Sheathed Poems | Examples

Lure Of Liberty

Aside from its indigenous natives
when those there United States
(home of the braves)
were first settled by white colonists and pioneers
it was advertised with a carrot
(not a torch)
held by copper-sheathed Lady Liberty
with book candle 
(no bell)
française est elle
with the slogan 'Land of the Free'
propaganda of the day it's enough to make one sick
as today there's far less carrot and way too much more stick
haves and have nots will always be there
(the tired poor huddled wretched masses)
but we you and me can make a difference if we really care

Point of No Return

A crescent moon dangles in the distance,
whilst meteors jet across Prussian blue heavens,
leaving trails of grey ash in their wake.
An abnormal, elongated silence creeps through threadbare trees,
as an imperceptible breeze skims past my hair,
causing, for just a second, déjà vu—
a flutter between my muffled heart and a crushing ribcage
jolts me back.
Never-ending, frayed nerves keep me on edge;
the taste of insufferable copper taints my tongue.
Spitting it out—only for it to return,
haunting me like your last words,
replicating, repeating nightmares,
eating into my wailing brain.
That night: the broken glass,
shattered mirrors, overturned tables,
blood-sheathed floors—
became our point of no return.

Interview with a fetus

she wished to know
so taking her permission
I peeped deep into her womb
to have a conversation
with a foetus therein

what I saw 
with my soul’s eye
was God’s spark as light
in the innermost cave 
glowing as all heart

we spoke for a while
in as our souls entwined
mirroring the one light of God in all
sheathed in the foetus’s heart
as source of life itself

Self dwells in singularity 
loosely portrayed as heaven 
it chooses to experience duality 
so takes birth as organic form
to learn to love by touch

with God as the core
the only true substance 
by His will new life develops
to fulfil His will on earth
as it is in heaven

Sailor

We journeyed then as whim behooved,
Our lives were eddies, wind and play;
Great hearts were we, so far removed
Whence any mortal thought might stray.
And sunlight streamed upon our souls,
And starlight to the distance played;
As softly lapping water lulls,
I would it were and never fade.
For we on honeydew had fed,
And with the winter winds were wed,
And so, like clouds of August sped
Across the wondrous sea.
And many dulcet days there fell,
And many harbors sheathed our bow,
And many marvels might I tell,
If tapered time would but allow.

Held Back

A tongue sheathed wields weight
heavier than any swung sword.
I learned to tuck my knives behind my teeth,
to swallow silence—make it my armor,
until my own words tasted bitter,
cold as iron.

There was a time I wanted to tell you
how I could break—
but truth isn't a gift, it's a weapon
in the wrong hands.

I remember that night at the kitchen table,
your eyes soft, waiting for my answer.
I wanted to show you the cracks you'd made,
but I pressed my lips tighter
until they hurt—I couldn't risk the violence
of my words.

Pressed lips became a gate,
my voice, the fortress—
a stone wall, no friendly opening.

Always Bold

         Even broken I'm bold enough 
        I breathe hope at every moment.
        As pessimist not to lament. 
        Ambition shines on firmament.

        At every breathe dazzling my hope.
         Ready to use the exact scope.
         Always rational, not to grope.
                                Even life appearing too tough.

         At every moment hope to breathe.
         Dynamism inspires to seethe.
         Positivity to get sheathed.
                                   Even when path of life turns rough.

         Ray of hope to enlighten me
         No stagnancy, progressing free,
         though Future is never to see.
                                  lf grief stricken, I try to laugh.

       Heart is broken ?  But hope beats drum.
         Courage is pivot , also fulcrum.
         I will bounce back on strength - spectrum.
                             Overcoming rue I will burp.

after the storm abates

after the storm the sky sighs
relieved the rage has expired
with a rolling fade rumble
all is quelled to quietude

after rain a damp dank shroud
covers the earth utterly
enveloping everything
in slimy glint of wetness

after the lightning is sheathed
the earth is spared more sharp stabs
and brutal bang afterthoughts
in rolling peals of thunder

then the dark clouds sneak away
ashamed for temper tantrums
that spoiled what otherwise was
a perfect hot summer's day

let's go guy

.

               enveloping
           plumose packed
        velutinous sheathed 
         my chaise's entice
                   yep 
             the nymph's 
     excited camberz latched
               (((clap)))
              front mine
                   see
             hern laid it's
                  thick
                nubuck
              impatient
                  with 
                   me

Sanctuary Of Silence

In clamor continuum
noise navigates
decibel waves 
beyond discernment
           numbed,
voice of frenzy
feels the caress 
of hushed calmness, 
halcyon sentiments 
           sink slow 
in solvent serenity  
unexpressed
in remote recess  
of mute mind,
fluidity swamps
sonic impulse
           insensate.

Corrosive cacophony  
finally ceases
           compelled,
the unsaid composes
sonata of silence
           echoed,
finds nascent niche
           tranquil,
strikes reticent concord 
           sensuous
in concerto cord
of harmony,
vivacious voice rises 
           serenades
lilting lyric
           unsung
in sanctum of silence.

Strident storm
spite spent,
stops consumed 
on catastrophe
            contrived,
sheathed placid
by stalled silence,
            spreads 
where it finds 
muffled manifestations
            smothered, 
beguiled spring breeze 
            incites
taciturn emotions, 
floral feeling
sprouts fragrance
in sanctuary of silence.

A Sheltering Light at Ironwood

The sun sets leaping in fierce golden shafts
As days shift shorter with Winter’s warning
We seek emblazoned fires from the chilled drafts
That glaze windows from iced winds each morning

As twilight falls stale dead leaves swirl rifting
Barbed smells of Pine and Tannin Oak scent streams
From forest floor fumes in brisk air hinting
Drab pumpkin, peach and tawny spiced Fall dreams

Sit quietly, watch dusk’s seasonal show
November’s clouds spangled in etched fire stun
When a portrait clad in sheathed splendor flows
A palette of Fall woods under brazed sun

That bring us grand tidings of this season
Where peace reigns and war has little reason

torment

he hides himself into an empty wrapper
a hollow shell that remained after the storm
where life once resided before the heavy toll
of addiction arrogance destruction hurt and
the combustive mixture of void and destruction
an all-inclusive ticket to stagnant displeasure 
a homeless abode untenanted wreck
futile worthlessness vacant desolation

disconnected and detached he does not half fill
the cover where isolation has taken his place
and shielded nothingness evaporates from his mind
in which melancholy oozes lost hope

a sheathed vacuum with suction pump attached
portrays the only reminder of motion and living

he feels very little but pictures himself
as Dali´s warped melted clock
a time bomb disguised as a land mine
for good expandable measure of meaning

12 November 2023

The Enlightening

The graveyard, shrouded in pale mist, so hauntingly eerie,
dampen spirits as the full moon loses her glow - dreary!
I float, like a vapour, amongst lifeless, inky shadows;
solitary yew tree, groaning with age, as the wind blows.

A ravens cold, chilling stare, shoots shivers within my soul
as I glance at fresh earthly mounds next to an empty hole.
Decaying flowers, leaves, disfigures forlorn, relic graves 
as melancholy whistling heralds me in mournful waves.

I wander past headstones sheathed in mould, epitaphs long gone,
This sacred place seems familiar to me as night draws on.
Movement beyond a mausoleum - am I all alone?
I feel I am being beckoned to something to be shown. 

                   Hypnotic, ethereal sounds now on this Halloween Eve - 
                   I am guided to a grave where I shall lay down and grieve.

                   For, as I kneel against sodden turf, horror upon face,
                  An inscription enlightens me -  I dwell - at this resting place!

Postage Due

Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.

A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
  
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.

Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".

Discontinued

Her blood was spilled,
Her heart is where the knife was sheathed,
Herself is who was killed,
She will be deeply grieved,
My life must be continued,
Even though her life was discontinued.

Quilling the Spill

At last,
Education stood to teach.

Acres of agonizing memory.
Hectares of Hecate,
Tripling in advance of nonsense.

Peering round and round in vertical cylinders.

Spun web-less in a lore of forgotten before.
And after, for the sake-less now.

Trudging on to prevent neither from creeping upon the self.
The worry.
The memory of anamnesis to approach.
Guided by prodding pasts and redundant fates.

Ghosts are pasts pretending themselves futures.
Watching the agony unravel from the serfdom of their such.

A medium simply sees the swirl,
And laughs at the penchant for unlit prospects.
Adorning torches to hide lights from contemporary photonics.

I've sieved the lumens. 
Sheathed it for sequestered seconds in advance of past, present, and posterity. 

Commas written in Oxford language, knowing that a next is sure to follow.

Pretentious: yes.
Shallow: may-haps.
Yet perchance the parchment rolls on, flicked by feathers of ephemera once deigned to be feared.

Feathers quacking on in timid and oily idleness.

There's no point anyways, to a quill, without the spill of ink.

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