"aphrodites" poems
Don thy best armours
For your heart flies
a lock of her shining hair
betwixt the spear shaft
to pierce the hearts of men
their broken forms lay strewn
across aphrodites battlefields
Beware you glimpse
such grace as ever strode
the folds of firmas breast
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
have you ever tasted cherries on warm summer nights?
the cherries that sparkle when you bite,
that drip down your lips
melting with the slick of your tongue.
cherries,
high up the trees, unattainable, beautiful.
cherries
that for a moment relieve you of your deityless existence.
I ,too , have met someone
unattainable, beautiful, high up in the trees
a dancer
with subtle glances at her own posture
as she pursues her lip
and tips her feet forward
as she moves to the beat
of life
her breath tucked in
making sure that every muscle is
attentive
her nerves singing and
her gaze
oh the gaze of someone of lustrous
cherries
held tightly to yours never letting go
oh those twisted violets
like the deepest of blue
waters
unattainable far away
in a distant land the darks of
iceland
the rocks that perk up high mountains
that rise up to the skies and tell you
no
the stormy winter nights that hodl tightly on
and never let go and
her that sits barely glancing your way as you conjure up memories and
imaginations of her of stormy days
of the clouds that waver over your face
that do not let you go.
She is all that she is intense.
She is mystical
out of this world
not one to know not one to be whispered to, beauty she is.
aphrodites daughter.
Even if she is unknown to you
the world knows of her. For she screams
she screams and is grabbed the attention of
7 billion. she is
a haunting memory.
The touch of a spell that binds you into
horror filled
trenchuous nightmares.
And when He
holds her it crushes your very being
you cannot breathe cannot see cannot be
you are all hers
you are devoted
you have become the very essence of Her
You cannot seem to look away.
She exists ingrained into your eyes
as you close them
in your dreams enchanted
into your heart
she is the mystical of the world
the fairy tales told by generations
of generations,
my love.
whom i devote so strongly to
whos cherry picked stares
fumble up into a
no.
I am a meer mortal in her presence
not one able to make her smile
trying to get an ounce of her attention
of her anything,
her everything
Please be mine
please be mine
please be mine
you chant
But you know He is there.
The **** the wilderness wolf, cheating abyss. He has done her wrong but
she does not see her as she dances the gentle way she moves
black swan
blue dozens
the galaxies
containing the answers we have seeked
she does not look at you
you are invisible
but
He does not see Her for who she is
a painting
a beauty
out of this world
she is not mine.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
We are a mere mortal
Two fates in a maze
Our love was hallowed by Eros
The blind, yet aimed his bow
Right through my essence
Right through your essence
Our passion was bound by Aphrodites
Two doves nesting
Two swans in Narcissus pond
Channeling the energy in our rite
Tragedy,
Mortal forbade the sacrament
We seek to endure the fall
Becoming stars,
As we cross one another
In an boundless interrior
Of our abode.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
In my mind
I am Aphrodites daughter
One of many
In our magical lands
We roam
Like wild beasts
Lust and desire
Filling us to no end
We're determined for
Love, *** and an eternal mate
We search
Occasionally finding one
Or another
Never all
Traits in one
But we grasp
Each one we can
we harvest it
And continue on our
Rampage for eternity
Until we find cupids sons.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
this society of ours is so gargantuan,
policed by the daylight we hold at night for ransom,
Like a Jesus or a black Aphrodites,
I'll be your daddy if you let me call you my mommy,
give me your milk, the nectar that forms at your eyelids
We can go out in public on a weeknight Ireland,
I won't drink, but I'll wrestle every penny you
throw into each fountain, unless each wish
you make puts us together in California. At 55º it's as
cold as it seems your heart is, you whisper the omissions
of lies over mute. Every silver trinket on this charmers'
bracelet abused. Be the freeway and I'll be the car, drive around my circles, and we can drive the map of the Hollywood Stars. This circus- paddy-wagon, sewer stardom, I've always been the over-roasted beans from your local Starbucks. I grew up to grow up, I got up to throw up, I sought you to show up, and give you this leigh garland. Egyptian or pitiful, critical mister 'are not.' My words were worthless and wounded by such ardor of this perfervid martyr. Enveloped by threading the eye of this tempestuous hourglass, just another sign of being extremely intolerable to the minutia, the worried, and nervous curse of being so human and the fear of being, quite heart broke.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
More beautiful than a beauty queen
Prettier than an ocean scene
As iridescent as a flower blooming in the spring
As vibrant as the sun
and smarter than some
Beautiful like the heart inside your chest
I don't even compare to all the rest
Aphrodites ain't got **** on me
Like a blushing bride on her wedding day
More beautiful than a 68 Nova Super sport
Like a model of some sort
Gorgeous as a diamond engagement ring
or a caged bird that will still sing
Pretty as poetry
Cooler than flowetry
I must be the bomb diggity yo
Like a tattoo under your skin
I'll always be there for everyone to observe and admire
As beautiful as leaves changing colors in the fall
So beautiful that I must be without a single flaw
They say things are beautiful if you love them
that must be why I don't see my own beauty at all...
© Ashley Rodden. All rights reserved
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
I’m lying on a beach, sun-punched subconscious
not too hot as a briny breeze still blows ashore,
but warm and melted onto the ground
like candle wax spilled over
nearby recumbent girls, unmoving as statues,
**** Aphrodites raised of sand and sea foam
splay across loose opened chitons
unfurling scents of oils and lotions,
awaiting their animation from kisses of salt mist
or ocean tide come in too close
they’d vanish by next glance
lost in minutes or hours passed
the impressions they’d left filled with glistening sparkles,
constellations of miniature stars fusing
then extinguishing by pairs to gray flatness
ascendant on gulls' laughter, wind-stretched,
entangled among broken waves
in an endless silk scarf god once made
but left behind in his dream at dawn
when light then carved each grain its shape -
this beach for me to sleep on
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 9:14 AM UTC
Haze scatters blue light on a planet.
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates,
belayed, branded and belled,
a plangent sound.
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers,
she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor,
punctures and ruin burnished with paper,
boiling burnt lime from lime mortar.
Glass ***** on the ceiling,
she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.
She bends light to make shadows against thin wooden slats curved along the wall
and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she invents tinctures,
juniper berries and cotton *****
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
a hawthorn tree stands alone,
a gateway for fairies,
large stones at the base protecting,
its branches a barrier.
Its leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
Its berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals
and lime in the soil,
she adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth;
the tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk,
she adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.
The lime converts to paper,
trauma victims speak,
light through butterfly wings.
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water.
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 2:48 PM UTC
Silent crimson tears rolling and trickling deep into the heart's shallows
My Goddess, tell me how could i ever wipe them off?
...off the cracks of my swelling cardiac veins
Your decline burning and heating my skin without consuming it
Now, watch my chest choke in failing to cough out the pain of your fall...
...the fall of my beautiful rose, to be by strangers trampled upon forever
So it's possible for a Goddess to be consumed in mortality's weakness ?
These Khalisees and Aphrodites consoling me, say you are at peace now
And if i keep mourning your soul will boil in the heat of trouble
But i remember you said only I, was your all...i know i was your peace
And now, isn't this restlessness i hold a manifestation of the love i have for you?
A love whose purity has been choked by the sword of nature and time-frame
May your soul come again...
For how could i ever dance to the song of life without the strings of your soul?
Strings that went breaking when you my goddess proved to be a mortal
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 7:21 AM UTC
Bas le masque
Dulcinea del Toboso !
Bas le masque
Aldonza Lorenzo !
Bas le masque
Idolâtres !
Aphrodites de tout acabit
Dames de mes pensées
Invisibles Dulcinées
Dont j 'essuie les refus
Pour chacune de mes avances !
Mes feuilles, mes flammes, mes âmes !
Vénérées comme je n 'ai jamais été aimé !
Priées comme je n 'ai jamais été désiré !
Chantées comme je n 'ai jamais été embrassé !
Caressées comme jamais on ne m'a honoré !
Vos panoplies diverses et variées de Muse de chevalier errant
Ont pu jadis faire illusion auprès des fous errants
De triste figure et autres Rocinantes
Mais don Quijote de la Mancha
Est transi dans la place !
Fuyez Aphrodites vulgaires
Venez à moi Aphrodites célestes
Déployez en moi animus et anima
L 'énergie d'Eros.
Défiez-moi par vos énigmes
Questionnez-moi, jouons
A qui sera le moins sage
A qui saura lire entre les lignes
Des lèvres philosophes de l 'autre
Les chemins de traverse qui mènent au bonheur
Je suis Philon ! Soyez donc ma Sophie !
Je suis Salomon ! Soyez donc ma reine de Saba !
Vous êtes Désirée ? Et muse si affinités ?
Adoubez-moi Napoléon, prince consort !
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
Just as
God has
The Father
The Son, and
The Holy Spirit
The man of prediction
Will have the dark Trinity;
Baal. Ishtar, Moleck
The god of
Baal
The deceiver
Removing God
from the church
the government.
Removing prayer
from the schools.
Removing Jesus
from the
market place.
God does. not stay
where he is not wanted!
Absence of God, chaos begins
Indoctrinating the children of sin
A pagan world begins to rule the Earth
Ideology wars changes
the nature of education
****** indoctrination
no age is too young
Woke America is born
Children bought, sold
Aphrodites are born
Ritual killings. pleasing gods
The
goddess
Ishtar
Wife of
Baal
cultures
through centuries
Known by many names
Enchantress, Aphrodite,
Venus. Diana
characteristics; wild
fanatic ******
deviances
Her perversions
have no bounds.
****** appetite Devours
Her imagination runs wild
In a dystopian society
Aphrodite is a goddess
that can change from
man to a woman
And from a
woman to man
*** is fluid
Death of the
Traditional family
Beta blockers
given to children
As young as seven
Society can
No longer determine
what is a woman.
Reduced to a
baby receptacle
by definition.
Men now can
give birth.
****** perversions
openly. show
the agenda,
a man in a dress
with a wig and a
beard and a mustache.
with male genital
can shower
and dress in
the locker room
with young girls
Appropriate Pronouns, please
when feelings
instead. of Facts
rule the day.
Moleck
The destroyer
Killer of babies and
humans for sacrifice
New York, California
created a bill of
infanticide.
A baby can be
killed up to
28 days
after birth.
Corners
are not. allowed
to question
the death of a baby
63 million abortions
were sacrifice
given to
the god. of Moleck
May 2, 2023
May 2, 2023 at 12:49 AM UTC
I could subtract a little from the fact and factor in some make believe
I could
but the point in telling anything is seeing others think upon and bringing to the table
another fact or one more fable.
I shall persist in this, in case there's something that I missed and I for one just would not sleep
if by perchance I stole to keep a drama and to let it seep out slow from lips that know the fictions that this life can give.
And who could give in more than me who gave in more than once to be
accepted as directed
or directly intercepted by the laughing fates and muses who only choose to slap my face when in foul moods
and I being full of airs and graces decline to comment further on this torture that these ladies would inflict and get more slapped faces (Though one face is all I have)
and being kicked from pillar unto the post my body plays more foot ball than most but I don't care
The Aphrodites must get their share
and share in me they will
not that I mind
in another fact it quite amuses when fate deals me all at once the muses.
Just means I have to watch my diet
can't be bothered dying yet
too much to see
the fates, will me to go on and begone at the same time
and that's confusing
I must get a little more of those there musing
using all my powers of persuasion
I engineer a situation where we sit and flit
from fact to fantasy
and how it is I want it to be
the muses they don't hear me
they're busy
playing bingo.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
you will only listen to music drunk and pretending to be blind, you will only listen to music pretending to be blind, but not pretending to be drunk, you will only listen to music encouraging closed lid shutters... thus your surroundings will transform, you will use the keyboard in pitch black as totem of stenotype... you will close your eyes and appreciate what music gave you: angelic wings outside the realm of dreams; you will not care for videos of fake insertion of what can be imagined with music, that michael jackon video of night of the living dead will not be your only interpretation.
and to my muse i turn,
who’s hysteria
turned laughter for applause,
who’s laughter i cherish,
a fox’s cry of orientation,
i too laugh my fox
in the day,
where meaning is lost or non-existent
we can only grasp onomatopoeia,
as i said: joy is far from eloquent expression
given the ha ha ha...
it sounds like comfort and travesty... almost...
but the fox in man laughed in the erotica
mania... beer in and whiskey in...
combusting gases out...
oh muse.... should the shadow of the moon’s
half residual face blemish you...
i will carve you as the perfection you
stole from me once more:
pairing prior to the romans in the king’s
verse from virgil's aeneid / rebirth of troy as rome.
laugh more my muse!
i want the same giggles above the crescendo of repeat,
while we're morally apart!
(someone's sister... could have been her mother...
muses are never pretty canvases, solidified
by aphrodites' apple
with hera and athena marking the scores...
well... not all of us died on the crucifix
and later dangled as pearl in silver
on the neck...
but some of us did... and laughed at nero
who later made torches out of us -
oddly enough my cats are annoyed that i'm
more entertained than them, even when snoozing.)
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
She was poetry written in the perfect cursive curves of the devils smile
and an angels hip
the lost launguage found only in Aphrodites blood
the beauty of tragedy
and the birth of romance
were only mere ink stains on her fingertips
the syllables of tears that filled the ocean
and drowned every wave of heartache
the stars and the stories of the moon
told in a voice between whisper and dream
and to read her was
to feel her breath along your neck
and her teeth bite
through both bone and soul
her every word to grip
and stroke the fires of your flesh
and before the last line of the page
to spill the life from between your legs
and have it crash through the ceiling
and explode and scatter
against the black velvet night
of her passion and desires
and turn you into a page
and a poem
within the depths
of the heart of her soul
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC