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Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Shaken in a real sense by L.E.L. ie Letitia Elizabeth Landon/Mrs. Mclean's fate:  immensely popular



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXIV)


I'd boyfriends, even kissed until that sense
Of ecstasy was buried sans avail
With gradeschool's innocence, but never'd scale
The actual height of love 'til Nigel thence
Took me in hand to teach my soul from whence
It sprung, though all in vain; where TyKlee'd hail
Me at my mother's tomb to steal in frail
Excuse my shattered heart betrayed fr'intents.
And now that Les taught me French kissing fer
Sheer moments of keen passion, none yet "knew"
Lo, me:  I'm still a ******.  Thieves in tour
Stole off, what? bits and pieces.  Naught e'er woo
But they are false, yea, scoundrels.  Love is poor.
I, as a violet, fade with silver dew.

11Mar19d
... in her own lifetime and since forgotten, while artists by definition are forever worth more dead than alive, the price she paid to attain that fame stirred this.
NOTE:  They all have this idea that the term signifies a desire to be despoiled, whereas it actually means a person who's saving themself for one and one only.
Here, check this out for taste:  [https://boltonptr.wixsite.com/petersunsungspheres/improvisatrice]
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Keats swooned over a world that never was, except in dreams, and I've no use for that.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXIII)


In lieu of aught we know:  blue skies t'avail
Sans blot of clouds 'til puddles mirror thence
Heavn's eye...take up the chalice to drink hence
That fragrant draught which yields as if to scale
More heady visions than we've drunk, t'exhale
Like sailors on the faerie seas, pretense
Our dainty meat; as lovers swoon for sense
Oer plighted troth, not as we know; sans bail.
Go into raptures likeas Keats would stir
And Byron knew to write, as Shelley drew
Up in his Ode, faint cuz ye know in tour
What minstrels sang in ballads, weaving to
Effect those silken strands to snare souls fer
The Devil's heights.  Cuz what we have won't do.

11Mar19c
NOTE:  Who knows of L.E.L. ie Letitia Elizabeth Landon?  I prefer reality though it's far too shallow.
Nis Dec 2018
Lluvia sobre paragüas mojados,
sed de semilla de amor;
la caída del otoño
resuena en la profundidad de la nada
y soy yo
pero no hay nadie.

//

Rain on wet umbrellas,
thirst for seed of love;
Fall's fall
echoes in the depth of nothingness
and it's me
but there is noone.
It doesn't sound too good in English I think, but that's just my opinion.
eF Dec 2018
I wish that I could go back,
Erase the pain I felt.
Everyday seems like a mission,
With the cards that I’ve been dealt.
We all live in pain baby,
Just admit it for yourself.
Despite my current attitude,
That’s hanging on the shelf.
Um yeah.
Hi.
Jenny Gordon Nov 2018
...say--whatever, nor how to say "ghastly" with another word.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCVII)


O how the gutter drools in morning's pale
And ghastly eye, leaves fluttring down from hence
In lonely ones or twos, so yellow, whence
Look how November lays a carpet, hale
Aye golden, thick and musty, whose detail
Glows dimly under grey racks' twilight, dense
Calm is't? mair bitter than our souls fr'intents
Like, while Death stares us in the face sans bail.
Trees' naked boughs stretch upward as winds stir
The fallen with a careless hand.  We do
Not look, but with faint shivring as it were,
Pull sweaters closer, hang up lights to woo
Warm feelings as the strands blink through this poor
Light, and rain weeps sans consolation, blue.

06Nov18a
*lifts brows inquisitively* Hmm?  Was there something else to add?  I forget what....
Nis Jul 2018
Mi corazón y el océano son polos opuestos,
por eso en mi corazón lo siento.
Me llora cada noche por no verme,
me grita con tormentas su añoranza.

Yo también añoro al océano
y de mis ojos surgen lágrimas saladas,
sal de océano.
Mi corazón se rompe y él lo sabe,
el océano lo sabe todo.
Sabe su soledad y sabe la mía
y sabe que estamos destinados a encontrarnos.

//

My heart and the ocean are opposing polea,
that's why in my heart I feel it.
It cries me each night to see me,
it cries with storms its longing.

I long the ocean too
and from my eyes salty tears emerge,
ocean's salt.
My heart breaks and it knows it,
the ocean knows it all.
It knows its loneliness and it knows mine
and it knows we are destined to meet.
Something in between the dysphoria caused by the beach and my closeness to suicide by drowning in the ocean.
trf May 2018
I herd these sheep in the silence of the lambo
I process trees into paper, smokin' ammo
A solo man on a mission like I'm rambo
Ernst and Young's got my ***** laundry handled.

I can tell you ride high
In Telluride skies
As the crow flies
From a perch with wide eyes

Pour out a fifth of Bacardi
When you're surrounded by lies
Flush them out like John Gotti
Ice picks their demise.

Yea, rest in peace
You heard me twice, I didn't blink
Counting sheep
Your contract's ceased, I signed the ink
Time to sleep
I raise a glass to have a drink
I kissed your cheek
Rats don't have time to think.

I can tell you ride high
In Telluride skies
As a crow flies
From a perch with wide eyes

Pour out a fifth of Bacardi
When you're surrounded by lies
Flush them out like John Gotti
Ice picks their demise.
Ya gotta love the lyrical stew of poetry in rap songs sometimes. Throw humble out the window and ball till ya fall. Hahahaha. This fun had to be done
Jenny Gordon Apr 2018
Yes?


(sonnet #MMMMMMMXLVIII)


White gloves, a new dress lace and ruffles thence
Adorned, white stockings too, and that detail
Of patent leather Mary-janes to scale--
I was in grade-school, but for all intents
Felt grown-up cuz I'd bought those shoes, a sense
Was't? of erm, choosing 'non my wardobe hale
Proof being not yet a teen could yet avail
O, children of that feature was't? and hence?
Tis Easter Sunday 'gain, and not sae poor
At that cuz lo, it's April Fools now too.
So laugh at me since I kin still bestir
Vague memries of that childish grandeur's view
On life, safe in my parents' care, t'assure
You now that Easter's heathen, tis.  And you?

01Apr18a  (posted on allpoetry.com for their one-a-day thingy)
Seriously.  I could swear aka Kevin wanted us to tell how or whatever about writing this poem for the month-long venture, and therefore mulled.  I wanted to begin with easter being april fools, but rolling the wording across my tongue, could not find a fit until I recalled that one warm Easter Sunday when I felt too proud over those white gloves and my patent leather mary-janes which still fit (musta bought them with my birthday money 5 months earlier), and there you have it.  I guess.
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