#npmmeta
slipping in her wet painted petal
bitten by the sting of his bee
her first time, he fumbles being gentle
excitement dancing in his driving need
instinctively possessed
arcing her hips experimentally
his maleness sweetly carressed
teasing his need, tremendously
each submersion in her sweetness
peaking waves swelling in her breast
entwining rhythmic explosiveness
pulsating gush, plunging over the crest
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master. They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach. Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating. Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?
Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man. And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
The
Internet
Is the wild west
Of the modern era, with
Vast, open space, laws with few sheriffs
Fights between groups rights and religious beliefs
Unknown connections waiting, and some rustler's crime rings
And a presence of *** overlooked when this is taught to kids
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
A simile is like a metaphor.
A metaphor is a similie,
Except if it forgot "like" or "as"
A similie is like checkers,
The rules are simple, easy to follow.
A metaphor is chess,
Complex and intricate.
Think of a simile as the store brand
A metaphor is the name brand
Of anything.
Metaphors are tests for the mind,
They make you visualize
Bear Mountain.
Similies are like little suggestions,
They point you in the right direction,
The Mountain was big like a bear.
Both important,
Both fun!
I like similies
Metaphores are love.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
Her life had acquired coffee flavour
and she didn't like to be that bitter
She wanted someone with sweetener
To make her life taste better
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
*The Morning Sun
In Orange Hues
A Spilt Volcano
The Molten Lava
Paints The Blue Sky.
The Afternoon Sun
The Lava down with The Magma
Blazing Hot
Fumes Over The Mellowed Sky.
The Evening Sun
Stepping down
In Vermilion hues
Ready for New horizons
The Vivid Sky welcomes The Moon.*
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
.
*“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is - infinite.”
― William Blake*
.
In this room
Drowning,
In ocean flesh,
Our days, replay,
With eyes cut
Out under sheet
Of stars. All is
Not real, screened
For a soul, lost
On the dry lands
We bury ourselves
In.
One day we shall
Wake into the sun,
And bathe in the light
Of unbridled constellation
And voids deeper than
Life, holy and actual
Like drowning flesh,
Come, alive in sky,
Lit by eternal sheen,
Lost memories, grace,
Being burn, new sparkle,
Cast to air, as embers preen.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
there is a girl
who's dark skin glistened
like stars in the night
her eyes
flash crazy
like the dazed sun
she craves attention
and love
feelings strong-
a hungry wolf inside a docile sheep
she wants to be understood---
heard--
loved upon-
her expressions like
sand
ever changing
in the turbulent wind
her hair cascades
on her back
like a sea of
fluttering moths
she seeks to please
such self-sufficient desires
what shall be her remedy?
her eyes remain
hollow
like gaping wounds-
a scab undone
her forehead,
a canvas of ash
a dark horse
of old
conceal a heart
of time's own
she is empty
in soul
her body
a pristine cat
she wishes to please
but how can she?
if she remains
the servant of her past
(b.d.s.)
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
An Inca Dove flies to and fro
Landing graceful in my yard
Grist for any poet, bard
Her cooing soft and low.
Warm gray body, flash of wing
Whatever does she do?
I see her as her task ensues
She does a constant thing.
Back and forth the small bird flies
Of this I can attest
She pulls grass for her small nest
Right before my eyes!
I've been sitting here for hours
Thinking on my dreams
Lazily, or so it seems
For that bird builds her tower!
She goes by instinct, like the ant
Who burrows in the soil
Ever constant with her toil
'Til she would sit and pant!
While I do nothing in my seat
She flies away, and then
She comes for grasses yet again
Until her nest's complete!
Would that all the warring nations
Sit down to agree
To make the people warring-free
With such dedication!
Emulate the gentle dove
She slaves to rear her young
She works away and softly sung
Her song of purest LOVE.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/18/2017
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
He thinks she shines bright
But all she does is reflect
the light he exudes
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC
Emotions I feel are just like clumsy words,
And my brain smells like a bookstore.
My dreams are like one-winged birds,
Like expert detectives with nothing to look for.
.-. --- .... .--. .- - . --
My opinions, unbiased and unheard,
Are heavy yet biting, like the strike of a claymore.
My comforts aren't all empty words,
Understanding and kindness are all I aim for.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
we’ve traded knowing apples with
lush green mothers of cadmium
and fiberglass
veins of copper,
silver, and gold
siliconed our brains to currents
of controlled thunder
we ****** flat breasted,
hand-sized puddles of glass like
only lesbians and lonely wives
can wish for
iron our souls out
in selfies of people
we wish we were
epoxied our hearts to
shallow resins of hope
we’ve
followed polyester roads
of truth
have we forgotten the
simple flesh of carbon?
the
naked
nitrogen
of our belly buttons?
the
happy
hydrogen
of our eye lids?
the
oxygen of ******
**** me not
with metals of progress
but with
ancient odes of
skin and calcium
teeth
i’ll take the devil of
old
over this
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 3:17 AM UTC
*I left the room,
Feeling like a* million bucks.
*But once I closed the door behind me,
A* gust of wind came by
& blew me away...
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
As the blanket of stars
Light up the sky
Here I drown
In ocean of works
Mountain of papers
Piled in my table
Waves of emails
Left me miserable
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
.
Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master. They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach. Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating. Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?
Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man. And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.
.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
They eat her eyes,
they drank her soul.
I buried flowers with hearts in the grave. The crows find their blood.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
Carried home from a family occasion
and placed in the icebox,
slowly slid to the back of the fridge
as leftover moments fight for space
near the front.
Styrofoam predictions
of life after childish ambitions
are accidentally neglected
and left to spoil,
unattended and tempted
with wayward growth.
You may find them again,
rummaging through,
making space,
or maybe just looking for something
you thought you lost.
Long since forgotten,
the ideas molded
over the ages of a chilly
adolescence,
and what might have been promising
is now indistinguishable and unusable.
A small, unaffected edge may remind you
Of its purpose in a past life
and you’ll sigh
as you change the trash liner
to accommodate another failure.
You sometimes wonder
What you may have missed
piling so many options
only to be forgotten until they’re rotten.
It doesn’t help any
to be the one who has to retrieve it.
see what it is,
know what it was...
a subtle, sneaking certainty
of what it could’ve become.
more and more often, it’s too early
to stomach the sun
and you find the day
has begun without you,
as if it doubts your commitment
to present tense.
Still, you continue along hanging
from a precarious
cable car of ambivalence,
waving at each opportunity missed
as it passes you by,
your eyes
idly on the sky.
"Next time, next time"
You mutter
"Next time I'll give it a try."
C.e.M.
2.17.15
Edited 4.18.17
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
You are like a rain,
Sometimes pleasant, gentle soft.
Sometimes unseasonably heavy.
You are like a night,
Sometimes moonlit, misty.
Sometimes extremely dark and cold.
You are like dream,
Sometimes blissful and romantic.
Sometimes bizarre, incomprehensible.
You are like a talk,
Sometimes heart-to-heart.
Sometimes ribald, scurrilous.
You are like a wind,
Sometimes gentle.
Sometimes strong gusty.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
She’s a rotten apple,
shiny and waxed,
full of appeal.
Peel her up,
and you’ll find
a girl past her prime.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
in your bed, i dance
your eyes-my disco ball
your breath-my song
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
Her hibernation was a drought.
If I'd known that I would have drowned too,
But now I'm left awake
Thinking of everything I've been put through,
And then I'll fall asleep in my own sort of tomb.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
A wind passed, and roused my lethargic mind
then, i noticed golden yellow leaves
starting to drop from the money tree.
as a young girl, i recall chasing leaves falling
careful not to let them touch the green grass.
i pondered on my own invented game...do i run?
to catch, or not to catch.....even one leaf
was a child's dilemma...that became mine,
for, a leaf falling, is a poem, starting...
a love...blooming....or, an elusive one
or one that's struggling...
after a fall, comes the rising...where
something should be bravely emerging,
this is the time, when tamed, unnamed feelings
suddenly, become verses, sliding from the tongue,
mind is active, hand is alive, pen hurriedly writes
the soon-to-be-born poem,
...the one hashtagged...chased...or sought.
a word, a name, a face forgotten, now remembered,
a love...that is fading, or falling out,
all these should be held, grabbed...captured!
before they truly escape from our grasp
or, be blown further away...by a cold, autumn wind
...and leave us drowning, in a stream of regret...
Sally
Copyright April 19, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:30 AM UTC
She is a moth to flames,
fluttering so beautifully.
The night's light sparks her heart,
pumping doses of adrenaline.
**Thump..
Thump Thump
Thump**
Pulsing.
Music booming, cocktail burning;
an Orange Twist in her hand.
*Hey baby, can I get you another?
******* You fine as hell!
Hey cutie, wanna dance?*
Yes, she is a moth to flames,
always fluttering so blindly.
***** scalds her tongue and down her throat;
confused yet she twirls in the blaze.
The strands of her life unravel into
another unfamiliar home,
with another unfamiliar face.
The smell of white lies lined across the table,
a familiar friend to ignite her heart's beat.
**Thump..
ThumpThumpThump**
Pulsing.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC