherean beat
Meet and mate her mountable mojos
Heading remontant rose
Toeing orgasmic tempos
Head o'er heels lost in surreal suspense
Heart and soul lilting amid soothing sense.
Throughout full room sprays of sweet nothings suffuse
Away from sentimentality fades solitary recollection abuse
Whirling purls pearl brittle bygones bit by bit
Padding my bedtime barrenness with her tickling tidbit
Hard-landing her palatable presence onto my daydream's drought
Soft-landing my heart's heavy hit upon her lips' light pout.
Throughout full room sprays of sweet nothings suffuse
Into cuddled conjugality condense double desired dews
Spinning wavelets weave precocious prospects strand by strand
Priming my proposed sky with her promised land
Plying my heats and dream with her peaches and cream
Plying her apron's thin strings into my thought's thick theme.
Throughout full room sprays of sweet nothings suffuse
That's where her hydroponic halo highlights my Hippocrene hike
And where my flourishing fashion kindles her honeyed hilarity alike
That's everywhere mel and muse fuse and effuse.
Whirling through torpedoes of sound,
spinning and tailing its way like Raphael to earth,
shoots some uninstantaneous ether:
the impermeable myelin of true experience.
The soul—the richest treasure chest ever found;
creating, disseminating, revealing, glimmering, alluring.
Rawest sense material pinging in gold-tipped purls of rose-furls:
stroking the ears as gently as a brook,
yet roaring with the might of an ocean-river undammed,
with strength enough to loose the captives.
Dance—that vital union of impulse and excursus,
Funnelling to earth to free the heart with unspeakable words.
Beauty will save the world, said a great Russian writer:
But how does that matter unless it first save our souls?
Wending, winking, welding walls of splendor; almighty proportions,
austere glory of Euclidean quintessence,
draining, distilling, disgorging life's elixir into a jet-black pearl
suspended in honey-dew drops:
Then the peak of the ascent and the plummet back to the globe of the touched;
yet refusing to leave us untouched.
Surely there is more to what there is than whatever we wish it to be,
Yet the continuum plunges on in measured oar-strokes,
to reach in all haste that prized and glistering and all-consuming whole;
Unfilched fire of sparks and symmetries to wound the soul with terror
Of the known but not realized:
After all that, we arrive at the beginning,
and let our sails be billowed with burnished breezes.
Sometimes
I'm not sure if I am Me.
I fall into the safe Despair, Regret, and Lamentation
and the reindeer in my mind digs a hole in my heart to find a reason.
I step outside the world for a moment and watch the hole,
the hole filled with
my rough red but quiet waves in my heart.
Inside the deep deep silent waves
there is that reindeer lying down,
Observing the flat stars falling down.
When the red waves from my heart flow over the reindeer
The reindeer just closes its eyes
still lying down on the silent waves.
But when its white horns tore its skin,
it abandons its horn,
Instead of bones,
And runs,
Until the hooves worn out.
Until its face is shattered.
Until everything is gone.
And finally
The last step of the reindeer purls through my cheek
Then I bait the reindeer antlers
to find a new reindeer
And when there are no horns left,
I lay down,
Started digging into the deep deep silent waves.
Abandoning my legs
Instead of my hands
Abandoning my horns
Instead of my bones
To see myself hiding under my heart.
Fire burning, keeps me warm
While outside brews a big snowstorm
Now all I need to be complete
Are knitted socks upon my feet
I thought I'd have them on by now
I'd knit my own but don't know how
Will you teach me how someday?
We'll stay in bed and knit away
An afternoon spent spinning yarns
Of different colors into forms
I think the way I'd like to start
Is knitting you a small red heart
A place to put your hot coffee
To rest your mug on comfortably
My first attempt, it may take long
Don't laugh though if I get it wrong
I want to do the things you do
So I can spend more time with you
I'm pretty good at crafting rhymes
But other things? I'm dense at times
Be patient please, I'll come along
It's like the learning of a song
Note by note, chord by chord
Verse by verse, word by word
I'll get it though, it sounds like fun
Teacher-student, one on one
Needles, patterns, knits and purls
My heart knit for a special girl
My Ophelia sits, poised and preening
like a big question mark
ready to go, ready to stay
I scratch and rub her back gently,
she curls and purls, asking for more.
I take her into my arms,
embracing as children and lovers do.
She is quick to read the meaning
behind the gesture, murmurs contentedly,
affection is her due.
Then I bring home another one,
furry and white, as cuddly as she,
but she throws herself into a fit of pique,
demeanor turns bizarre, like a puppet
manipulated by an unseen force.
I never dream Ophelia misunderstands
my very good intentions; I puzzle
how my new cat, male and sensuous
sends Ophelia, she-cat and sensuous too,
scurrying, delving into madness.
@jjote 080215
Through pale of eve, my eyes can see
beyond the trellis where I stand
a rose awaits, brushing the ground
through pale of eve, my eyes can see
needles of thorns ,calling for me
where tips of sadness purls around
through pale of eve, my eyes can see,
beyond the trellis where I stand.
While on the branches, heart’s thorns dry,
as if to pierce my faint lament
this lonesome rose tried to reply,
while on the branches, heart’s thorns dry
to face the night we said goodbye,
the day he kissed my cheeks and went
while on the branches , heart’s thorns dry,
as if to pierce my faint lament.
Every Rose Has Its Thorn... Kelly Deschler
new poem nette onclaud
tell me your name
let run my fingers
across the contours
of your mouth,
describe the sunset
so that my mind
can envision,
what corneas
cannot
remember for me
as you speak of the now,
what is consumed
by the cacophony of sound,
my only affirmation
within whispers of meaning
this fool travels
shuffling to melodies
in the tap…tap…tap
ever haunted by memories,
having seen a glimpse
of corridors in radiance
between worlds
heat,emotion,touch,sound
all lost in the longing
to walk soundless
nudging past your temples
with my hands
the pool of logic
… purls,
and I see all
with the reach
of a great horned owl
Unto Acheron, great river of woe,
the buried to the entrance gate are led,
in the underworld to Charon below
to ferry across the souls of the dead.
Upon your lips, your eyes, a coin receive,
a fare lest you be trapped between two worlds -
allowed to enter but never to leave
where the waters of oblivion purls.
Where Furies dwell and Hellhounds guards the gate
and souls are judged in Hades’s deathless reign -
to wander the Styx and Lethe in wait
till rulers of gods and men part us twain.
The Pit of Tartarus where the soul yields
or sweet blissful isles of Elysian Fields.
Written: May 2012