Anger Has No Turning
Labels:
anger has no turning,
naquillity,
poesaics,
proverbs
·
And death’s blossoms.
And spreads like an oak tree.
When a twig grows they are
The most unlikely birds.
It’s difficult to twist it as a stone
Into a wasp’s nest because
Every beginning is weak.
Silence will not fly into one’s mouth,
The palest ink, but, its fruit is sweet.
Gray hairs are slender anchorage-
The whisper of a pretty girl
Like a needle on a long road that
Has no turning.
Here are the proverbs I used for this poem:
Anger is as a stone cast into a wasp's nest.
Between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Evil enters like a needle and spreads like an oak tree.
Gray hairs are death's blossom's.
Heaven lent you a soul earth will lend a grave.
It is a long road that has no turning.
Luck has a slender anchorage.
Patience is a bitter seed but its fruit is sweet.
Pigs might fly, but they are most unlikely birds.
Roasted pigeons will not fly into one's mouth.
Silence was never written down.
The palest ink is better than the best memory.
The whisper of a pretty girl can be heard further than the roar of a lion.
When a twig grows hard it is difficult to twist it. Every beginning is weak.
Lipton Sunset
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Let me taste its Lipton Rivers
Upon my salivating tongue.
Bring me the sunset on a canvas,
Let my fingers seek playful caress
Through these cotton fields.
Bring me the sunset to my ears,
Let me listen to its concerto
Before I close my eyes.
Bring me the sunset in a cup is the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem.
Death of a Mermaid
Labels:
death of a mermaid,
kbware7,
naquillity,
photobucket,
poesaics,
sand sculpture,
sculpture
·
by kbware7sand sculpture ATT10
from Photobucket
originally uploaded here
Ascend no dances on her hair-
She’s ensconced by her seabed chi,
A circular strand of sandcone
Like a stalagmite reaching
Through the sea coined roses, daisies.
Her hand beetles away like frightened
Seagulls on a rift of air.
She’s going to heal less as
A deaf mermaid amid earthed foam.
Spent waves sang one conversation
In this cenotaph sea where
Death was forever left away.
Clouds came in believing deaths
Content in dying her moon.
She’s ensconced by her seabed chi,
A circular strand of sandcone
Like a stalagmite reaching
Through the sea coined roses, daisies.
Her hand beetles away like frightened
Seagulls on a rift of air.
She’s going to heal less as
A deaf mermaid amid earthed foam.
Spent waves sang one conversation
In this cenotaph sea where
Death was forever left away.
Clouds came in believing deaths
Content in dying her moon.
Scarecrowess
Labels:
bout- rimes,
flickr,
leontine may,
naquillity,
poesaics,
scarecrowess,
watercolor
·
by Leontine Mayart Watercolor
from Flickr
Somewhere amidst the bluegrass field,
A small child’s white dress
With two buttons instead of a ribbon’s braid
Tossed itself across small blades with finesse.
The Sunday dress landed on petrified wood;
A post, standing in a tuft of green grass.
It’s waiting for an arm so it won’t be misunderstood.
Then Braylee with curling cockleburs made her a lass.
Now she watches Poe’s black crow
Standing atop a jibing white brolly
Where he was trying to stow
Away a mouthful of broccoli.
When the crow flew away without so much as a splinter,
She squiggled in dance with her funny looking scarecrow.
Wraith of War
Labels:
luc-bat,
naquillity,
poesaics,
stephen weaver,
wraith of war
·
Holds life for man killed in battle.
Mind crazy with prattle,
His filled throat brattled up front
And center. He took brunt
Force while unit still hunt enemy.
They trudged mud the many
On a good luck penny and faith.
Downing every eighth,
They saw a pale man’s wraith of war.
The inspiration for this poem came from the photo Front and Center by Stephen Weaver. Here's a link to Stephen Weaver's website if you would like to see more of his work. I couldn't adhere to the syllable count in only one line of this luc bat.
She's Un-buoyed by a Conch Tree
Where her fingers traced the ebbing flow
Of lightning strings- pulled free.
Her nu de dos only night can see
Under pink noise that’s on the go.
She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree.
Her columella beads of three,
Are strung together just so
With lightning strings- pulled free.
She rests her weight upon one knee
Waiting for the swells to grow,
She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree.
Facing west with an eye’s plea,
A purpling edge wants to know
Of lightning strings-pulled free.
Her shellboat is underway to the sea
Allowing her breast morning’s bestow.
She’s un-buoyed by a conch tree
From lightning strings- pulled free.
I wrote this poem using Under Way by Agnieszka Skrzypek. By following the link provided you can see the image. You will need to scroll down to the seventh picture though. While you're there check out some of her other artwork. It's incredible.
Pomes
Labels:
cack,
caprussule,
glureon,
mozzle,
naquillity,
nonsensical,
poesaics,
pomes,
skrey
·
Tousling notes from a loquacious mozzle.
Somewhere behind the Caprussule tree
My hands reached for succulent pomes.
I heard a caggle of cack above my head
As I twisted the pomes fleshy skin.
I draw its five seeded forest near my lips and
Partake of sweet earth’s russule and grass.
A raindrops twang lingers upon my tongue
As a puce slur skreys across glureon skies
Tousling notes from a loquacious mozzle.
Somewhere behind the Caprussule tree
My hands reached for succulent pomes.
The caggle of cack have since flown past.
The Pane
Wasps stung my paned face as they flew
Initially from the burning glass. Poco a poco
Needling birds addle themselves beneath my silled
Door. A very loud knock came stern
On my windowside. It was a sparrow without an alibi.
Wincing at this new pockmark, I felt a warm breeze grow.
I used window as a beginning/ ending acrostic so that it would resemble a closed window from the left side and an open window from the right side. Have a nice night~
grassland
Labels:
grassland,
naquillity,
poesaics,
renga
·
horse tries to
scratch backside
brown hair pinched
between fingers
tree limbs
sway in the wind
after a soft rain
tattered bursts of laughter
play on shadowy ground
hot air balloon
dropped into an open field
with careful guidance
a single car
searches nearby
Thalassa's Childhood Memory
Labels:
abc poem,
henri bendel,
marcel proust,
naquillity,
poesaics,
thalassa's childhood memory
·
Proust Windowat Henri Bendel's in Manhattan
originally found here
quote Marcel Proust
"If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time."
a small girl named Thalassa
became excited when she saw the Swarovski
crystals shining. they lined the
edge of water with their brilliance
from east to west. she arrived at the base of a
great red rose, eight feet tall, wrapped in more crystals.
helping herself, Thalassa began climbing each
intricate thorn to the top. Sitting beneath a
Jupiter moon she saw each delicate fold
keeping a book. When she reached and stretched a waggling fish
leaped from its pages, falling down onto a
mermaids back whose fin glistens in Thalassa’s eyes as she
nods her head towards the quiet smell of salt and a
picaroon. the pirate held a teacup of Swarovski crystals
quietly pouring them over a small
rowboat; a silver mannequin took form. the pirate was a
soi disant artist, Thalassa
thought. the moment it got colder she stood
up and reached for Jupiter’s
waistline. standing upright, she played the rings like a
xylophone. The loud song
yelped across the sea as Thalassa continued
zigzagging across each note.
My Hand
Labels:
bluegrass,
crop circles,
god,
my hand,
naquillity,
poesaics,
stigmata,
stonehenge
·
With protruding white nails that
Protect the soft pink flesh of my fingertips.
My eyes follow the cleft ridge
On my right thumbnail, imagining the next
Hand and foothold through
Its lifeline, long as my own.
I carry the map of two marriages
And, one child upon this strange Caucasian land
Where I’ve circumnavigated my way around
Its perimeter with steady weight.
I dug inside its rich, bluegrass roots
And came out dry on the other side
Amidst a veined crop circle-
This blueprint of
Just visible beneath my skin.
I start my search back to the beginning
Through knuckle-white mysteries
To find where God took my hand once,
Leaving signs of Stigmata
Upon the center of my palm.
Note: I do not have the power to perform a stigmata. I used the word stigmata to represent a scar I received as a child. I was trying to climb a muddy hill and couldn't. So, I decided I would hit a board that was lying there with my hand. When my hand came down on the board it hit a rusty nail and punctured my palm. I now have a small white scar in the center. I am sorry if my use of Stigmata upsets anyone who comes to read my blog. That was not my intention.
pokemon battles
Labels:
articuno,
moltres,
naquillity,
nubia 1515,
photobucket,
poesaics,
pokemon battles
·
by Nubia 1515painting Artwork
from Photobucket
originally uploaded here
articuno and
moltres facing off at sunset
legendary birds
rhombus plumage flows
against freeze and flame currents
pokemon battles
Butterfly at a Spa
Went to a spa for a nice steam.
When she fluttered out she began to cry
“This is not part of my dream!”
Her beautiful etchings were gone and this spiked hair?
She looked like a moth flying over the lake.
What was she to do? She went to ask mare.
But, mare didn’t have time; she was going to be late.
Maybe butterfly thought, I could do a test,
All I need is colorful petals and honey to create.
“No, No, No!” she said, “That will only cause a mess.”
Butterfly decided to see a tattoo artist who could sedate.
Now she’s the prettiest butterfly... for her scheme.
She’s relaxing at the spa in a chair of white wicker.
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