"baron" poems
Oh, Moonlight Oh Moonlight while so many of us use your shine for light to guide us through the night and use your beauty to be amazed at as the clouds run pass you.
Oh, Moonlight Oh Moonlight another sign of love and happiness as far be on imagination can take us and allow us to see and use our minds to think with.
Oh, Moonlight Oh Moonlight that shines so bright that reflects in our eyes can you please show us more beauty that takes us on a journey that you have for us.
Oh, Moonlight Oh Moonlight please don't fade away keep blessing the night skies with your beauty and attraction of shades of colors that take up the night sky that brights up with the stars so high to make a wish come true.
Oh, Moonlight Oh Moonlight the form of you takes breaths away and brings smiles on faces that tell a story of their own.
Oh, Moonlight Oh Moonlight, while so many of us use your shine for light to guide us, through the night and the young use your light as a night light being so cozy as they sleep the night away.
Baron ” Dreamwriter903”
[email protected],
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 7:23 AM UTC
Vengeance is for God to have, But today I lay religion down to rest
The demon in my mind has been relentless, whispering at my behest
He has been in his cage far too long, he is unyieldingly repressed
I not only want to free him, I want to put his imagination to the test
My mind's eye dark and searching, the corners of my sinister mind
I have now become your worst fear and mine devils intertwined
My mental and emotional state, has made the inhumanity refined
I hate how you made me long for your pain, I am now your kind
Your flesh is but a canvas and your screams will be to no avail
You’re now mine, your soul will beg for mercy on the grandest scale
I will assault your every sense, leaving no minute detail
Until your body is lying lifeless, pointless, broken and frail
I will take my time to revive you, bringing you back to my device
There will be no amount of pain I inflict, that my heart will suffice
Before I am done with your miserable existence, infliction so precise
I will nourish every animalistic desire,until we felt you paid the price
You have uprooted in my heart an evil, that cannot be undone
The angel of death is upon you waiting, your suffering just begun
There is a special place in hell for you and I want you to see it
And if I burn with you for my revenge, then I say so be it
Taking your pride, shoving it down your throat with my baron hands
all that I can taste right now, what the voice in my head demands
For you there is no more wasted life, your breath will let you endure
And there is no second thought behind my vengeance, my hate is pure
With deeds now done and lifeless you lay
At my feet, which death did not show haste
A smile without tears did appease my lust
For your soul and blood that I did taste
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 6:45 AM UTC
Your time will come slowly,
For now you must let the empty space taunt you.
Your grass will grow slowly,
For now you must plant the seed in the baron land below you.
Your heart will beat slowly,
For now you must tap the drum softly beside you.
Your love will heal slowly,
For now you must be patient and watch the tide take away the pain that troubles you.
A patient man is a judicious wolf.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 7:52 AM UTC
I was on the way to find out my destination,
It was a rugged terrain without shed of trees on the road side,
Burning Sun shine on the top of my head and
Stony patches below my foot,
On a junction of the two roads,
You came out!
With …..
“Generous green of forest in our face,
Deepest blue of ocean in your eyes,
Melodious wind of mountain valley on your hair and
Splendid light of the don on your smile”,
As if this new path after this junction
going to lead me to the nature’s own womb.
Conversely, when we face each other you asked
‘Who I am?’ and ‘where I am going to?’
I was surprised; no one poses such questions to me on this long walk,
But I have already comes a crossed the Security man with gun in their hand,
The Beggar with stony beggaring plate in their hand,
The Food vendors with hot food in their basket,
The Knowledge tycoon with bag of books on their shoulder,
The Political guardian with embryonic power in their muscle,
No one asked any thing!
Not even look at me!
Probably for them either ‘I was insignificant or invisible!’
But your questions,
Compel me to think about my identity,
I don’t have a search engine,
to take help from the world wide web of identity,
So, when observing you with sensors of Imagination, Emotion and Cognition,
I found my lost identity in you,
As your child everything rooted in you,
Than I started to walk with you
Just to get the aspiration of living planet and
To protect you from the spite of ownerships, rationality, consumerism,
and demonstrationist humanity.
But after a while,
Every one started to pose question,
“Who I am?”
“Why I am walking with you?”
“How I get the right to do so?”
Than I replied my scruples enlighten me to do so!
No one understands ‘what I replied?’
Now the Political guardian of the society starts a campaign,
The knowledge baron prepared software for this operation,
The beggar and food vendor distributing the literature with illustrative interpretation,
That…..
“People like me are threat to the society”!
“This is an evil force of our society”!
Tomorrow…..
The security man going to declare a ‘decree’ on
Emotion, Conscience, Humanity and Love. □□
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
I am reading poems by Billy Collins:
AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective,
A sampler, as it were
For the Books and Brew;
Our monthly selection.
Nine manly men
Meeting for monthly meals
And book-talk
And politics
And, of course, good beer.
They like nonfiction,
I like fiction.
Richard Hughes,
British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said:
“All nonfiction can do is answer questions;
It is fiction's business to ask them.”
Still, my repertoire has expanded:
Nike shoes.
Civil War.
Institutional racism.
Opioid addiction.
Rafting the Grand Canyon.
Climbing mountains.
With Baron Von Humboldt.
And now this:
Poetry.
Nine manly men
Reading poetry to each other
While sharing a meal,
One lovely poem after another.
You can't read a book of poetry
Like you consume other books,
Fiction or nonfiction.
The table of contents:
The lid of a box of exquisite truffles—
A map of pleasures contained within.
You look at the map,
And make a selection.
The caramel truffle
Is not the coffee truffle.
You look at the map,
Make a selection,
And bite!
The crusty chocolate cracks!
The darkness melts,
Floods your mouth with taste.
Then the rush of caramel!
Flavors, smells sloshing
Swooning with sensate memories.
What? Turn the page and read another?
Reach for the coffee truffle?
No. Linger with caramel;
Luxuriate on aftertaste.
Is that a note of citrus or salt?
I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
Oh young barret of the night. Who steals from the dreams of lost sain children like Moloch. The decrypted white house was nothing but A sanctuary for degenerates. the man… MAD… MAD was the man MAD, was the house, MAD were the claimers, MAD were the slaves to the slick but king of so called glam MAD was the man MAD MAD MAD.
The barret was entering the house, leaving behind all. what has become of my young love asks me? he enters. MAD was he who entered the trap, MAD was he who allowed, MAD was who gave no warning of the moloch sacrifice being made to the two of his so called servants. MAD was all i say MAD MAD MAD, MAD was he who wanted to be hailed like Fernand, MAD was he who wanted to be king like Henry the 8th, MAD was he who wanted to use like Baron Neuvillette, MAD was he who wanted doll oh doll how can you do this.
Oh ADONAL for if you do exist why have you allowed this, oh ADONAL for if you exist why have you for seen this, oh ADONAl for if you exist why have you told of my eternity. Oh ADONAL why? are you mad? for the people shall not say oh ADONAL well this blow over as fast as Holly or as fast of yourself.
he who does as told, he who does what he thinks right for his so called gift. MAD for the betrayal of trust between the packed, MAD was he for the lack of word, Like a mute oh ADONAL like a mute he was! MAD was he who acted like Bromdens father, MAD .
MAD MAD MAD MAD MAD is I for the envolvment of my cellar of time, MAD is I for what i have started and what have become of my creations, MAD is I for all, MAD is I for you, for she, for he, for ***** all mad, MAD is I for maybe i is mad.
written by Keone L Friesian. copyright to Keone Friesian
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
To captivate someone the way
You do
Is an art form many never learn to master.
With eyes deeper than the Marianas trench
Your being
Just draws me like a moth to a flame.
To make someone feel the way
You make me feel
Makes me wonder how many ages
You've experienced.
A soul so ablaze no person would know you and not be warm.
The strength of nations upon nations
To carry the weight of the world and
You still grow.
The confidence and grace that
You move
With, can't even be challenged by Aphrodite herself.
With cheeks if crimson and eyes of ice
Your joy
Makes the rest of life seem baron.
Leaving me
wanting
Craving
Thirsty
Starved
And lucky
To know a woman of your sheer
Prowess.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 12:21 PM UTC
Our once baron land
nothing but blackened sand
Tis now a place of beauty
So come take my hand
so we may stroll through our garden forever
Along the crazy paving pathway
We shall stroll through our garden togeather
Flowerbeds of
Salvia
Delphinium
Coneflower
Cosmos
Alyssum
daisies
Aster
Clavillia
Hollyhock
Poppies
Just to name a few
So come sit with me my love
on our swingseat made for two
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
Time bleeds the force out of life
Leaving baron bodies cold and hollow
Every breath took is one breath gone
The tide forcing us in
The shore leaving behind
Salt in the water is the salt in the hourglass
Passing by never to be seen again
Collecting, building castles on shores that will fall to the pressure of time
Lost in the oceans growing older and colder
Ice collecting, time slows and slows
Frozen waters reflects bright lights
Blinded looking ahead blinded looking back
Nothing left but waiting the timeless wait
Trapped, still, at the end of time forever
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
I am like a lone wolf who hastens across the tundra of Northern Hemispheres, with stealth.
Our temperature has risen and the Chinook boldly reveals her austere formation across the vast expanse of alpine variation.
I understand that your customs may be nomadic, as they roam across the treeless plains of baron socialisation.
But will they lead you beyond the West coast of Ecuador?
Therefore, always remember that layers of permanently frozen subsoils are designed for terrestrial corridors of arctic sojourns.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
I've bent my mouth up to my ear
Believing in the stuff belief is made of
Milk replaced by silky biers
Losing my fingers to the Barren Baron Dove
Hurts to admit I'm stealing away
A curly knife held to my ear
Simple, crimpled, waning days
Throw unto the heart of the pier
Lark and tumble
Bark and fumble
Still those tired eyes of dust
I have found the beveled rhythm
Among the pristine clouds of rust,
Entropy's daily rhythm
Wake away the roaring morning
Rising heat in waxing dawn
Spend the many days adorning
The beating pulse of the fawn
Stupefied, nullified
Numb and in crumbs
A stump to the vein
A lump of sweetened pain
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
Douro Valley wine Trip
As far as you can see,
Douro Valley for you and me,
Terroir covered with colored terraces up the hill,
Baron Forrester was made of God Will.
Vines flourish in schist as in paradise,
English friends here you can find.
Treasures that nature give to us for free,
Douro Valley for you and me.
The trains and boats near the river for trade,
Port wine is divine and so well made.
Love for people with great hospitality,
Douro Valley for you and me.
The harvest time without an end,
Douro valley loves you my friend.
Lost horizon that you can see,
Douro Valley for you and me.
Warmest regards.
Victor Marques
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 4:09 AM UTC
Baron wastelands sound the trumpet in the midst of the ghetto, where sobriety gathers in connected ambivalence.
Acknowledge the animism within naturopathic spirituality. I urge you to have explicit *********** with unfamiliar prostitutions, whilst political prowess ingests her toxicities in the guise of oratory genius.
The expulsion of vanity is haunting in its reverence.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
I am victim only to constant distractions,
restrictions, prescriptions, vicarious factors,
as various factions of elitism prescribe defeat
to the common man; the hard working talented
beaten upon by the self driven commerce land.
Businessmen, crooks, warlords and bankers;
victory purports itself the higher moral ground.
******* the world, lie on the crimson sand.
The brevity of riches in led laden ditches,
trenches v armistice; one man’s control over
cadets and lieutenants. Equality it seems
is general ignorance, propose roll reversal
and receive corporal punishment. Capital
interests will be met with bursaries, bail
out the banks and return to your knees,
put out your hands and beg for your feed.
If the top three percent own more wealth
than the lower half put together while
politicians claim to be fair-weather,
conclude that sincerities amiss, that
your representatives are on the pay roll
of profit driven lobbyists. Career crazed fat-cats
couldn’t care less if you're in tattered garments
or there’s a hole in your dress, their polished
boots carry them from vault to vault
while we fill another with oil-baron asphalt.
As social repression pushes populations
science progresses, enabling armed forces
to kettle us, cut us off and circle on horses.
Power-shifts across the globe become jaded
by investment with private militias and fascist
supremacists seizing resources from war
torn villages to fund their crude sourced
morality, migrants and refugee families
are vilified by ignorance forged in cynicism
caused by the inequality of education.
Here lie the symptoms of infinite regression,
hold mirror to gene-pool as it replicates
the same flawed equation, as populations
expire and conspire so does the problem.
Bombing a country without repercussions,
is as likely as a breaking the waters surface
without sending ripples to the adjacent atoms.
These are the dark ages of social stagnation.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
The crone sits hunched
in her little cell
has played all her cards
and cast every spell.
She's baron and empty
a dried up husk
and no one can see her
not even at dusk.
She was a wise mans daughter
now just a drudge
and life's passing by her
and that really hurts.
A young girl loves her
and takes her advice
calls her mother and other things,
nice.
Her daughters father
he twists the knife
the crone who sits hunched
he call's her wife.
She call's him DEATH.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
In the coven’s cavern
Dark and dusky
Wart and Weird
A potion are planning
Boiling and bubbling
The cauldron they caress
Eye of emu
Finger of fiend
Mutter and mumble
Hair of hare
Claw of cat
Splash and sparks
With a wicked whisper
A **** and a poke
A whip of a wand
Silent strangling smoke
Covered beneath her cloak
A vile vial full
The murderous magic made
A dead baron as bade
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
The Taste of Bitter Grapes
November 1, 2012
The taste of bitter grapes is what they do to me.
Do they ever wonder why people are so strange?
Of course not, for they are usual as in their ordinary lives.
I make a splash, and bring tidings of vitality.
Only to flop like a fish, utterly uninterested, outside their tiny ponds.
I chomp chomp on their hearts.
Tug on their brains with my toll on their souls.
But what's in it for me?
They become another casualty, and then nothing more than my inventory.
Maybe this hole was a birth defect.
Something like a mole?
I don't really want to know.
To get on with my days, I just need it not to show.
So, solid snow of this barren baron.
Please excuse these hoes, and the rakes too.
They didn't realize they were just a sideshow.
The main attraction is to never possess any true attraction and see how these things go.
Until I finally find my first true delight.
This is my plight.
I take another bite.
Of these bitter grapes.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
'Tis heartbreaking to see you marvel so at children's play.
Do you not remember that you were once a child?
Have you lost the sweet ring-a-ding-dings of fairytale teachings?
Each day you fall further into The Man
And away from Peter Pan, Sara Crewe, Alice, and The Great Baron Munchausen himself.
I have not forgotten the road to where they go.
Begin where you are,
Sitting mundane, in your realm of logic and laws, tasteless office cubicle.
Now close your eyes and count to ten!
One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
When your eyes creak open you'll have to think fast!
You've no weapon against that smelly pirate with his dagger to your throat!
Give a good kick and a hard shove and you'll see the blade has changed hands, AVAST!
One good ****** and you slice through his thieving guts like butter!
Abandon ship! And SPLASH! into a garden surrounded by stone.
All you've to do is turn your head to see the peonies, the morning glories, the honeysuckle dripping in dew.
Now straighten up and grab hold of your bearings; that's it!
What was that?!
It blew by you, fast as lightning and just as bright.
A fairy! It must have been!
You run off after it but your foot catches a mangled root and you
SLAM! Face first into...WHAT IS THAT?!
Bones?! Now scramble to your feet and dash to the opening of the damp cave,
Round the corner and AH! crash into a giant gray ogre! GRRAAAGGHGHH!
Quick! Pick up that femur at your feet and pitch it into his eye! Ha! You big brute!
Duck between his great tree trunk legs and RRRRRIIIINNNNGGGG!
There goes the office phone.
But you're still out of breath and desperate for more.
Silly, don't you know? It's not something I can teach you.
You just have to REMEMBER.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
If I were a painter
I would craft a goddess, hung
Immortal to some museum
or midst the the dusty collection of some baron
With body, flawless
Form, divine
And all of her admirers
Turning the muses flanking Apollo, jealous
But the real fire, the life giving spark
Would flare mad passion in her eyes
And the thundering, A call;
Theodora, freed from the patriarchy of old Byzantium
A bearer of the old magic, ghosts dancing from another time
Her beauty would be harmonious
To the glittering brown-gold of honeydew
And bursting,
Like a symphony loud and tremulous
All the true aesthetes, trembling
That a painter got to meet a woman so
To set his heart afire
And if I had been born a sculptor
If I had been given the power to shape
My crowning achievement
The great anthem of my time, spent
Would be a face;
A chin, gently tilted skyward
The eyes, sparkling with that unknown sea
Hair disheveled, parted, smoothing the cheeks
and the glimmer of lips,
Softly pursed;
But the eyes, the doorways to that tidal force
All of the dreams
All of the feelings, trapped and rolling, the ocean beneath
Would burst forth; A thousand church candles,
Or a gathering of street lights.
If I were a sculptor my greatest achievement would be cast in Lady's Dream
Not for the skin, but for the glittering eyes
Or if I were a composer
Working on my symphony
I would have the brasses buzzing,
and the strings
A chorus of thought
And the melody would be defined not by the loudness
But the silences
The gaps of deep thought, juxtaposed
Amongst the roaring
The soft gasps of tide being pulled back to sea
and all of the sweet undulations, the rivers of a mind
If I were a composer the audience would get a glimpse,
The briefest moment,
Of the beauty
Of quiet
The deepness
Of thought
But I am merely a poet,
A poor shaper of words
Strung out on hope,
Gambling on luck,
Trapped, eternally, to the brightness of the sun
And lost to those whirlwind emotions that govern men so
And for a moment, smiling,
I got to know the wildness in another poet's eyes
The softness of her smile,
And if I could spell love in her heart
I would
But I am merely a poet,
A poor shaper of words
And with these powers
I can merely say this:
When I say beauty
and the thoughts fall loosely on the page,
hopefully bringing forth a smile
When I say beauty,
When I say beauty
What I mean:
You.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
The peace of this small neighbourhood, is shattered as the door caves in
As masked marauders seek with guns, the criminals that hide within
But they find no deadly drug baron, Nor killer, or ****** animal
But a grey-haired lady, small and frail, in terror as she beholds them all
At gunpoint then her hands are tied, and her walking stick cast to the floor
As she is marched by mighty men, to the waiting van outside her door
Her heart skips wildly and her breath is tight, as she is bundled roughly inside
Her dignity and rights of law, are swept away and cruelly denied
And across the town there sits a girl, with kindly, smiling joyful eyes
A teen who spends her youthful zest, bringing hope and joy to other lives
But little does she know this day, that her future days are to dwell
Not in delight and dancing halls, but in a dark and lonely prison cell
And elsewhere stands a local hero, a man so honoured by decree
Acclaimed by peers and politicians, as a citizen of kindly deeds
Yet on this day, he is torn away, from his family who are left in tears
As this father and devoted husband, is imprisoned now for seven years
Who are these ones snatched by the state, and treated so unjustly
Held without cause or consideration, and despised so bitterly?
They obey all laws and pay their dues, and love their neighbours when they can
And share a hope of a future bright, even though their hope is banned
They are young and old, black and white, and gathered from diversity
They wage no wars, won't steal or lie, but treat all people with dignity
For their crime is not of violence, nor abuse, or fraud or robbery
But of being Christians and trying to show, Christ-like love to you and me
And what of those who terrorize them, the land where this grim drama is set
That mighty nation, so paranoid, that it considers them a threat
This pretender to the throne, bedecked in red and white and blue
Is a jealous king who hates the ones, who, to Christ their King are ever true
But as they languish in prison cells, awaiting justice from the King
The one whose commandments they obey, is smiling down and proud of them
For their hope is not in men of law, nor international decree
But their just and loving King, Christ Jesus, and in God- Jehovah's sovereignty
Dedicated to Jehovah's Witnesses imprisoned in Russia
Jun 26, 2021
Jun 26, 2021 at 7:26 AM UTC
there was a little rat he came from germany
a proper fighter pilot one day he would be
like the famous pilot from the years gone bye
the one they called red baron the ruler of the sky
in a plane of red flying through the cloud
a fighter pilots dream this would make him proud
firing his guns as he went flying by
watching as his enemy fell down from the sky
heading back to base landing on the ground
then fall fast asleep tucked up safe and sound
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Silent on the surface, deep ocean currents
twist and travel without company.
Quiet sands wash baron dunes.
Pure white powder melts
without menace.
Empty canyons grow deeper with each
rain drop’s echo on the walls.
Continents drift together
without clocks.
Mountains clash and thunder
toward the starry sky.
Volcanoes burst.
Fossils decay, lost
in oblivion
whispering
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 5:23 PM UTC
Fine wine, your line of perfection, profile absorbed
Within the printed page, taking you away
I want to say “Stop and listen”, the minutes ticking away
To nothingness, we won’t replace, they are lost
Fine wine, spilled onto the page, blood red; it disgorges
Its ruby glow, seeping into page after page
You leap to save the page, now wet and unreadable
Looking annoyed in the process, what a pity
Fine wine, these minutes are ones to remember with irritation
Cursing the red stain instead of the intrusion as welcome to
The monotony of the dirge, Groundhog Day of stale breath
A profound chapter not worth reading; close the book on it all!!
Fine wine, legacy of a long held sameness, dawdling the
Hedgerows, cutting the quality of what could be into what isn’t
And so on and so forth, dragging feet and knuckles; skin
Peeling its life away scuffed and failing, our souls drowned
Fine wine, secretly savage, blood red, vibrant and exotic
Or bored, buried in the sand dunes, beige and baron, your bottle of plonk
Oasis a mirage, a delirium to reality, a pretence to soften the blow
Life or existence with a hint of amaretto warmth to keep afloat
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
The North calls her.
Siren song echoing across baron fen.
Pulls at the tartan,
Begs her home again.
That Highland jig,
She remembers with a whistle,
Longs her to return,
To the land of the thistle.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC