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Ram Varma Mar 2015
Those eyes
Those bewitching eyes
Enamor me no end

Aqua cool
They tug at my soul
In their depth I blend

Besotted by them, I am
They leave me in a jam
My emotions I can’t mend

Crimson is her hue
The eyes, aqua blue
I guess that’s the trend

If I confuse you
You should see her too
You will comprehend

If I had eyes like those
You too would drift from prose
As I did for this Twitter friend

If I were another man
I’d have a different plan
To be forever content!
© Ram Varma @TheRKVarma
Bardo Jul 2020
Out of a **** he made Great Art
It was no ordinary **** no!
It was straight from the heart, that
It had lain too long in the dark
Now was it's time to start
To make its bid for freedom... and for stardom.

It flew like a dart that **** from the
Like an arrow strung from Cupids
Little did it know how luminous it'd
Becoming one of the Greats in the
   Farting Canon.

It was probably the greatest **** poem
   ever written
In my own humble opinion
It was very daring and it smelt of
It was certainly the fairest fartiest
   poem I ever seen
If it was one of the three Musketeers
It would have to have been

It inflated like a balloon, blew up like
   a great glass bubble
Then it popped and headed off
   toward England
Flying further afield than any ****
   had ever flown
It touched people's hearts, bewitched
   every nation
Resounded around the world
Yea! was heard in every Kingdom.

It flew long, it rounded the Horn
Like a Lark, that ****, it soared and
It was no boring old ****
It was far fartier and fruiter than that
It was a King of Farts
Way above the fartiest of farters and
   all the farting Arthurs
It was the real King Arthur
The King Arthur of all farts and

A real Belter was that **** that came
   from the heart
That had all the Angels singing in
   their cloisters,
A real work of Art just like Mozart
Or remember... remember your
"Hark! A ****, a ****! Whereforth art ?
    Thou ****"
It played its part, that ****, yea! it
   wielded its Excalibur.

O! there's nothing I'd rather do than lie here blowing sweet bubbles next
   to you
You! on your little flutey flute flute and
   Me! on my big Bass Trombone.
This is the sequel to my other **** poem "Music a la Toilette". A bit of silliness/ fun.
Madison Apr 2020
distractions are allowed
even when fire controls your tongue
bewitching in its sway
there’s little space for embarrassment
relentless in its tide
in yearning, you recoil
I very rarely title my poetry. When I title I feel like I am leading my reader to much. I want the reader to be able to experience the poem in their own way.
annh Sep 2019
Bright anime eyes,
Cat-astrophically bewitching;
Forty winks required.

‘In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.’
- Terry Pratchett
Via the phone
When I heard your voice
Having a friendly tone--
At long last you have won--
My diffidence and anxiety gone
An electrifying ecstasy
Charged my heart's zone,
Who fate was
To ceaselessly lament and moan.

The vein inundating feeling
You evoked, anon,
Percolated down to every bone
To each love thirst
To atone!
At last she started to respond to Sms & and phone
drawing the ladies in*
by plying a magnetic charm
the guy possesses
quite an alluring arm

no woman can resist
his pulling potency
that is set on the
highest frequency

he engages a strong
bewitching spell
to motion the females
into enticement's well

a most beguiling
magic he'll employ
in riveting the gals
onto his alloy

the gent's power
is so forceful of zeal
captivating women
*with a striking appeal
Snigdha Banerjee May 2015
I am from the seasons
That never ends
They repeat their memories
Repeating them selves
Dead branches white snow
Blue sky the sun’s glow
Red leaves the winds blow
Green grass the river’s flow
These bewitching seasons enamor me no end
Memories tug at my soul
In their depth I blend
Besotted by seasons I am
They leave me in jam
Clocks turn, Seasons change
Memories and moments one can’t exchange
Accepting each season
Approaching each moment
I breathe in cold frigid air
And exhale warm clouds
Seasons are happy
Seasons are sad
Seasons are beautifully mad
I am from the seasons
That never ends
They repeat their memories
Repeating themselves.
Well had to write something for school online magazine !
Ivy Rose May 2014
I love to watch you sing in your car.

The way you play invisible pianos and guitars.
The way you scream out all your favorite lines.
The way your face tells the story of the music.

I love to watch our hands.

When they are interlocked and unbreakable.
When they search for one another constantly.
When they run over each others bones.
When they pull our bodies closer together.

I love to watch us.

Becoming one.
Becoming something more.
Becoming better than before.

And when you reach for me in the dark of your car, singing out the words of one of our songs, just to find me missing.

Know that I am saturated in the lyrics you scream, and the fingerprints on your window.


— The End —