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Man Aug 2023
Laissez-faire and free,
Nothing bothers me in
Bohemian living.

Fruit fresh plucked,
On the grass with the bees
Relaxing and eating.

Read a play, finish a novel
See what's up with sister
See what's up with father

Laissez-faire and free,
Why are you so worried
That I'm not worrying?
Bongha Lee Apr 2021
I ripped out of the old tavern
Into the torn indigo overcoat
And traveled under the porticoes of a billion fantastic stars
To celebrate this marvelous November night.

In the labyrinth of bricks and stones
I hum and whistle the Irish song
Like a singer before the orchestra, my multitudes.
How exquisite—Avec un plaisir de génie—is my peripatetic existence!
Lungs full of air, and I see the Muse in me.

My treasured newsboy cap from a thrift shop spins on my hand,
And my feet bubbles off the floor like soda pops.
I pray my gratitude to the one above the altar
For my indomitable freedom. Amen.

A pocket change rolling, bikes uninhabited, and lampposts perpetual.
A rolled cigarette wantonly leaned between my sticky lips.
Autumnal dews wetted my forehead like spiriting wine.
And while, scarf blowing, boots tattered,  
I raised my odalisque eyes heavenward
The world pixelated above my moist eyes
Like a seabed of jewelry stars
Please critique this.
Rhys Hebbs Oct 2020
There are those who live out their days dangerously
and walk along a knifes edge in search of electricity.
They abandon known reason within decisions
for their inner vision is addicted to ambition.
If they find their soul is far from fully grown
they’ll bravely set out upon that road alone
and mystify cemented minds with the gravity of their finds.
These are the ones who will change our ageing-ancient ways
with a saviours grace unlike those who are growing within their graves.
Norbert Tasev Apr 2020
It could easily be that you will also be like this: you will be expelled, a bohemian-cheerleader, a ***** of cafes, a bed of potato bags and tombstones listening in their hermitage! Disappointed with a frustrated being-writhing, - your faith stops as a balloon jacket crumpled in the door of small civic salons! "You couldn't be smarter than knowing they were ****** here."
The play of the great scams was certainly about you - your free verses, labeled unsaleable, were densely ground by human, forgetful, tyrannical reason. In the shadow-friendly dungeon of coffee table tables, there is hardly a friend who is really interested in who can help you.

Welded prejudices surround you, set fire to you, and smoke - You know: Almost nothing has become easier, more satisfied, and happier with a decent civic occupation! Your childish soul, who is eagerly demanding in the bloodthirsty swords of critics of sleepless wrestling: You could easily walk like a bohemian cavalier

cursed as a ghost, like a cheap conscience beheading itself on the shores of Kharon’s barge: a shivering country of the dead, a peaked-backed Tantalos-fearer will not accept! Do paper baskets calculate your quantity yields instead of competent members?

Did blind luck alone win or squander? Human morality has long since departed from you! A dubious, fair-boy, comedian-like boy who emerges among the temporary sons-in-law struggles on dubious jancsis! - Robot minutes baptized with eternity moving on a chain: Working to the point of a nail is futile,

for the wages of starvation: When can you enjoy the fallen early and rotten treasures of Being? The mountains that testify will call you: The message of eternal Immortality is only One: To stand as an unshakable rock, as a last bastion, in a season of valiant, man-trying needs.
Where's the hug I've needed in the hard moments?
Only verses embrace my mental instability.
I would wish some super escape ability,
But I've lost even the power to wish...

No hope for the Bohemian...
What meaning does this phrase hold?
My lone madness has finally driven me mad,
Every line is sad, mad, bad that ever I had had, "had".

Ambiguous doubts assure my hopeless future goals.
Every step of mine has fallen in pity pit-holes,
But a writer easily accepts what is written...
What is waiting for the Bohemian?
Aawatef Sep 2019
A boho hemmed into a perfect circle
Misunderstood and invisible
Where everyone goes right, he prefers left
The is told he is bereft

They force him to fit in
But how can he?
He is like oil in water, a hippie in suit quarters
His free spirit just won's blend in

They hammered and bent him to belong
But turns out he has been a misfit all along
For his spirit demands to be vivid and vibrant
In a rather monochrome circle, it is a tyrant

His heavy heart needs to let it all out
His thoughts, his dreams and all his doubts
His is a white noise, he seems very far out
Everyone is deaf to this boho's screams and shouts
We are all different pieces. Forcing that piece to fit somewhere it doesn't just won't work. Be yourself
ALesiach Jul 2019
Gypsy sits under the twinkling starlight,
of a fierce love she sings into the night,
but never a lover is in sight.
Will you be her lover?

Gypsy fades to a gentle slumber.
Will her dreams be light or thunder?
Will they dwell on life's duress
or a lover's sweet caress?
Will you be her lover?

Gypsy can freeze you, put you on ice
or she can take you to paradise.
Do not forget to hold on tight
or into the abyss you will slip at twilight.
Will you be her lover?

Gypsy stirs in the morning light,
her dreams are gone like mist in sunlight.
Did you read the message in her eyes?
She will be waiting in the night.
Will you be her lover?

ALesiach © 09/19/2014
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