Poems For Planets: Venus

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The second addition to the planetary poetry is here for your studious consumption. These posts are getting more and more educational by the day. Venus has been a real gem to marvel at.

Second from the sun, yet the brightest and hottest, Venus is our subject for the day. In a mythological context, Venus it is linked with Venus (The God) and Aphrodite. These two deities are linked with beauty, love, passion and eternal youth. I had no idea that Venus is the only planet to spin on its axis in the opposite direction to the other planets, just doing her own thing, and copper is her substance. Lets see what kind of sonnet I can whip up for her majesty, iambic pentameter was attempted for this serving.

 

Venus: Sonnet

 

Your bosom bursts with passions potent flare,

Rousing up the verve inside my veins.

You hold my inhibitions well impaired,

Your beauty helps to spark the lovers flames.

 

No rivers run can quench your given power,

Aphrodite, Venus, you are queen.

I dream to drink your touch and never cower

To love, I steep my longing in your stream.

 

What hope is there for mortal men as me?

What hope to paint my worthiness as true?

That crown of copper opulence I see,

Reminds me that Olympus harbors you.

 

You are the brightest smile along in this trail.

You are the burning heart where love prevails.

B.N

 

 

 

 

 

Poems For Planets: Mercury 

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The Solar system, like everything else, is fuel for creative outlet. It can tell story upon story, with angles, stories and legacies tied to every part that has a hand in building the system. This lovely trail of planets starts off with Mercury. For Mercury, mi primera planeta, I dedicate a prose poem.

Mercury, Hermes!

This I write for you!!

 

All is clear now. For all the fire in you, I see why the merchants favor you. Your favor has granted them service so fortifying and fortunate it has doubled the coin that aids their keep. How we bundle and build a bounty of riches has so much to be owed to you.

The intricacies of trickery are the secrets song of which you are bard. The timbre of tall tells, the tone of truth has you in its sinews.

You are first to brace that brazen heat and hold your orbit true. You dare to mingle so closely with the seed of a Titan and tell so well of what is built from Olympus. You speak so as we may eat from the fruits of knowledge. Sealing in a sweet garden the nectar, that on winged foot, is trickled to the ear of those that need it most.

From the first note to the last you know to lead from the lighted world to the shadows depth. Along that narrow trail that tracks to the black you offer guidance. When all has lost its stay with the light, to Pluto and Hades you lead. The far reaches of plutos face and hades’ shade are no strange terrain to you.

B.N

Walking Through Space!

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I didn’t know how to put this forward or make it clear, but here it goes. I’m going to be making some noise in this little space of mine for a little while. I’m working on a little series for the poetry fans who wonder this way, hopefully it will be for fans of any kind of written work. This is something to get me playing with style a little bit more, keep me in touch with the blogger-sphere and fellow writers, I’m calling it …

Poems for Planets!!

 

Don’t worry, I’m saving the creativity for the actual content, hopefully this allows me a pass on this title.

I’ll open the series on a light note, something to brighten the tone. Here I present to you my opening Haiku.

 

 

Sun Light

 

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heavens bands of fire

Washing the earth with light.

Waiting for winter.

-The Blissful Nomad

 

Stay tuned for the rest of the 9 planets, feel free to play along or share the fun.

 

His Fathers Son

It was around that age

When young soldiers begin

To grab hold of the world around them

in hopes of moulding their wings,

That he was met with silence.

That echoes cackled,

Crackling against the walls

Of his mother’s house,

Whispering secrets that speak with

The knowledge of a world that

Lived Before the empty rooms and picture frames.

Before home was a safe space for two,

And he woukdnt think twice

about befriending the stranger half of his name.

You see

For Little man….

Father was “him”,

a string of tales told, then cut cold,

Once he was old enough to shoulder the hymns.

Hed follow the djinn

Into whirls of make believe

to prise the gospel of a ghost from the relics

That littered their home.

An old watch,

A broken guitar and

his mother’s broken smile.

She sang sweetness into a stale story of kinship.

Sip by sip

Offering peace

A lucid liquors of speach

To Blur the lines of a character

Long since removed from action

Too broken a fraction to make whole

Every story told

Seemed mightier than the man frozen behind the frames

Folded under her tongue was a name

She learned to handle with care.

She sang

A crooked verse.

She sang

To settle his soul.

Sang to settle his soles,

His feet,

Were teeth,

Chewing up ever mile of yarn she spun,

Pacing to piece together pictures

Of the world before the silence.

She sang to seal the silence.

Singing

Until the sliding scales of her fiction

Settled into soured notes

And silence choked her diction

A friction yoked her

victim to the boats we rock

When we venture out in search of new worlds

The sickness of a sea

Sewn into peaks and valleys

She would have gladly kept hidden.

But still,

He was always the last one dancing when the music stopped

Always the last one sipping at the bittersweet tonic,

Of a time gone by.

Not yet introduced to the weight of the morning after the fact.

His mother

mused in melodies fraught with confusion,

Tracing her notes with care to show his father was no illusion.

Yes his father always moving,

And its hard to pin down shooting stars,

Just to save him something to wish for.

The Cadences in her carry ons of this phantom faced kin,

We’re wild with dissonance,

clouding his innocence,

Sometimes

I think,

she thought

He was him.

Because

He has his eyes, they say,

He has his lies,

they say,

He has his,

spirit,

but there is nothing in it

Because he can’t remember his ways.

The man was a fugitive.

Always on the run.

Avoiding in laws, never involved in trials,

Slipping into the night seeking solace in gile,

he knew the exits well.

Exit wounds swelled with reasons for his

leaving and never knowing him well.

The cloak and dagger deviant, cut the holes in family ties.

He left a home that taught the bond that only family ties.

You see

For Little

Father was always “him”,

a string of tales, told, then cut cold,

When I was old enough to shoulder the hymns.

But

He will be always tied to his truth.

He is his father son,

And everyday I worry what that would means for him.

Because

He has MY eyes they say

But shouls he should have MY lies

They say he has MY spirit

But there is nothing in it

If I cannot show him the way.

I have paraded with patch work pride

So as to hide my broken half.

Walking the four corners

To fork honour

Into a mouth full of words I can share

With this budding king

Blood and kin of a fool

I wish I knew

How a jester can do just

To be a gesture of love and legacy.

He’s been looking for a father,

I have been looking for sense.

I have shattered so many memories

In his mother’s heart

Why would I wait and watch start

To paint his pride on they way I did.

Watch my seed twist into the crooked sun

Of his father fire

I am tired

Of watching broken men

Raising broken sons.

I am tired

I am broken

I am “Him”

Breaking the Levy


I found him,

Hiding behind a banner of his newest constructions, scared of his own nature.

Why did the child feel he had to be old before his time?
Castrated by the perception of perfection,

let’s lay that myth to rest!

He has volleyed so much life,

yet let his palms soften and grow sterile in the corral of other men’s ideals,

Shunning the practicality of earning his own character.

Forgetting the offals and feasting on the lean meat of popular culture has starved his character from nourishing his own experience.

Judgement is a spectators sport,
The hesitant King will soon be impeached for his lack of actions.

When his council is the key stone of the kingdom what use is the man in his flowery crown.

The ornaments are weighing him down.

The crowd was safe in there assumptions,

they sedated the river inside this man and taught themselves well in the art of levying the wash.

Breach!

There is water in the streets!

Breach !

There is life inside his eyes!

Breach!

In comes the tide of a long restrained soul,

drowning out the cries of crowd uninitiated.

Welcome to my river run!!
(c) Saili Katebe