It flows in my veins, against my paper-white face.
The source of my ever unblinking eyes, searching for the pigment I lack in my heart.

...The maiden on your blanks, the maiden on your mind...

Where the ink is smeared and the picture obscure is the place I long to fill.
Utterly empty inside, I cannot cry the tears I long to weep.
Inky tears. Oh, how I yearn to weep. Oh, how I yearn to sleep.


How can I do any of these simple things,
when I am nothing but your simple inky sketch.

...Black sorrowful ink...

Wholly empty, and soulless.

My only possessions are my profound eyes of,


Sally A Bayan Jul 2017

It started with a few strokes,
a pointed charcoal,
pulsed...led by the
thumb and index finger, that
initiated a sway of arcs, the contours
of boyish hair, clinging to the nape
a few short strands on a not so wide
very near...........a pair of
not so bushy eyebrows, under which
stared...peeping, smiling
almond-shaped, brown eyes.
then...followed gentle strokes
of perfect highs and lows
of a
hills, valleys, and softened arcs
shaped and manifested character-
high cheekbones....a pointed,
but softened chin,
suddenly, i was
looking at
full, pouting,
luscious lips.
index finger covered tip, to help
define jaws....then slid down lower,
a slick,
propped up by
a shallow clavicle
and gently shaped  shoulders,
that fool judging eyes and minds
they seem small, and weak
and fragile, but, they can carry
tons of worries...determinedly.
fingers angled, pencil tip slowly careful strokes,
and curved lines,
artfully creating
a valley,
'tween two heavenly mountains,
with pinkish brown crowns
conspicuously tensed at the tops...
pencil moved sure...but,
slow in shaping waist...then curved
on rounded hips..sliding inwards
to the a central point,
essential, fundamental, umbilical.
its surroundings raised, as if to protect
a knotted cord...filled with stories...closed,
atop a slightly fleshy belly...
from there, a short distance downward,
led to a hidden flower
the reason...a cradle...a port,
covered by a triangular shield,
squeezed in between
chubby thighs and legs.
lines went lower, narrower...
shaped a pair of fair feet,
with painted toes
ably supporting
a bare maiden


Copyright July 30, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

...just dabbled...then wrote...
Tyler Castro Jul 2017

Scarlet-haired maiden. Blood-soaked kitten. Our history once bled from my veins. May the ink from my pen be the last drop to leak from my stitches. I have cursed, I have blasphemed, and for what? You are as blind as ever as to what I am saying. It is as if those crows finally got around to doing my bidding. Scarlet-haired maiden, I am but a Jester to call you so. Calling you a maiden is a folly no less disastrous as calling a Siren a fish. Blood-soaked kitten, you dare call yourself such a familiar? Call your fat self a, "Little" in search of a father figure? Hark… You're but a beast rolling around in lovers' blood. Licking the sweet nectar off your soft and welcoming fur. Had I  not known better I'd reach down to the pits of hell just to pet you. I'd risk your curious claws getting at my loose thread. Sadly… I am but a Jester…I lead you back to our old tree. Our shrine where Gaia herself guarded our love. Where I gave you my heart in the form of an odd pedaled flower. To this day, I dare not to let a white Jasmine flower offend my nostrils. Its sour scent will begrudgingly throw me back to sweet—fleeting—moments. Moments where I had you play the "Loves-Me-Not" game whilst utterly ignoring the warning sign of the very NAME of said game. Moments where I was unaware of the very games you were playing.

Carl Halling Jun 2017

One summer’s eve in Spain,
I fled through an open window,
Butterflies aflight
In the very pit of me,
And I tramped the streets,
My heart abrim
With such a love,
But a love now long gone.

With my final matches,
I forged a heart
At that maiden’s doorstep;
I was like a thief,
On that torrid night,
My heart abrim
With so much love,
But a love now long gone.

And what of the maiden in azure?
O! What an inferno raged
Within my soul for her,
But that love
Never bloomed beyond a dream,
My heart abrim
With such a love,
But a love now long gone.

'But a Love Now Long Gone' was written in late June 2017 as a translation of a song, originally penned in French around 2013, itself based on an earlier - autobiographical - song dating from when I was about 19.

on an evening
of bleak winter chill
a lone knight rode
to Bartonleigh hill

stationed there
was his maiden cute
plucking the strings
of an out of tune lute

as she plucked
the rats did cry
never had they heard
such a rumpus lullaby

upon her door
a knocker knocked
it was the lone knight
minus his left sock

oh she said
your foot looks blue
come warm it near
the fire's flaming hue

he quickly placed
his toes by the hearth's side
thence gave a promise
to take her as his bride

Pagan Paul Mar 2017

Walking in the forest was I
when I heard a plaintiff cry
begging me to give her aid
a desperate and 'prisoned maid.

Locked up in a tower was she
all alone with her misery.
“I'll let my long hair down for thee
to climb up here and rescue me”.

I thought this was a little unwise,
a wicked glint tinged my eyes,
a knowing smile, and feeling smug,
I gave her hair a hefty tug.

Down she fell into my arms,
muttering curses, gushing charms.
Over and over we tumbled for fun
rolling about in the midday sun.

I noticed the rip in her dress
so her thigh I did fondly caress.
Respond in kind she promptly felt,
loosening off my trouser belt.

And her father's lock on her chastity
was no match for my skeleton key.
Even though he'd chained the door,
his daughter is a maiden no more.

© Pagan Paul (2017)

Reworked Poem.
Ceyhun Mâhî Jan 2017

Dracula walked a bit after day,
Until he saw really far away
An ugly maiden wearing a cross,
Who never did clean or never floss,
He said: 'Evilness! Don't cross my way!'

In ancient meadows
of green velvet,
the gentle wind
whispers a melody
of lost love...

"On top of Old Pines,
all covered in
moonlit snow,
I lost my true lover,
For i was a bride no more"

-Sweetly singed the
maiden, voice of
nightingale echoes
down where the
blue river swiftly flows

Discordia Huevo Sep 2016

Oh maiden of white,
Don in veil and dress, black as night,
Your voice projects dark tones,
To calm the cries of bright halos.

Oh maiden of white,
You dance under the moonlight,
Your shadow hides the truth,
To expose the lies of the world's boons.

Oh knight of light,
Clad in gear and mail, your face out of sight,
Your bravery showers the evil,
To show your smiles of good will.

Oh knight of light,
You cut through your foes with might,
Giving out an outstretched hand,
To turn every person into your friend.

Oh maiden and knight of white light,
Together you hold hands and fight,
To show the world, light in darkness,
While loving one another relentless.

A poem dedicated to two of my great friends.
Angela Okoduwa Sep 2016

She gasps,
No, a moan
Her hands unconsciously roams,
Ravishing her supple young body.

In the shadows of the room,
Stood her very phantom-
A stark naked god
Whose nudity the nymphs would worship
And watching keenly with silver rimmed eyes, he did.

Offering her erotic images concocted by his immortal mind.
With a gasp, she wakes after a breathtaking orgasm.
In the dark, only his eyes she could see.
Susceptible and drawn to him, she felt.

But out of his back, wings sprout.
Its heavy beats fluttering the white curtains.
And into the night sky he soared,
Never to return again,
To his human lover
Whose dreams he had only existed

He was anonymous.

A Greek god in love with a mortal maiden whom he could only make love to in her dreams.
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