Submissions by bwilde
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Prefer to write prose. I read Gilbert, Clive, Ronald, Reuel, and Thomas. I read Neruda. I seek solemnity, quietude, epiphanies, and the eucatastrophe. Married to the girl of my dreams.
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
9th May 2015 1:01am
9th May 2015 1:01am
And at the high altar with me angels discussed
Those echoes that beckon again from our far away home,
To witness the scents of sweet combust;
Those quiet echoes guarding where we roam.
I visited once that mission Church of Rome
In the silent Monterey valley night, where we trust
Those echoes that beckon again from our far away home;
Where chant prayers were sung in antiphonic metronome.
And at the high altar with me angels discussed
Those quiet echoes guarding where we roam.
We read the versio vulgata of Saint Jerome!
Still, its ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Those echoes...
To witness the scents of sweet combust;
Those quiet echoes guarding where we roam.
I visited once that mission Church of Rome
In the silent Monterey valley night, where we trust
Those echoes that beckon again from our far away home;
Where chant prayers were sung in antiphonic metronome.
And at the high altar with me angels discussed
Those quiet echoes guarding where we roam.
We read the versio vulgata of Saint Jerome!
Still, its ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Those echoes...
625 reads
4 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
1st May 2015 8:42pm
1st May 2015 8:42pm
I will not raise an eyebrow or look away. “Sit finis libri, non finis quaerendi”
I will not raise an eyebrow or look away.
“Sit finis libri, non finis quaerendi”.
The tree grew up fast while I was still a child
and ready to go the extra mile.
Geraniums for the graves of ghosts,
and chipped glass for Memorial Day.
Never I thought that away from the coast,
or from a hideaway beach or island repose
I would not think twice again of the setting sun.
She was a Hewitt; the long familial New England...
“Sit finis libri, non finis quaerendi”.
The tree grew up fast while I was still a child
and ready to go the extra mile.
Geraniums for the graves of ghosts,
and chipped glass for Memorial Day.
Never I thought that away from the coast,
or from a hideaway beach or island repose
I would not think twice again of the setting sun.
She was a Hewitt; the long familial New England...
844 reads
0 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
28th Apr 2015 3:56am
28th Apr 2015 3:56am
But loss...now that is different altogether
There have been times of lucid intercession.
Sometimes I smell familiar scents of the saintly communion or hear a familiar antiphon.
And then there have been times of the eucatastrophe;
the happy ending...in so many words.
Faith to me is a suspension of disbelief and the relenting...
to Pascal's wager.
But loss...now that is different altogether.
Sometimes I smell familiar scents of the saintly communion or hear a familiar antiphon.
And then there have been times of the eucatastrophe;
the happy ending...in so many words.
Faith to me is a suspension of disbelief and the relenting...
to Pascal's wager.
But loss...now that is different altogether.
625 reads
1 Comment
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
23rd Apr 2015 11:01pm
23rd Apr 2015 11:01pm
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine
Those in Heaven who intercede for me…
I ask though, will a message be whispered?
Long ago too soon, and nine years today…
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.
I see the days of the week in color
And learned even more solemnity,
Grant them eternal rest, O Lord for
Those in Heaven who intercede for me.
I am the caretaker of their museums,
preserving their histories; lighting candles
For what time there is left for me…
I ask though, will a message be whispered?
Now I suspend my disbelief to pray
And...
I ask though, will a message be whispered?
Long ago too soon, and nine years today…
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.
I see the days of the week in color
And learned even more solemnity,
Grant them eternal rest, O Lord for
Those in Heaven who intercede for me.
I am the caretaker of their museums,
preserving their histories; lighting candles
For what time there is left for me…
I ask though, will a message be whispered?
Now I suspend my disbelief to pray
And...
654 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
16th Apr 2015 1:34am
16th Apr 2015 1:34am
The fat man with the safari vest
The fat man with the safari vest is talking to the ringleader.
Hushed tone in the give-and-take meander.
Deal? Contract? Oblation?
The ringleader accepts and obliges the fat man’s introit.
There again goes the fat man with the safari vest.
Where does he go? What mystery does he know?
He asks many questions in the relentless quest.
But he retires to his dark desk to postpone,
to pend the procession of the movable feast.
The dossier was opened by...
Hushed tone in the give-and-take meander.
Deal? Contract? Oblation?
The ringleader accepts and obliges the fat man’s introit.
There again goes the fat man with the safari vest.
Where does he go? What mystery does he know?
He asks many questions in the relentless quest.
But he retires to his dark desk to postpone,
to pend the procession of the movable feast.
The dossier was opened by...
645 reads
1 Comment
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
14th Apr 2015 10:20pm
14th Apr 2015 10:20pm
Life Arc Interchange
So I was not too far off the mark with this, excerpted from our last long exchange:
“You do have material for a memoir. Dunno, maybe stabbed and left for dead, bleeding out on the table? Or possibly a ruptured main artery and bleeding internally? Car or motorcycle accident possibly, where you were at fault, or not, and almost wound up in jail even after almost dying? For something you didn’t do? A gun fight? Knife fight? Bar brawl with broken beer bottles? Desperately trying to defend the innocent (as you would surely do) but wound up misunderstood? Attacked in the street while you...
“You do have material for a memoir. Dunno, maybe stabbed and left for dead, bleeding out on the table? Or possibly a ruptured main artery and bleeding internally? Car or motorcycle accident possibly, where you were at fault, or not, and almost wound up in jail even after almost dying? For something you didn’t do? A gun fight? Knife fight? Bar brawl with broken beer bottles? Desperately trying to defend the innocent (as you would surely do) but wound up misunderstood? Attacked in the street while you...
663 reads
0 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
10th Apr 2015 8:22pm
10th Apr 2015 8:22pm
I felt a rush in the lucid madrugada, but it was only peaceful intrusion
I felt a rush in the lucid madrugada, but it was only peaceful intrusion.
Evening grape arbor, sipping pisco-sour, planning the next day in Providencia
in the western shadow of Aconcagua.
Taking the metro, claiming my space in the tunnel, looking up to see;
Pausing, glancing a solemn sacrament with the rest of the rushed.
There were buses, there were taxis, there were beggars in the street.
Ice cream vendor boys and musicos, and clowns with a frown elbowing the steady urban beat.
Boys in the fountains certainly get their respite from the arid summer...
Evening grape arbor, sipping pisco-sour, planning the next day in Providencia
in the western shadow of Aconcagua.
Taking the metro, claiming my space in the tunnel, looking up to see;
Pausing, glancing a solemn sacrament with the rest of the rushed.
There were buses, there were taxis, there were beggars in the street.
Ice cream vendor boys and musicos, and clowns with a frown elbowing the steady urban beat.
Boys in the fountains certainly get their respite from the arid summer...
684 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
2nd Apr 2015 9:23pm
2nd Apr 2015 9:23pm
Let’s see. Three police patrols
Let’s see. Three police patrols; One SUV type, one sedan, probably a later Crown Vic, and the other a Ford pick-up truck. Lots of lights, a German Shepherd or some sort of police/military working dog; could be fierce if provoked or at the appropriate word from its handler. All bets are off if let off of the leash. Inside the patrols there is an arsenal of semi-automatic A4’s with the requisite 5.56 ammunition. For now though, the police are safe enough with their Beretta 9 mm semi-automatic sidearms. Rainy and a bit blustery cold mid spring late night in and around, I will guess, Taftville,...
679 reads
1 Comment
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
1st Apr 2015 9:00pm
1st Apr 2015 9:00pm
Ghosts tell the farewell tales
Witness this flowing fleeting reverent memory
weaving these generations across the sea air;
This sacred solemnity, this ethereal ecstasy
remembering faint shadows of the Bridge Staley,
threading this unbroken call. Was it merely a prayer?
Witness this flowing fleeting reverent memory.
Hear the ghosts of the Ashton legacy
spin fond affinity for the Bergamot tea, where
this sacred solemnity, this ethereal ecstasy
tell the farewell tales of emergent discovery.
And England’s grandson from this shore...
weaving these generations across the sea air;
This sacred solemnity, this ethereal ecstasy
remembering faint shadows of the Bridge Staley,
threading this unbroken call. Was it merely a prayer?
Witness this flowing fleeting reverent memory.
Hear the ghosts of the Ashton legacy
spin fond affinity for the Bergamot tea, where
this sacred solemnity, this ethereal ecstasy
tell the farewell tales of emergent discovery.
And England’s grandson from this shore...
641 reads
3 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
1st Apr 2015 5:36pm
1st Apr 2015 5:36pm
A Distant View of Empire
He did not hear it. He did not know at the time that that half step was in fact a drop, and by a fraction missed the mark which would have ushered him into another environ...no, but he went on with his life altogether programmed in this supposed realm all the same. A guild chorister at “Smokey Mary’s”, he spent his days in study, and solemn song. And he always carried with him the scent of that sweet smoke in the infinity after Evensong. The distant view of Empire was not real in the distance, nor were the cracks in the sidewalk of this precinct. To him it was dissonant dreamscape and sacred...
725 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
30th Mar 2015 8:33pm
30th Mar 2015 8:33pm
Don your blessed high halo
Trans-romanian gitana, suerte y buena fortuna.
Twenty-five cents a palm.
Beware her silver crucifix carried;
cursed and tarnished, no inocencia.
Tea and Lady fingers are not in her cards;
only gnarled bitter shadow intent.
There is mystery Armenia fog following
from Eastern Europe in that lineage.
Far from the Caucasus, cross roads of diaspora,
only now on the New World's streets.
Keep your eye open for what may come to pass.
Don your blessed high halo, sing your sacred psalm.
Twenty-five cents a palm.
Beware her silver crucifix carried;
cursed and tarnished, no inocencia.
Tea and Lady fingers are not in her cards;
only gnarled bitter shadow intent.
There is mystery Armenia fog following
from Eastern Europe in that lineage.
Far from the Caucasus, cross roads of diaspora,
only now on the New World's streets.
Keep your eye open for what may come to pass.
Don your blessed high halo, sing your sacred psalm.
505 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
30th Mar 2015 8:05pm
30th Mar 2015 8:05pm
Gesture prayer extempore
The fog horn would sound even during the clear,
and long in the night a train whistle lingered...
Land lost between Boston and New York along the dark coast.
There is still time to be lost in it, to hear
Those Seekers-of-truth, who give up the faith, or go through
a long “Dark Night of The Soul”.
Don’t stray too far. There is a bog and you will disappear.
I was startled by the somnambulant. Who’s there?
Garbled confused conversation scare.
So I made the sign of the cross at the door as I left for the day;
Angel to stand guard, I...
and long in the night a train whistle lingered...
Land lost between Boston and New York along the dark coast.
There is still time to be lost in it, to hear
Those Seekers-of-truth, who give up the faith, or go through
a long “Dark Night of The Soul”.
Don’t stray too far. There is a bog and you will disappear.
I was startled by the somnambulant. Who’s there?
Garbled confused conversation scare.
So I made the sign of the cross at the door as I left for the day;
Angel to stand guard, I...
640 reads
1 Comment
DU Poetry : Submissions by bwilde
