#elegance
Serenely the swan
Through the placid misty lake
With elegance glides.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 9:43 AM UTC
- for my friends
Sally B.
and
Elisa Maria A.
⭐️⭐️⭐️
two poem titles ‘accidentally’ merge,
like twins whose bodies
inexplicably attach,
two differing themes, somewhat contradictory,
bend~merge~blend, and who am I to disagree, because
both were birthed
inside of me and no
muses-dare-to-be-bothered
to ask my permission
~
settle into my spot,
drinking the first mug
of you know what,
for no clarity in my possess
to the exact direction
these compromising contradictory notions
will take us
and
if you desire to accompany me
as we descend to ascend
to the end of this elegiac, rueful,
conception
~
my first incline
was to design
a poem of the absurdity of life’s
daily contra~sensibilities
the absurdity
that we provide protectective services to our “poli”ticians”*
who cannot find the will to overcome their
shame,
for never finding the money
to protect
OUR
children in their sanctuaries of learning;
**** them and their lying thought and prayers!
~
I tremble to control my rage,
for this bleeds into so many of these obvious indelicate
suppositions that the poem might awry,
but one more please,
~
is it wise, productive, to pay the
sports players, the rock’n roll stars
the millions they want /believe they came to earn,
recalling afternoons in the 60’s at Yankee Stadium
when the family units of my youth
could happily in unity
ensconce themselves in bleacher seats at the ball park
and even buy us each by a parental custodian
ALL
of us a seat+&,
a $1.00 hot dog with all the fixings,
for less than the magnanimous sum
of maybe twenty (!) dollars
~
here, I cease and think about elegance,
the tail side of this newly minted coin of
poetry
~
how we worship our bodies exterior,
unappreciative of inner workings so beauteous
and no one’s innards is not acclaimed,
prettier than the next?
the thot sneaks in,
that what ever the M.C.* you worship
made a terrible mistake
by not designing us inside out,
me imaging me admiring the contours of your
liver,
maybe, but whose to say the curves of your
these hearted words from
within, are
“better”
than mine?
~
there is much elegance in this world,
that goes unseen,
granting the anonymity of being taken
for granted,
which why the poets idolizes the fantasies inherent in
nat-ure,
(yes I know they nat-ed it after me)
this gift to us all,
where all unanimous agree
on the universality
of its
incomparably beautiful elegance
beyond anyone’s human ability
~
some of us flip a switch,
turn a faucet,
never wondering how these amazing feats of glory,
water+powet
just ‘happen’
to transpire,
everyday of our lives,
but not for all…
the elegance of the minds
that imagine and then create
the most elegant solutions
is it not contradictory
that the apportioned profits therof
be not at least in part be available to all/
for the greater good,
like our poetry is?
~here I cease~
pleasantly pleased
that one interior heart,
killed two titles,
So now i can get
my second cup
of you know what
and that is
wonderfully,
elegantly
non-contradictory
fini. nml
Apr 27
Apr 27, 2026 at 8:30 AM UTC
Welcome to the masquerade – where charm conceals the sharpest lies.
The world adores its masquerade,
a stage where masks are deftly played.
I glide among them, silk and grace,
a gentle smile upon my face.
They never glimpse the fangs I hide,
the hunger coiled beneath my pride.
I whisper comforts, stroke their fears,
then drink the salt of secret tears.
Deception is my finest art,
I thread my lies through every heart.
A rumor here, a poisoned word –
by dawn, their loyalties are blurred.
Their trust is perfume on my skin,
their downfall tastes like sweetest sin.
I bow, I charm, I lead the dance,
each step a sharpened, lethal chance.
For masks reveal what truth conceals:
that elegance corrupts, and heals.
The world believes the role I play –
and begs me not to go away.
The dance ends, but I remain – your shadow in the masquerade.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 11:41 AM UTC
The sixty degree angle of her soft-leather clad ankle drew my eye. It was relaxed and maintained an elegance that appeared effortless and it was this angle and the over and under of her other leg, with the unwavering support of her angled ankle, that stayed with me, and deposited an unreasonable burden of jealousy and arguably an exaggerated degree of admiration.
Then, with a whisper, she handed her coffee to her companion and unfurled her legs as she withdrew her makeup bag to make herself more human, ridding me of my revelry.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 2:43 AM UTC
The wild branch sits still, heaven protects its own.
The birds fly above preaching of its elegance and demeanor.
The winds blow adhering to its feat.
Hoping even slowly but surely he will be reborn.
But alas, the devil protects its own.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:50 PM UTC
A perspicacity elegantly elegiac
suppositions encroaching penultimate
exacerbated metaphorical heliocentrism.
The embodiment of
"HER"
to me. She is more than my world; she is my star,
and I orbit
her
ablaze, needing oxygen.
Obfuscated, I am all but blinded.
Duration too long for classical infatuation.
The endless daze of paramorphic tautology.
I watch them come and go
shamelessly.
These theogonic vestiges of eidetic suppliance ,
longingly deliquesced into a shameful, sanctimonious, idiosyncratic, aphasic largesse.
My now ouroboric palimpsest.
Acceptance, reckoning, and reasoning digested.
Hallow, hollowed, and not contested.
Beaten and never bested.
They rested.
In a languorous, perturbated nullibiety
: their consanguineous abecedarium,
paralogical and vast,
inexorable umbrage
shared Jungian past,
germinating within the syntagmatic.
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
coalesced to pragmatic,
deleteriously, synoptically emphatic.
A subluminal parataxis.
Recondite deixis of pristine elegiac zeugma.
Manufactured proclivity, evocative perambulations
of stochastic perspicacity.
Somnambular excoriations, altogether inexorable, enigmatically presupposed flippancy, lachrymose.
Elegiac suppositions penultimate metaphorical heliocentrism.
The subsistence off of
"HER"
to me. She is more than A world; she is my event horizon,
and I don't even want to escape
her
precessional satellite.
Stuttering, sweet suffering,
effulgent,
tautological.
Normalcy?
Synesthetic redundancy…
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 3:47 AM UTC
She said, “O Jamil, my soul’s repose,
Thy touch is the flame by which my spirit knows.
Thy hands—so gentle, like petals in spring—
Their warmth is the hush that makes my heart sing.
Thy lips, O’ ruby vessels of desire,
Do burn with thirst, yet breathe with tender fire.
They press to mine in silence deep and blessed—
A storm divine, by sacred calm caressed.
Thine eyes—twin stars in midnight’s velvet dome
In every glance, they call my spirit home.
No word thou speak’st, yet all my soul they stir;
Thy silence sweeter than a minstrel’s lyre.
Thy company unveils life’s radiant grace,
And paints each moment with a softer face.
If thou wouldst let me cherish thy soul, O’ Jamil,
What joy would bloom—what bliss I would feel!
Thou art a grace no mortal hand could weave—
A gift of heaven I scarce believe.
A breath of peace, a love no fate can bend,
A flame, a shrine, my start and solemn end.
Thy nearness binds my soul in soft control—
And leaves no part of me my own, but whole.”
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 2:20 PM UTC
the elegances of minutiae, the grandeur of detail
********
inspired by m vogel
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5097839/airborne-part-i/
&&&&&&&
perhaps, unlikely, unwittingly
your fingertips bring you to a familiarity,
stumbling into a new door, taken by the intricate intrigue of any
of:
name, style, handwriting, overlapping language
and sometimes pure chance, impure luck,
leads one to a poem,
that soddens your soul,
the elegances of minutiae, the grandeur of detail,
the rendering of pain so swelling in a heart,
where loss is everything and then there is
absence,
and though a life can be voided,
a poem is forever,
for it lives in a land of luck of the draw
and you read this poem above,
and you are airborne into a deeper sea depth
that makes the chest arrest, the legs limp,
the intensity of the details
insist one clutches his neck
to ascertain that the choking will not be permanent
this falling into a poem
bedevils me,
and tells me the road ahead
so open, so wide, scarcely touched by
footsteps,
and return you do
for a second tasting, a third emulsion,
and though you leave another's poem,
the heaviness of chest informs yourself,
this is now part of my baggage
that cannot be be ever lost,
but will go round and round
the luggage carousel
till it is your turn
to take it home
Sept. 23, 2025
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 10:31 AM UTC
~ 💋 ~
She speaks in silk,
moves like sin,
Draws grown men like moths within.
A kiss,
a sigh,
a flash of thigh
And just like that, they’re begging why.
She toys with hearts,
delights in screams,
Turns pride to dust,
and love to dreams.
No blood,
no blade,
just one slow lean…
And down it falls,
- the Velvet Guillotine -
~ 💋 ~
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 8:43 AM UTC
O’ Jamil, how exquisitely thou art graced,
A vision formed of light, of time and space.
Thy beauty, like the dawn’s first whispered sigh,
Doth grace the heavens and adorn the sky.
Thine eyes, like pools of sapphire softly gleam,
Reflecting stars and every secret dream.
Each glance a poem, each look a world apart,
A tale of love inscribed within the heart.
Thy lips, like petals kissed by morning’s dew,
Speak truths so gentle, tender, warm, and true.
In every breath, a symphony doth rise,
A melody that lingers 'neath the skies.
O’ Jamil, thou art the moon’s soft glow,
A beauty only illuminating stars and poets know.
Thy form, a work divine, an art, a prayer,
A timeless grace beyond all mortal care.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 6:26 PM UTC
(A Symphony in the Air)
She passed
and the air forgot its name.
A trail of fire, wrapped in flame.
Not footsteps, no… she left a bloom,
a whispered spell, a haunting plume.
Jasmine bruised with midnight spice,
vanilla smoke and crushed device,
amber kissed by ancient lore,
and musk like sin behind a door.
It wasn’t scent, it was a hymn,
a chorus pouring from her skin.
Each note a memory, raw, refined,
a fingerprint the soul designed.
It danced on silk, it clung to bone,
it made the silence overgrown.
You smelled her once, now every room
aches for that ghost…
that perfume.
It wasn’t soft… it struck like wine,
first sweet, then heat, then serpentine.
It woke the dark, it stirred the bed,
it crowned the lips where words had fled.
Men forgot their vows that night.
Women wept with pure delight.
Time itself stood still to breathe
a scent like that will never leave.
It lives in coats, in creaking floors,
on letters slipped through velvet doors.
You lose her, yes - she slips too soon.
But you will always keep her perfume.
May 6, 2025
May 6, 2025 at 11:39 PM UTC
In the dawn of morning’s light,
A name that glows, so pure, so bright,
Chauhan, like a melody sweet,
A beauty no one can defeat.
Her eyes, like stars that softly gleam,
Reflecting every hidden dream,
With every glance, a world unfolds,
A story of grace yet to be told.
Her smile, a ray that breaks the night,
A beacon shining pure and bright,
Her laughter, a song that lifts the soul,
Filling hearts, making them whole.
In Chauhan’s presence, time stands still,
A gentle force, a graceful will,
Her beauty is not just in her face,
But in the kindness, the love, the grace.
A heart as deep as ocean's blue,
A spirit that is strong and true,
Chauhan, the name that brings the dawn,
A beauty forever to carry on.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 2:32 AM UTC
I wonder at her, this vision so rare,
Chauhan moves like a dream through the air.
Her grace is a whisper, soft and profound,
A presence that echoes without a sound.
Her features, a blend of soft and sharp,
A heart-shaped face, with an elegant spark.
High cheekbones, sculpted and bold,
A jawline slender, a story untold.
Her eyes, deep pools of icy black,
So captivating, they pull me back.
A gaze so intense, yet tender and kind,
A mystery hidden, yet so easy to find.
Her complexion fair, a flawless light,
A contrast to the dark, both gentle and bright.
Her hair, so black, cascading with grace,
In sleek waves or loose, a soft embrace.
She moves with an aura, cinematic and strong,
Like something from another time, where dreams belong.
A modern-day siren, with nothing to hide,
Graceful in motion, with elegance as her guide.
Chauhan, a vision of beauty so true,
A muse of wonder, both old and new.
Her presence, a melody, soft yet so bright,
A timeless enchantment, in day and in night.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 2:31 AM UTC
A hush upon the water’s crest,
where morning spills in golden rest,
a figure drifts in light’s embrace—
a dancer poised in fluid grace.
She bends, she sways, a feathered sigh,
her alabaster wings comply,
each ripple waltzes at her feet,
as if the lake and she compete.
No step misplaced, no hurried flight,
she moves as if she weighs but light,
a whisper in the dawn’s repose,
where every motion softly flows.
Yet in the dusk where moonlight wanes,
another shadow breaks the chains.
A glint of coal, a sharpened glide,
a phantom in the silver tide.
Her beauty sings a darker song,
a wilder pulse, both fierce and strong.
No fragile twirl, no measured bow—
she rules the water, here and now.
She cuts the lake with silent power,
the night bends low, the stars turn sour.
A haunting echo in her wake—
a ghost of grace, a breath to take.
One swan to soothe, one swan to strike,
one day, one night, both wrong, both right.
Two echoes spun from fates untold—
one draped in white, one cloaked in gold.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 4:03 PM UTC
She is the verse the heavens sing,
Adorned in red, a royal thing,
A vision cast in twilight's glow,
Where only stars dare softly go.
Her grace, a dance of whispered light,
That turns the dark to purest white,
In her eyes, the galaxies sleep,
In her smile, the heavens weep.
So fair, so bright, so unrefined,
A beauty that both hearts and time confide—
Yet here I stand, in awe I confess,
Captive to her quiet, endless finesse.
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 12:46 PM UTC
Your eyes, like twin stars, do brightly gleam,
Reflecting the sun’s soft golden beam.
A brilliance that no words can fully trace,
A quiet splendour, a tranquil grace.
I, but a humble heart, now make this plea,
O’ charming soul, stay close to me.
Let time pause, its cruel march delay,
And keep you young, forever to stay.
In your gaze, the world finds its glow,
A light that only true love can know.
O’er fleeting years, let not this moment flee—
Stay with me, and in youth, forever be.
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 3:12 PM UTC
Sophistication stems from subtle simplicity
So stop sophisticating simplicity
Silken streams of sense swirl silver shadows deep
Simplifying the sophisticated, in slumbering silence keep
Dec 6, 2024
Dec 6, 2024 at 7:19 AM UTC
Whispers in the breeze,
Leaves pirouette, gold and red,
Autumn sighs softly.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 9:52 PM UTC
When I had my sight on you,
it was as good a currency
I spent on my first dance.
There was an element of reluctance,
my feet glued to the floor,
my body, a deflated balloon
chasing after its soul.
You were more than a plant
draped in petals and perfumed with seasons of romance,
you were a garden of light,
enticing weary butterflies
of this world.
So when I pawned enough courage
to pluck your name out of those ripe lips,
I locked it away
so I could relish rolling my tongue
and tapping my teeth
and watching my spirit twirl to its syllables
saying it as if I were singing.
Driven by madness,
Bewitched with confusion,
Feverish with longing
Come after the quaint question,
“Am I beautiful?”
Or
“Does this dress suit me?”
Or
“How do I look?”
—am I ever worthy to answer such divine a question?
Not that there is a scarcity of vocabulary encased in dictionaries and thesaurus,
but perhaps the definition undermines the word.
For if I could,
if permitted to be brazen
and to be bold
to cross the border
defining our reality,
your beauty
has invented every beautiful thing
known to me.
Every poem,
on paper penned,
on spoken stage, uttered
on music, winged;
Every song on battlefield charged,
until the mind is intoxicated,
into ears poured
—beautiful is not worthy an adjective to sit or stand before your name.
You are to me,
what blues is to King and Clapton,
what a ring is to Sméagol,
what the truth is to Neo,
what sea is to a fish,
perhaps a hiding place
perhaps it is a galaxy of their own,
though in the end,
bare nakedly, you are the meaning.
“Are you beautiful?”
Yes, beyond what my eyes could touch.
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 9:41 PM UTC
Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.
In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.
The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.
In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.
In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.
A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.
I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 2:21 PM UTC
In a phalanx of four: Peter, Lisa, Dave, and I, descended a waterfall of marble stairs - pilgrims to another time - as if we’d punched through a wormhole.
It’s a five-star bash at the palace of Versailles - a grand ball - and the air itself seemed to vibrate with a feverish energy. As we bottomed the stairs, something whisked by in the air - was it the ghost of beheaded Louis the 16th?
Naah, it was a multicolored, donkey-headed, Cirque du Soleil creature. They swung everywhere, like gravity defying bugs on silken tethers, ring-swings and thin, web ropes. They flew, tumbled, unicycled, breathed fire and were shot out of cannons like fodder - all against a prismatic sunset backdrop.
A surprisingly chill Parisian wind clawed at our costumes of silk and broadcloth finery. The sun, a bright pink and yellow crack, low on the horizon, cast long, dramatic shadows on the flourish of chaos, as people arrived.
As night asserted itself, light became a living entity, blooming and dissolving in a mesmerizing multicolor-laser ballet that bathed the milling, costumed throng in fluorescent kaleidoscopes of kool-aid colors.
The day before, we had final costume fittings, earlier on the day, we had our hair and makeup done by artists who specialized in 17th/18th century styles (like we’d have known the difference).
From the salon, we were valeted, from Paris, directly to a ‘theme studio,’ setup in the Grand Trianon (the small, side palace where Napoleon lived in the summer) where, for €250 each, we got 10 glam shots on an elaborate, fantasy set.
Then we were escorted to the ‘Extravagant’ (a VIP area next to the stage) - passing through the envious glares of queued, lesser mortals.
‘Ahh, Privilege’, I thought, smiling brightly and waving royally - ‘just like Marie Antoinette used to do it.’ (before being angrily beheaded).
In the heart of the masquerade, tables fairly groaned under a buffet to shame the Roman emperors. There were open bars where rivers of martinis, champagnes and chocolates, the very essences of the celebration, flowed freely.
Elaborately constructed, elevated stages of polished aluminum pulsed music and life. LED light-panels painted fleeting hieroglyphs on the crowd, teasing the edges of perception and bands performed their own sonic wave-magic, swamping the crowd along in currents of booming, euphoric, Frenchcore club-music.
Dance, dance, dance, rest. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more delightfully fragrant crush of humanity.
Our gilded, white clothed table was an island where we could retreat for cooling refreshment. I have two important words for you 'watermelon martinis’ - you’ll thank me later.
Versailles decadent past was alive that night. It was a young crowd, in general, so, of course, G was there, with Molly, K and Ice - but we were, like, ‘no thank you very much’. In several areas, costumes became fairytale slithers, as partiers became increasingly uninhibited.
After about four hours we caught the ‘exclusive’ light show (Hollywood bathed in unclothed decadence) before moving, weary limbed as zombies, toward the whispered promise of breakfast.
About 45 limousine-minutes later, waiting tourists and a crowd of locals outside a posh Paris restaurant hushed as we passed, colorfully costumed, like ghosts of an indulgent, hedonistic past - to our reserved table.
“Quatre, café et croque monsieur, s'il te plaît,” I told the waiter (four coffees & breakfast sandwiches, please).
I’ll admit to being a bit jaded. I’ve been to more than several ‘Parisian Haute-Couture Extravaganzas” but Lisa seemed genuinely impressed and I think the boys (Peter and David) had fun too. I was lavished with kudos as if I’d thrown the thing.
The atmosphere had been pure romance - in an upscale, Disney, mass produced sense and while it was, perhaps - like last summer's trip to the Ascot races - something not to be missed, it was also a one-time fling - something to look back on - when we’re 40 or whatever.
Jun 30, 2024
Jun 30, 2024 at 1:45 PM UTC
she would be fluid
completely refreshing
she would be resilient
unable to give in
she would be so unique
one of a kind
she would speak so elegantly
gentle whispers fill the air
her word would be knives
yet so sincere
she would hold you close
yet keep you at a distance
all she wants is to love
make every soul feel adored
she would be bold
but slick in her appearance
she is the most controversial opinion
yet the only thing in this life that makes sense
...
If A Poem Could Be A Person
May 4, 2022
May 4, 2022 at 1:19 AM UTC
Over silent waters
The swan is sliding
Nothing seems to be moving
Not even the waters
Soft whispering sounds
as the wind caresses the trees
Full of elegance she is moving
to meet her mate.
To mate for life.
Shell ✨🐚
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 9:56 AM UTC
**Remember her, old friend?
She was...hideous,
You think she was ugly,
oh no, far from it.**
**She was the fairest,
Her lavishing sable hair,
Her viridian eyes,
Her glamorous smile,**
**Her soft-hued skin,
Her delicately slender body,
Her dazzling manners,
Her ever so warm demeanor,**
**Her moves,
Fluid, graceful, focused,
Capturing the essence of the music,
with her mesmerizing artistry.**
**She was indeed perfect,
Unique, as no one could be as elegant,
Charming, for no one, was as lovely.
Beguile...as no one was as rotten.**
**What she was, my old friend,
Was an empty vessel,
the soul of which had perished,
mortified by its actions.**
**For all she ever wanted was approval,
so what she did was put on a mask,
losing herself in the process,
becoming a ghost of her formal self.**
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 5:18 PM UTC
There are beautiful souls
Somewhere in the limelight
Unexposed to the colorful world
Unwritten in any verse
Not tempted to hear
They are beautiful
Incarnation of angelic spirit
With noble decency
Beauty like that
Manifest rarely
You vibe that
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 7:17 PM UTC