Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Meenakshi Iyer Aug 2013
She stared back at me,
with a sneer and asked,
"Did you really think
that was you,
in the looking glass?
Those wild curls so lush,
and brows archly brushed
a nose so fine,
a quality it possessed!
The grace that she spent
in every silken way she went
it left woman of the old gaping
and the young men,
breathless.
And you with your spots,
with a nose, such a blot!
Hair that is smitten
to the wind as aimless!
Limbs so undefined,
nary a skirt I can find,
that would hide those wide hips
and body - shapeless!"

And then I took a bow
before a man and
couldn't fathom how
his presence I could digest
I was repelled so - by him.
But the looking glass wasn't far,
at every turn I saw a mar
and gave up my choice
to see
...
into a looking glass.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2017
Greeting Card Verse

There is nothing wrong with greeting card verse:
Noses are red, some types of whales are blue
Two woods diverged in a yellow road, so what
Is any of that to me or to you?

A man must find a verse that fits his needs -
Archly obscure thick homilies preening
To poly spec for the cause of the day
Couched in cool cant neither pretty nor true

Are but ISBN numbers on file

And

Sometimes ya want to smile, crocodile!
infinitetune Nov 2012
She stands among the grey scape with
So many muted colours inside her.
But today is a day of monochrome miasmas-
Of grey gulls that skim the pewter river
With wings that know such measures.

The greyness leeches her to the technicolour
World she knew long ago
Somewhere down the river.

A cauldron of rage wages above her
Filled with the bursts of brigands of
Grey restless beauty.

There's a rainbow now!

As it archly
Shows its palette she sees the separation
Appear ever nearer...
Above the rainbow is cobalt
Beneath it a merely flat grey.

Underneath her umbrella she enjoys
The puttered thwacks of soft water indenting
Thin fabric with a firework crack.
Suddenly she's back
Her shoes are black and her eyes are grey.
She wishes everyone was a million miles away.
She wishes everyone could stay.
memoona kazmi Feb 2019
the dream,
i dream frequently,
is you,
reciting my poetry,
sitting in that cozy chair,
which belongs only to me,
with your arms on my study table,
in your dappled blue shirt,
with your sleeves half folded,
with your eyes on my words,
and every time you ,
see your name,
you lift your archly eyelashes,
give a glance,
pass a smile,
and start reading again,
i dream ,
you bite your lower lip,
every time i say ,
i love you,
so i keep on dreaming,
Glenn Currier Apr 2018
I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.
Once a bare footed void boy
No toys. Grew up a scavenger
Forced onto an unending slumber
Little life’s thrown at him to enjoy

His first love’s at archly wrong time
This love unrequited albeit I’d cross
An angry ocean full of hungry sharks
The love given I couldn't pay a dime

No intention’s born to see yesterday
Twere as was days past before
A life methinks a compleat show
Vows left where they can’t stay

Pledged to treasure your memories
Till when death squeezes souls no more
Till when they're farther and farther and so
Are poles away from sunlight and ants

©2019 – m.a.
Glenn Currier Mar 2020
I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.
Written April, 2018
Travis Green Sep 2021
He is all I ever think about
His bright pinkish-brown lips
A universe of endearing explorations
Irrepressible urges deepening
Inside the hollow entrance
Within my existence, wishing
For my fingers to slowly flow
Over the façade, feel the silkiness
As his tongue runs upon my fingertips
Discovering my dreams deeply
Imprinting his cloyingly sweet
Desires on my shuddering skin
Guiding me within worlds
Where he romanced me
With his sensuousness, his eyes
Black indigo, his eyelashes archly
Curved and lustrous, his nostrils
Superbly oval-shaped like a shiny
Single white egg, like a ripe watermelon
Like a fresh fine lemon, lushly
Stubble mustache, fragrantly
Full beard I have high regard for
Travis Green Oct 2021
I can never have enough
When it’s you that I am loving
When it’s your blazing hot kisses
That propels my body
To skyrocket into vastly deep space

When I’m tuned into your moonlit presence
Archly watching your ardent apple green eyes
Your charming dark eyelashes
Your flawlessly voluptuous eyelids
You are a crashing canvas of dreams
Waiting to be perceived by me
Michael John Oct 28
i
i

the people i met later
said they never really
knew me..

that is because they
were not interested
i spoke

and the tumbling weeds
blew
the birds sang

sometimes i would say
i am an alien and
as we waited

in the silence and for them
to talk about themselves..
(which turned out to be

not far from the truth)
but in solitude
i found myself..

ii

maybe,lily says
archly-you were boring..
they were no more

interesting-believe me
one story-
i knew better than they..

— The End —