The meadow of my mind
dried desolate as the desert dune.
The mist of concealed passion
suspended with mystique opacity
in the sunk halcyon horizon,
waited for the southern wind
to surreptitiously blow
from the fervent sparkling sky
with your sequined charisma,
swathing the shades of my blue.
In the titular template of loneliness,
the secret motif of my longing
designed the lattice of desire,
carved the furtive image of my heart,
the quivering willow in the wilderness.
The dormant dreams blazed in inferno;
I breathed the ashen memory smoke
afloat stealthily in the sky of vacuity.
The design of desolation intertwined
the splinters of my desire icons,
flew on the trajectory of covert longing
to the clandestine corral of anonymity,
lay within the poignant crypt
as the skeletons in the closet.
On my meandering lonesome journey in July
across the greening wasteland,
or along the glittering garden path,
lined with flowering saplings,
bursting with color spectrum,
the shutter of my mind opens.
The receptive film of sensuality
captures the captivating collage
with the sublime snapshots of beauty.
For the maneuvered inducement
of the passionate living,
enwrapped by the pale shroud of desolation,
defined by the transmuting tenets
of titular uniqueness,
configuring the personified kaleidoscopic identity,
I tie the knots of ebullient emotions,
dye these with the color mélange of life.
The metamorphosis creates an adorned me,
an individuality in harmony
with the altered essence,
completes the lattice of self-expression,
the paradigm of self-inspired design shift.
As i consider, posterity and the multiverse
Of titular? Though my efforts be known as un-dignified, it observe at the very least they may become signified.'
The titular template
of lyrical loneliness,
serenading
spaced out
the upbeat ethereal
mystique melody
of dreams
cadenced with
rhythmic quietude,
invigorated by
the rhapsody of
the million idyllic steps
I walk,
setting free
the hesitating heart
that quivers with
the wilderness willows,
the concrete contours
of inflexible essence
repudiate intractably
the catharsis reprisal.
I find a placating place
at the serene edge
of the stalled time,
sense sedated
the sound of silence.
All the dreams
blaze like emotive ember
in memory inferno,
swathed by the ashes
I breathe besieged
the smoky past,
whisper hollow words
to the amorphous air,
for I have nothing
more to say,
and silently float
in the sky of nothingness
with splintered awareness.
The sulking space between
the slices of soul,
where frail feelings
get frozen,
the lattice of desolation
is configured
with the shards of
shapeless desire,
turning to illusive images,
as they soar
to the void
of oblivion
in the solemn sky of
silence…
The titular touch of day and night
builds the bud layer by layer,
the blossomed design of destined time
opens the petals,
the floral essence of existence
gradually unfurls
the transient beauty of life,
until the flower withers.
The wilting flower doesn’t even know
when it’s time for the call to come
in the cold night’s slashing silence
from the abyss of the gloomy ground
where it will fall
to disappear drifting
to obscurity in the tempest of time.
On life’s rough garden path
I walk the trudging moments,
steps tracing the last mile meandering
to disappear at the vanishing point.
The spectrum of the setting sun
tinges the fading fringe of time,
turning into specks of eternity,
sinking within the sated soul.
I float in the ethereal waves
in the bay of infinite bliss,
drifting to the yonder shore,
configured in the cauldron
of timeless emptiness.
The titular template
of lyrical loneliness,
serenading spaced out
the upbeat ethereal
mystique melody
of dreams cadenced
with rhythmic quietude,
invigorated by
the rhapsody of
the million idyllic steps
I walk,
setting free
the hesitating heart
that quivers with
the wilderness willows,
the concrete contours
of inflexible essence
repudiate intractably
the catharsis reprisal,
I find a placating place
at the serene edge
of the stalled time,
sense sedated
by the sound of silence.
All the dreams
blaze to emotive ember
in memory inferno,
swathed by the ashes
I breathe besieged
the smoky past,
whisper hollow words
to the amorphous air,
for I have nothing
more to say,
and silently float
in the sky of nothingness
with splintered awareness,
the sulking space between
the slices of soul,
where frail feelings
get frozen,
the lattice of desolation
is configured
with the shards of
shapeless desire,
turning to illusive images,
as they soar
to void oblivion
in the solemn sky of
silence…
The dispersed dark specks drizzle down silently
from the cauldron of the infinite blankness,
that the sky shapes at the edge of the ductile dusk,
since the beginning of the titular time.
The silken tapestry of the black blanket spreads slowly
as the twilight dissolves at the hinge of hazy horizon,
like the rinsed rainbow melting on the crumbled cloud,
from where the draping darkness flows with fluid night.
The sound of silence echoes in the night sky ethereally,
wakes up the sleeping stars one by one to sparkle bright
in the bejeweled crown of the argentine ambiance,
where the moonbeam strands weave dream of you for me.
In the stardust sprinkled bewitching night I wait fervently
for you to emerge out of my dream like an angel,
walk in the craving corridor of my mesmerized mind,
as I let my longing drift in the air of night’s amorous allure.
The titular template of loneliness,
the spaced out unbeating ethereal melody,
the dreamy quiet beginning energized
in the million steps you walk,
setting free the agonized heart
that quivers like the wilderness willow.
The outline of the unyielding essence
repudiates the catharsis reprisal,
you find a place at the edge of time,
and sense the sound of silence.
All the dreams blaze in an inferno,
you breathe the ashes of smoky memory,
whisper hollow words to the amorphous air,
for you’ve nothing more to say,
and silently float in the empty sky.
The space between the slices of soul,
where the frail feelings get frozen,
the lattice of desolation is configured
by the splinters of shapeless images of desire,
as they fly away in a silent way.
They are incantations,
holders of truth and lie,
they can be imprecations for bad or sly,
they are hammers that forge our lives,
implements which are sharp as knives,
mastering them may seem nigh,
one may think he is adroit in this art,
or it may be a mere start,
Here no element is a titular part,
some might think of them as banal,
in the world of today they are crucial,
oh so don't you belittle,
lot to learn in this field of imagination,
they are salient to the way of education,
They may be a boon or an imprecation,
thoughts lick at my consciousness
distracting me from the warm embrace
of the colour pallet unfolding
I stare with myopic eyes at the kaleidoscope
endeavouring to discern the demarcation
of the edge of each shade
naming them as though they are listed on a colour chart
displayed at the local hardware store
but as soon as I have one splash of tint pinned down
it fades to be replaced by a more pleasing explosion of colour
a child’s toy impatiently twirled
a rainbow snipped into a multitude of shapes
in never to be repeated patterns
like an uxorious husband
it enfolds the evening sky in its loving embrace
its fleece soft fingers exploring
lulled into a unison of consent
with a barely perceptible rush of contentment
a slight sibilant sigh issues
memorialising daylight
clinging to the fringes of observation
the scene depicts its titular character
of moral decay
the riparian area jealously guards its supremacy
as hydrophilic plants are robbed of their splendour
in a final display of defiance
alluvial fans buffet against the offing
recombobulating
the natural order of Chaos:
The Great Deep of ancient mythology
Always a tough business: Tournament
But women take along ornament:
Old Testament's and New Testament's
They put it on, they're in firmaments...
Now and again for rearmament
Why can't it be in tournament?
"Sure, football is played in stadiums
But last week, I was here for idioms;
Our resource persons on podium,
A blaring microphone for medium
Stadiums some women storm for Legend,
Who shall their multiple worries end
To their feminine wishes bend
And, in short, a million naira lend:
Women not for men from the roadside,
Who should the other way face for bride:
The men worth their embrace or kiss
Ones in real, not titular office!
Fumigate the neglected rooms of Caleb,
Backing this up with prayers at Mount Horeb
And tomorrow, another ever wavy web
From an irksome zeal that wouldn’t ebb!
Guess: from the Eight – Legged Catcher of Insect
Which dares to its lodge near and inspect.
The Arachnid with a True Architect’s mind
Never by civil engineers judged behind;
Often swiftly replacing their cherished structures
Immodestly pulled down by no-nonsense cleaner:
A painless recreation of the thread-like mixtures,
At long last emerging their destroyer’s winner.
The spider’s masterful labyrinth – a dazzle
The all-time brain-teasing cobweb and puzzle
Its rating on scale, second to The Ant
When it gets busy, still would not pant…
But watch it: A Harbinger of Vexations Nightmare
For the weary one now running the sleeps-race
A sound slumber by ninety percent rare,
If the spider should decide to face a glazed face:
Satan’s snake I saw lose its life to Tarantula
The kingly Spider with a hairiness that is titular.
The horse ken holds its bridle
Is now almost his idol,
For him making A Winning Rider;
At Horse-Racing An Insider…
A stallion that keeps ken on the popular,
Him fetching grand names and The Titular:
The Horse sure is getting some kisses
No witness will see and reply with hisses;
Probably too a medal and a ribbon;
Some jibe to other horses to be reborn
So, it is a “Scratch my back I scratch yours:”
Let me see somebody tell Ken “Who is at loss!”
"Siren Sings Poe Home"
Bells are ringing
Can you hear me singing?
Poe absent, finds his feet
6 feet under snow
Soul is free flying
with black feathery things
Sharp knives slicing the cold
Midnight wings
dancing the Passepied
with the tintinnabulation
of swinging titular poets
Murders of Crows
Christmas comes
Christmas goes
(LadyLabyrinth/2018)
Christmas, 2018.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CaGBQeJ6SgM
"Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WnEUC4eZjjA
For some unknown reason, I love the word titular
I know, I know, maybe coz it sounds naughty like diddler
Look I don't make this stuff up
There're others like cubbyhole and such
Never said I was perfect, in fact, I'm a bit testicular
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.