"aquiline" poems
I've been to Heaven
and the Earth was right
Heaven is a broken lie
All things must wither and die
Fog and dew on grass
Stew left to boil
And night water mixed
With my homeland soil
His white flowing beard
And slight twinkle in eyes
Tanned arms and firm hands
And a deep, reaching voice
The faintest glow
Somewhat aquiline nose
His weather beaten face
And the strongest of brows
But I've been to heaven
And the Earth was right
Heaven is a broken lie
All things must wither and die
Choked morning with skies bent
With smoke and a sickly stench
And my grandfather's door
Which I didn't open anymore
I couldn't see him wilting
And catch his frame in decay
His cocoa eyes still beaming
As cancer took him away
And wouldn't it be biased
If I say it was untimely
And for such a pure soul
God and nature acted unkindly?
So what had to happen
Has happened and no change
Can be brought forth now
In God's ways so strange
And in the ashes beyond
The trees have taken root
On the windiest of days
Beside unripe fallen fruit
I've been to Heaven
and the Earth is right
Heaven is broken
All things must wither and die
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
Naked is how I love you
like an autonomous grain of sand
skin against skin
and your furtive passions
composed nerve-cells
lavish with mellifluous vibrations
that wash away all signs of negative energy
Naked is how I crave you
that simple lithe figure
faded muscles and tufts of hair
a dimple with a non-existent twin
palliate a thriving surge
Naked, just as you lie
underneath the satin sheets,
and aquiline just as the same
succumbed to unremitting sparks
you are the motif of my every piece
*and you are that act of symbiosis
between the canvas
and the paint*
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
Slowly it slides on sub zero waters
trying to find a pathway to the sea
sheet of pure blue and heaven white
lumbers discreetly for aquiline is quite
From the top of the world
frozen fingers reach down
claws frantic on solid ground
No religion no sage
no saviour just age
and the relentless pull of gravity
will take it from mountain to the sea
This sculptress of valleys and dales
and fjords that can be seen for miles
travels without sound
onward bound
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt **** coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 6:58 AM UTC
O LOVE! O LOVE! WHY ARE YOU EVER DEVOID OF LOGIC?
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Mankind in its pathetic folly entice you in a dint of stupor
Knowing not your true colour and texture
Endeavoring to achieve glory in your mastery
With the so limited human capacity
In grey faith that you are a cradle of bliss
But O love! Why are you ever crooked?
Young men and women in strength of their sinews
Toil day and night in ******* of humanity
Praying and whining incantations with the hope for optimal love
Ornamenting their bodies with diamond and bronze
Fibre and silk ornamented to helm of providence
In the foolish quest for love equillibria
But in full stretch of your vice, you impish love
You catapult all away to the shifted goal posts
O love! O love! Why are you ever ruthless?
You hate the learned but you favour the strong
You hate professors but you favour the soldiers
You hate the rich but you favour the agile
You hate the lawyers but you favour the footballers
You hate the pastors but you favour the ruffian
You hate the whites but you favour the Negroes
You hate the groomed but you love the ragamuffin
You hate the chaste but you favour the mistress
O love! O love! Why are you ever illogical?
Love, I revere you for wickedness and irrationality
In all of your history you scored sum *** laude
In the duo as blend of your domain, Look;
You never dwell in a genuine companionship
You like where the couth will interject;
Amidst fornication between married and single ones
Amidst adultery in the triangle of foul compassion
Amidst miscegenation between black and white
Amidst infatuation between the whole and the lame
Amidst conjugal appetite between the old and the young
Amidst concupiscence between house master and houshelp
Amidst immorality of married master over the wallowing servant
Amidst libidos between literate teacher unto the peasant pupil
Amidst disordered passion among the sly lesbians
Amidst impious ********** among the suave gays
O love! O love! You are the most wicked force!
Love I am told; your colour is red
You may be red or you may not be red
But all in all, you deserve poetical veneration
For your herculean ability to bend the most wise;
In your force you made sagacious Shakespeare to bend
In your force you made Princes Diana to bend and bend
Bending downwardly stooping for Afawoyed the moor,
In your stupefying dint you made Napoleon de Bonaparte
To bend and bend downwardly stooping for Josephine
Josephine a famed she-Casanova in the gone Paris
Among the then humanity and the then animality,
In your impairing machinery you set sons on their fathers
In the roman empire of Antony and Ceaser
In the scramble for Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen
Beauty of her aquiline nose heavily hovered perhaps
In the eyes of the Roman beholders
The father and the son only to sent the empire
To the love forlorn smithereens!
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Being male, I wander
Mom dares not wonder
What kind of monsters she birthed
She brought her own equipment
I was aggressive but shy
Her womb is the most magnificent
Temple I’ve ever visited
There is nowhere else I want to be
Sister insisted
I stiffened then gave in
Children tease, squeal, scamper
Adults know unspeakable reality
Dizziness of first love
Mayhem, ******
Solemn whisper of infinity
After an uncertain age,
No one wants you anymore
Old women bond
Confer their anger
Old men tread alone
She knew from moment he laid eyes on her, she had him. She wore no make-up, anemic complexion, chin and jawline slightly broken out with red spots, cobalt blue irises, aquiline nose, hair dyed dark, fuzz-balled scarf, light blue fluffy sweater, big buttons, canvas shoulder bag, skinny jeans, leather boots, little boney black dog with ashen appointments. Instantly he fell in love. He confessed, “Your Chinese Crested pup stole my heart.”
In *********** position, neither lover sees other’s face. The top sees backside. The bottom sees what? He didn’t know.
She unlocks the door. He enters room. She tells him what to do, making demands. He follows her orders. She questions, “Why do we dance to these tunes?” He answers, “I want to smell your smells, **** drink your darkest juices.” She articulates, “Stay,” then kisses him goodbye. She wakes wearing his ring, around her neck. They are each other’s slaves. Ceiling leaks, floor creaks, light beams through window as they waltz arm in arm.
She demands, “I want roast rack of lamb, or thinly sliced Serrano ham on buttered toast for dinner. And then I want to go home alone. I need some down time, away from you. I don’t belong to you, ********* Deep in financial debt, he hands the waiter his debit card.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
I never met the Mediterranean neither
His bride’s land nor their aquiline nose
I saw them as shifting images
Like a pair of oily eels.
They came with the waves tumbling-
Forward from few days journey
There was no wave of anger, only an
Insecure spring of a shell-less snail.
I cannot disremember the salinity,
The stretched little boy on its shores,
Floating pieces of lost hope
And the airless nights that followed.
Dear Mediterranean, there are
Millions out there, distant kin
I don’t want those dead on rectangular-
Cement slabs, bring them alive!
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
here's a tale I will tell
of the supreme Master
of Rivendell
elfin Lord, just and wise
knowledge deep as elvish skies
darkly handsome, unearthly fair
silver circlet, midnight hair
greatest Power for him alone
eyes as deep as river stones
grey and lustrous, holding grace
broad of shoulder, fair of face
aquiline nose, chiseled jaw
Master of the Elves. Their law.
of his mercy his people sing
possessor of the elvish Ring
one of three, such Power possessed
he's the Lord, and thusly blessed
he's seen grief and was forsaken
his beloved wife was taken
to Mordor and was in suffering bound
with the Orcs deep underground
father of the maid Arwen
who's in love with the human King
deep pain of mind, Elrond's aware
that he must leave this daughter there
in human kingdom Middle Earth
for her love has lifetime worth
but Strider will soon pass away
while Arwen has immortal days
though her love's surpassing fine
she will one day weep and pine
without her husband, all alone
for her people will be gone
they will one day sail far
following an elvish star
and of Frodo he's aware
the Hobbit will go to Sauron's lair
generous, gentle, yet supremely strong
he will help Frodo along
elvish war-mail and provision
he directs with great vision
noble King of Rivendell
at once gracious
yet mighty, fell
his word, ever,
is his bond
Hobbit friend
the great
ELROND
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/5/2016
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
I remember a certain cold
Cold like a scalpel
I remember your face
Illuminated by a Ferris wheel
The aquiline nose and glint in the eyes
Asymmetrical ivory in the mouth
We were bibliophiles
Expounding upon the potency of the written word
Enthralled by each other's soliloquies.
I remember
The moisture, texture, warmth of your lips
Comforting, numbing, exhilarating
The ****** effect of your flesh
Delirium in my bloodstream
The hushed tenor of your voice
Temperate breath tickling the whorls of my ear
Known to me only in a dream.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
H-Hail! Hail! Hail!
A-All cuddly aquiline butterflies
L-Limbered and croon
I-In the midst of Eden
M-Mirthfully like the hallowed angels
A-And soar high beneath the curled clouds
H-Happily the withered grass and flowers
A-Awoken,and laid out their hearts
I-Imperil before the rays at sunshine
L-Languidly,to ink modish Ballads
E-Eulogizing thy charm,thy steam and thy wit
Y-Yes! Yes! Together the whole universe yodelled for thee
Halima Hailey
©Historian E.Lexano
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 6:01 AM UTC
that girl is gnashing fangs and painted lips
when the pastel sun scrapes floorboards
across her naked shoulders. that girl is
sparking static eyes and she holds
snowy screens in her palms,
her lovers bury their faces in her chest
smudging saliva across her shirt
leather-fingers scrummaging
over her ribs, jabbing with
tongue, thumb smudged on the
doorbell, as his jaw meets dawn,
and he returns, scratched glass mirror
pulling in him by an aquiline nose,
aquamarine veins pulsing as palms
set upon the ice, blood knuckles
and cracked nails setting in the surface.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Some wander through their rose colored glasses
bitterly nonchalant for their lives
passionate about everything in their
non-compliant ways and
unforgiving aesthetics
pleased to accept their parts
I get tired after a few dances back home
feet sore, the blistering skin
a familiar commodity
raggedly hanging irritated
drifting drifting away
onto the lonely tufts
of ancient carpet rags
my nose hits the floor
bludgeoning the tip of that sensitive aquiline shape
nerve jamming straight to the heart
and so does the dream begin
Soaking in the summer nights,
baked in that warm smile
isn't it so odd?
being terrified of an echo blocking me on the head
soon erased and tuned to an alien frequency
then
trapped in a cave
crying into the abyss
the man behind me
his shadow encapsulating mine
comforting monster
I can feel rip through me
and as I run from that i fear
falling down the rocky terrain
hat ripped from my hair
blond glossy tips frosting
the cross mountaintops,
I left my hat in his hands
the one with embroidered sunflowers--
with a scream left eroding in my mouth
from inside to out,
an ancient friend I'd forgotten
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
Nimble fingered she scaled high mountains
teary eyed swam in delicate balances of mozart
saint saens, beethoven, schubert, unmindful
that i watched in awe and grace at her aquiline features
melting in those crescendos of throbbing chords
and intricate switches between registers of scales.
i struggled to keep the pace, tame the tempo,
feel the texture and tone, sing in my heart
that which felt pure crystalline diamonds
sparkling at an evenings lesson. I went faithfully
every two days just to watch and wonder
at the magic she spun with her fingers.
No orchestra ever came close to this feeling
no symphony ever beat its pulse in my passion
as this piano tutor did.
Did she play alone for me,
for somebody else
or held a conversation with the masters
while I watched as a witness?
The only time she ever played chopin,
and the minute waltz
the tears rolled down freely
from both our cheeks.
'thank you, sir, for listening'
she said smiling
' you alone made an audience
of a hundred and fifty'
Author Notes
She was beautiful.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11580746-The-piano-tutor......-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.yW3jTCNC.dpuf
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
when it is immobile
or drunk with cerebral pile up
it goes to a window-
it drools out
wanting all the space
beyond its saddened globe
it goes when the lights
are illuminated brightly-
arranged in choreograde-
emulating streams
of dark spring's resonance
it goes to a filmy rose
shaded garden-
it sits with the beetles
tickling up lengthy
ferns-
it kicks at the dirt
and sees only a
handful of admiration
it goes up and up
and up out of my eyes
and into the hook
of my ribcage-
my left hipbone
congruent to your right-
my aquiline ears passing
fluttery notes
but then-
what-
it goes into your shoes
to reset you
and to remember
where you came from
before it handed all
to you-
infinite times
it goes to look
for something
to match my
evening empyreality-
a damp green
wood by some
pretty electronic
performance
and it reminds my
unreality why
this never works
the whole way
through
it helps to found
a traveler
with fifteen heads
and black ball eyes
spinning the wheel
with elder spirits
from dusk to dawn
it deserves
a shock-light
buzzing straight
like cicadas
without ceding
to the earth
it is swift
and thieving-
full of rot-
a great salt jewel
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
A streak of sin,
just as culpable,
gives back my pains.
A half-finished poem
jolts me out of my vision.
Someone drops the moon―
and becomes evident in mist.
A profile floats. I
imagine the spreading smile.
I want to understand myself.
The colors blend. Have
you read Rilke? You will not
rise from the surface of―
life and death.
Authenticity has become
rarer. Copyright to **** is
religion. An aquiline nose
smells the prey.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
Some could say: nature's lavishly attentive
ever blossoming to the extreme, on point.
Just so, the pearl of her earring
she wears in the photo seems
to have completely composed her.
Bare honesty rages, in picture left profile--
her aquiline nose, upward tilt of chin,
late day sunshine through a velvet curtain.
O, how sweet, her seashell ear.
That spiraling whorl conversed with me,
as Water God Neptune might speak
of any innocence, of liberation nature.
I see her -- a little girl at seashore,
skimming her toes across tiny waves
dash-running, leap laughing,
her parents nowhere near.
In the adult picture, she might be thirtyish
and by heaven likely married.
O, how this pearl captures one fleet spark.
Oceans and continents away,
I am regarding her.
I, whose heart's on fire.
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 4:27 AM UTC