Oxygenated Poems | Examples

TO AN ALLEGORICAL BREEZE OF WARM AIR

TO AN ALLEGORICAL BREEZE OF NATURE
(Apropos Of A Warm Breath Of Air)

A sweet summer breeze;
An aromatic delight:
God’s warm exhaled breath:-
My our world’s lungs soon be filled
With God’s inhaled peace and love.:-
Oxygenated
In God’s warmth, let’s seek building
A oneness nation:-

The Nudging

What's with this nudging-
this perpetual nudging
from deep within,
urging me to write a poem?

A poem of feelings,
of rhythm and imagery.
And I am willing-
Grasping for words,
phrases, perhaps
something in iambic pentameter.

But I am so spaced out.

I swivel my eyes-
back to front,
peering into the folds of my
spaced-out mind.

My impenetrable gaze
sifts through gray matter,
where arteries pulse
with bright scarlet oxygenated blood,
where veins run deep purple,
flushed, delicate pink.

It is quite extraordinary.

I could write of colors,
I could paint with words-
but there is nothing there.

No angst in me,
nothing provoking,
nothing bothersome,
boiling, nor bubbling.

Just the nudging,
this perpetual nudging.

Glass Throne, Collaboration with Maria Williams

Enduring in the gullibility of your
vacuous domain
Where viciousness stretched its cruel chains,
and vain vows cast in silver lined threads
were soft enough to soothe,
but sharp enough to shred.

I followed the fractures, fine as hair,
witnessed truth crackle through oxygenated air.
Your crown — little more than gilded dust,
from my puppet strings severed
I placed my trust
that you’d come undone from your reign unjust...

And in your castle carved from fears,
bloom black orchids, drenched in thistles of tears,
veiling the moon with lethal lace,
perfumed with poison, in gruesome grace.

Yet I refuse to drown in the seas of the artless,
like a marionette, silenced and heartless:
for I am the silhouette of silk and solace,
soaring beyond chains of brutality and malice,

To an island where thorn less love blooms,
and faith is the melody to erase written gloom,
from the sinister streaks of the narcissistic sun-stain
I ricochet amidst the night and champagne rain...

Aspirational

       anger released... thus
    
     oxygenated... breathing  
 
       ... unfettered for life

Fire Breath

Look as the fire licks what it needs
Oxygenated air it breathes in the breeze
Needing the same thing that we all need
It burns red the same color that we bleed

The Flames are alive as their own entity
Embers in the wind is how fire breeds
Jumping across paths, streets, and trees
Alighting it's journey nights shine brightly

A once raging inferno now down to ashes
The winds died down so goes the flashes
Down to a wisp slowly the smoke rises
Burnt paths dressed in charcoal disguises


bmdavey@11/21/2022

Oh Wondrous Poetry, Or Brother Ass

II don't know that poetry
has any obligation but
to be poetry.  Ah! There
is the rub; for each of us
has our own opinion, therefore,
dominion of the heart. An organ
feeding every other part, necessary
for survival.  Perhaps, if we penned
all with newly oxygenated blood?
(Forsaking our programming)
Still, even such ink would eventually
age, dry, flake away – So, perhaps, 
we should write just for the breath-full day, 
allowing all other gas to pass. Poetry, though
highly exalted we may wish, is general accomplished 
with some contribution by the Ass.

Summer Seen

The sun burns bright over Summer seen.
Couture-rays of extended happiness shed
            no grateful rain in perfect paradise.

Flight of pumping legs and catching scent—
        uncontainable rush of God’s perfume.
Honeysuckle’d kids wholesome delight

in the oxygenated swinging space
                       where red and blue,
         and holy wings glide through
to glimpse of heaven and Summer’s wane.

Soon snow must surely fall from the sun
                         in dark and ice cold rays.

                         In Summer seen
                   and Summer’s wane,
                    let’s nudge each chin

                         left and right,
                            down and up.
                               Let green eyes
                                  know of paradise.

                                        9/22/2021

For Whom the Pyres Burn

The smoke is rising
On the far horizon
The Eastern skies are aglow
With the countless fires,
Of funeral pyres
In numbers we cannot know,
Strange fires indeed
That burn for the need
Of oxygenated air.
And we, who stand so far away,
Are still left cold, and smugly say,
“We are here, and they are there.”
But it’s fools who stand and look on blind
At the smoke that’s carried on the westward wind.

© Barry Freeman	5th May 2021

Roots Love

Fatmir Terziu
 The DNA of root’s love
… I understood it from the eyes ...
for love the derivations are light even after fleeing
that the world so conceived is sown by your tears
for this there is my mother
for this and I am in this life
to your noble silence
while the vision bathes like the moon in the distant pier
memory is a game of mind and bewildered lids
and while the lips convey as much air as the lungs need
to be oxygenated in the warmth of the blood
other love
white and beautiful
love just as old
probably because the ground requires to the feets
the DNA of root’s love…

Prelude To Beauty

Had you not inspired such
a  flame deep and bellowing 
in the cavity of my chest 
where my heart used to be 
i'd be not but a shell 
A beautiful, soulless
corpse condemned to walk 
this earth for an eternity 
ready to deafen and destroy
with eternal noise 
that signifies nothing 
i can only add my desire 
of forever being yours 
make me as happy 
as i can be. 
Only then can I be saved
from damnation and my 
soul set free.  
Looking at you there from 
above the clouds, 
my under oxygenated hands
turn pale blue, 
never has anything in
all of history looked 
more beautiful than you 
do in this moment.  
for your smile is so breathtaking 
You would wonder why anyone 
ever lived in the first place 
Inert with heavy slumber, i 
wondered if i was ever awake 
at all. was it a dream i loved?

Life Goes On

For me, 
it's when 
I pause from
crying
because I hear
laughing.
The weed and the
flower
both give
oxygenated
power
Both sustain.
Beauty and pain
When we rise;
when we fall,
when storms
come and remove
our bedrock
Life still pays
dividends
with mineral deposits
and adds stock
with spiritual
significance.
A touch of sun
evaporates a lot of rain.
Whether once removed
or family added to
Life goes on
and his beat
will be something
we can ride to

Feed the Flame

You light the fire,
and I’ll feed the flame
Spark the first kiss,
and I’ll keep stoking it
Hold me closer than close,
don’t let this hot desire cool down
Baby, don’t let the fire go out ... 
give more oxygenated breath in each shout
Let our embers of passion carry us up from the ground
Just keep feeding the flame,
throw more love matches into the pyre
And I’ll keep doing the same,
pouring more love fluid unto the fire
As our sizzling hearts melt into one,
ashes to ashes 
will be the only way to pull us apart
When the night smoke rises, meeting the morning sun ... 
strike the matches,
to reignite the fire still smouldering in our heart
So warm together, we remember last night:
How you lit the fire,
and how I fed the flame
It was the first night
we both had the same name
Now together we light the fire,
we feed the flame
We got such a burning desire 
for each other’s name

A Soft Spot

My heart is old in love years
the flesh not as supple
There has been a hardening
brought on by years of toil
years of care
a heartache or two
or maybe more than a few
have made it quite callous...

My heart is old in love years

and yet...
there is a soft spot in my heart
a tender place
where the flesh is young and strong
beating along
swathed in oxygenated flow
not toughened by age
or hardened by rage...

It is soft
It is warm
It is moist
and fresh
virbrant and alive
full of love...

Yes, there is a soft spot in my heart
for.....you

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Perpetual Nudging

What's with this nudging
This perpetual nudging
Coming from deep within
Urging me to write a poem
A poem of feelings
Rhythm and imagery-
And believe me
I'm happy, willing and able
Grasping for words, perhaps
Phrases with iambic pentameter
But I'm so spaced out
There's nothing there.

Wholly concerned
I swivel my eyes
Back to front, dramatically
Looking within my 
Spaced out mind-
Scrutinizing eyes
Probing the many folds
Of gray matter and
Arteries with scarlet
Oxygenated blood
The veins deep purple
Flushed delicate pink
It's quite extraordinary really
This internal intangible world

There's no particular block
Of sorts, no glitches
In the brain wiring
No dead words, no requiem
In progress
I should be able to 
Write captivating stanzas 
With colorful, heartfelt words
But there's nothing stirring 
No angst residing in me
Nothing bothersome
Nothing boiling and bubbling
Nothing provoking me externally.

So what's with this nudging
This perpetual nudging
To sit down and write a poem
Could this one be the one
Nudging?
 

© 2015 Denise Morgan?

Nature

N atural niceties
A ffectionate afterthoughts in the afternoon
T antilising textures
U nderstanding the unseen
R epeated splendidness in the morning mist
E ssential oxygenated environment

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