Writing: Thy Divine Light / Pissed Poems

by Beauchamp Art

I – LW


Thine radiance ist the eternal dawn,

Sun clipped clouds and endless sky,

with shortest night behind,

and longest day ahead,

striving till dusk comes once again,

and thee turn sky familiar vermilion,

and summer zephyrs cast cold our and wrap the day in thine warmth.




Thou art the full moon above inky night,

colouring bright shadows below in a magnificent monochrome that

seems like a spectrum unrefined,

beyond the limits of the eye’s lens,

with depth and shape as rich as sculpture upon high plinth,

carved marble and pale of complexion,

still vibrant amongst the haze of humanity all about its form,

in awe of its majestic presence.





For only the fairest of flowers,

ever in the finest bloom of spring,

catching the sun’s warm waves like tidal cliffs,

caved by such shifting seas with twisting stem,

blossom of each new day a rose bud,

petals a silk crown,

cupping graceful hands,

turning face ever towards the much sought light,

so long for that every insect is in rapture just to capture its air on the breeze,

perchance to gaze upon it,

and know it’s fullness more than one’s own form.





Thee stroll as a storm in the heavens,

great clouds wrapped in thunderous cry,

from afar thee cast lightning across plains without form,

giving them definition,

shaping each rock in the finest detail.


Ever line refined,

ever curve unearthed,

as a smile twists cheeks in raucous rise,

eyes half close in merriment,

dimples pressed lightly either side of thy supple chin,

if to be held and turned lightly,

to be seen in full illumination.


All its symmetry and subtle alterations between the two mirrored halves,

each unique folding line,

if only a drawing would do it justice,

but never could it be held on lead,

only great in its fleeting glances.