"bohemian" poems
She speaks in clouds,
her curves drink lost
words.
Her dress entrances.
This marketplace so full
of colour,
many fragrances merge.
I watch her dance with
gypsy jazz tones.
Olive skin and dark hair.
She beckons me forth, to
a flaming beauty.
With her clouds I
merge.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 5:05 AM UTC
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes
shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit
brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times
barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now
an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze
i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge
free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation
floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun
you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound
you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul
dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly
©2016janetaylor
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
Bohemian baby, yeah thats what I am
Using rhapsody words, to write my jam
Vocals and lyrics, make a different sense to all
Changes I embrace, sometimes cause my fall
Bahama mama, I write for thee
Sand in my hair, and I'm livin free!
Beautiful coral, could cut me like a knife
Sailing the seas of words, now thats my life
Rays from the sun, make my unnatural color
My Calypso, she is my mother
From all of this, Caribbean joy
Raised on the island, a bahama bohemian boy
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:15 PM UTC
I like to remember that time
that we went to IHOP breakfast for the first time
You didnt know
but i was really nervous
and you started singing bohemian rhapsody
and i joined in
it made me feel better
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
Dry bones of Moses painted on my button down shirt screaming,
“to be or not to be” is not an English word.
In the daze of the thoughts of Neurology, I saw a man kick a bucket full of Starbucks giftcards down the avenue street. He screamed in pain as he watched the bucket tumble and roll down the street, blessing every Bohemian with a slight cold.
Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
I dreamt about a land before man where the Oxygen that sprang from the pores of flowers
sang a sweet death. Where dishwashers are saints, for afterall, man will not be if not for food.
Where books are written not to be read, but for the sake of Orange trees that will grow in the future.
I once wore a poker face to a funeral and laughed at the man in the casket because the souls he had underneath him were two left feet.
*We all once had naked pictures of God on our nightstands but lost it after Einstein
Lost the fried chicken war of 1812 to Isaac Newton.*
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
She's so sweet snd tender
I'm so glad I met her
And when it's all over
I won't forget her
She sends me to rapture
She's so hard to capture
Bohemian stature
So go up and ask her
Can you find me a reason?
Through changing seasons
Through love and treason
When I'm hot and freezing
She's so fine to gaze on
She's got life to take on
Even when she does wrong
She still sounds like a sweet song
She's so sweet and tender
I'm so glad I met her
And now that it's over
I won't forget her
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent
Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”
Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much
Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”
In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence
Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”
As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings
Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”
There she goes
There she goes
There she goes
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
I wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo,
I wanna dance the cha cha,hips movement with the cha cha!
or maybe try the salsa, deep ,sensual, is the salsa.
I wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba,
or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada!
My favourite s' the tango,intense ****** tango,
Lost in the flamenco,ardent spanish flamenco.
May even try the polka,high energy in polka,
the Czech bohemian polka!
I wanna go and party,good time ,dancing the rumba,
latino americano,cubano, africano.
I wanna do the hip hop,hip hop,hip hop,don't stop.
Dance reign in the ballroom,
as I dance the Ball Room,under and above,
With you ,I dance my last dance,the classic dance of love.
Are you ready partner ?
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:54 AM UTC
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.
I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.
Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.
Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.
Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.
We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.
©Paul M Chafer 2015
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
dissipated and disillusioned worms eating through the last splinters of the rotting universal wood.
the last transmission of regret sent electronically, spluttered,
into a tissue; in a moment of self indulgent **********
live showings of vicious execution, transmitted directly from the electromagnetic waves into the alpha waves of the young and naive. Desensitization, the last drops of humanity into complete disengagement.
endlessly recycled bohemian ideologies whispered into the ear of the eager idealist. spreading like fire, before burning out into the uncatchable reverie up with the stars, with all the other reveries, shining bright, intangible.
Instant dismissal from the old man, as the big curtain draws. Cynicism and fragmented past, falling on apathetic eyes, a proud man treat with a padded hand. faux sympathetic tones, blushing cheeks on old bones.
Begging with your body crumbling to dust with the disinterested doc, looking at the clock counting the milliseconds to the paycheck. Decomposing until you can be swept under the perpetual rug with the rest, Vacuum.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
caramel macchiato flavored coffee with mint cigarette flavored kisses with your dreamboat lover is the quintessence of what i call "perfection". if there was a way to describe the way your lips feel against mine, i could only describe it as "cigarettes and coffee". cigarettes and coffee isn't simply consuming caffeine or inhaling tobacco in your lungs, it's sitting on the roof at 1 am looking at the stars with a blanket around the both of you. it's laying in the grass with a slight breeze blowing making smoke rings between the arduous kisses. it's simply sipping a vanilla latte on the corner of a new york city street with a cigarette in your hand, making swirls of smoke as more ash forms above the filter, looking like some sort of bohemian gods. it's walking along a deserted sidewalk in your black jeans and doc martens with a big t-shirt and coke bottle sunglasses on with your lover on your hip and your menthol in one hand and philter in another. "cigarettes and coffee" is whatever you can interpret as pure bliss; it's simply whatever makes you happy and whatever makes you want to sit in the grass all night and talk about anything and everything. there's a lot of people that would argue there's no beauty to the feel of tobacco in your lungs and arabica in your mouth, but evidently, they've never tried cigarettes and coffee.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
Rokkstarr
There's no more love for the music,
I've sang since birth about this world.
Sang those love songs in my youth,
Now your love songs make me hurl.
**** Rock 'n' Roll and the bands you think are great!
**** the police and **** you all!
**** all those people that you hate!
**** Radio 1 and **** the world!
Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.
Sell out tours and groupie whores.
Life is great? No life’s a bore.
Been here before and it was just the same.
Same old thing again and again.
Know what to expect, no more surprise’s;
No more excitement, no meaningful trophies.
It all means nothing, now we've been here so long;
The **** record label wants another song.
Which must be written, within the month;
We have a release date, so we can sell this stuff,
Before Christmas to the kids, because they’re our target audience;
The music that they want, they can get from their parents.
Because their parents know, that they just can't say "No.",
To a kid that wants something, as much as they will.
Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.
To be a Rokkstarr, you'd think would be great.
But the songs you once loved, you begin to hate.
You sing them so much, it becomes a habit;
Until one day you say "That's it! I've had it!"
I'm tired of singing these songs;
The words have lost all their meaning.
I need something new, something I can believe in.
I need music to fall in love with, I need lyrics with a real meaning;
But my hope for all that's Rock, is a memory that's slowly fading.
Soon Rock will die and be gone;
Because new Rock bands come and go.
Soon there will no longer be any hype;
About a band you heard on the radio.
Rock 'n' Roll is dead and gone,
Once Rokkstarr meant something great.
Once we sang these songs with passion,
Once we sang these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on stage like wankers!
So let's all sell out to the man.
He gives us money for writing **** songs;
Now moneys all we understand.
You never know though I could be wrong.
Maybe soon I'll hear a song;
That will move me like 'Bohemian Rhapsody' did.
That will make me appreciate new music.
Here's hoping for the future,
For Rock to come back with a vengeance.
Remember your roots in a jam-packed moshpit?
Remember the mindless violence?
Remember when you saw your girl through the crowd
And fell in love with her there and then?
That’s love for Rock music at its finest
And believe me it will come again.
Rock 'n' Roll's not dead and gone;
Now Rokkstarr means something great!
Now we sing these songs with passion;
Now sing these songs with hate!
Now we stand here on the stage;
After finding our love for Rock!
So let's all softly bang our heads and GET THE **** UP!
(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
Laying outside on a creaky old balcony,
On our backs, tangled up together in heavy blankets,
Rubbing our hands and ears
Because they’re getting numb
Thankful for the summer’s gentle night
I drew my eyes away
From the graceful Venus in the South,
A lone golden light shining wistfully
And I finally found the shape of the Big Dipper.
I stare at its lowest corners’ bright star,
An unfathomable size, and even greater distance away
Making me feel infinitely small
Infinitely calm
I trace with my gaze its tail
As icy white sparks fly lightning fast
Through the dripping-ink sky
And burn out faster than a blink,
Barely caught by our drifting eyes
The three of us talk, I sing, maybe to stay awake or maybe to pass the time
Bohemian Rhapsody’s bittersweet melody never sounded so pleasing to me as at 2 in the morning.
Our chatter of secrets is punctuated by gasps
Of us pointing out those bright streaks
We all make wishes,
For love, for luck, for answers
As celestial raindrops keep reaching across the sky
One bright orange jewel with a lavender tail
Burns beautifully by
I wonder why people make wishes upon something that’s dying,
Though spectacular, at the end of its life
“People wish upon things of the heavens”
Is your beautiful reply.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
Here now by many paths convoluted,
Ever trying the thoughts new, acted on.
Heeding just,streams conscious flowing,
Changed and morphed in an instant blinking.
Hair long,then shaved, now streaked orange grey
Suits to jeans,tore them,robes spiritual,now **** pray!
Was straight,turned metro,for all open,but curious still,
Body clean,got pierced, now adorning pasts tattooed!
Gurus, philosophies many, still a fool ever journeying.
Heard Bach,reggaed to Marley,wood-stocked,now fused.
Loved intense,let go easy,Kama sutras experimented on.
Traveled afar,lived as a local,now a foreigner everywhere,
Hip-pied from smoke to grass,yoga to parties raved hard.
Against wars, sat in for peace elusive,fought all,now stoic,
Never shocked or surprised,took all as came,now strong.
The set mind,everchanging,the physical a compliment cosy,
Unrecognizable now,existing totally, being happy, normally?
Many shout, freak! I smile,walk on to my home in Bohemia!
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
JIMMY large nose natural hipster totally informed clever funny sincere yet aloof
JOEY tall tan lanky physique long thick brown hair in braid striking good looks yet self-unaware
SHANNON athletic build attractive brunette accomplished poet so good she doesn’t need to prove it emotional sensitive tough
ANNE Joni Mitchell good looks bohemian self-effacing impulsive submissive *****
ACT 1 scene 1
a deserted chic indie reception area somewhere present 8:30 PM
JIMMY (singling out Anne) you’re so beautiful i want you so bad
ANNE oh yeah you’re sweet to say that
JIMMY i mean it you symbolize hope inspiration in me
ANNE hope? oh god
Anne looks away runs fingers through her hair
JIMMY hear that song over the speakers?
ANNE yeah
JIMMY it’s “Home” Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes very cool check out rough trade east version on youtube
ANNE yeah right
Anne blows air out her nose looks away in Shannon’s direction
SHANNON (singling out Joey) do you read?
JOEY yeah some
SHANNON what are you currently reading?
JOEY uh a text about economic international relations
SHANNON hmmm interesting do you ever read literature or poetry?
JOEY nah not much
SHANNON like movies?
JOEY yeah sure some
SHANNON what’s you’re favorite movies?
JOEY “The Devil Wore Prada” “Eddie” “I’m Not There” i don’t know there are tons of movies i enjoy
SHANNON interesting
JOEY i need to ask Jimmy something excuse me
Joey walks across area to Jimmy
JOEY that western shirt looks so cool on you
JIMMY thanks yeah it’s a hip shirt what up dude?
JOEY oh god Shannon is hitting on me she’s way too full of herself way too available
JIMMY hmmm nice toned body bet she’s a tiger in the hay
JOEY not interested
JIMMY me neither but i could be persuaded honestly i’m blown away with Anne
Anne approaches Shannon
ANNE Jimmy is a conceited **** he thinks he’s so cool Shannon you look so beautiful this evening your hair complexion
SHANNON funny I felt so blah all day what did Jimmy say to you? he’s not my type but not so bad if only he had Joey’s looks Joey’s shy sweetness look at Joey over there his eyes lips he’s so **** I think I’m falling in love and yet i recognize falling in love requires a huge territory of untried tolerance
Anne’s fingers stealthily pocket Shannon’s tortoise-shell comb while Shannon observes Joey fawning over Jimmie across room
ACT 2
refer to ACT 1 scene 1
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 6:15 AM UTC
nails dug through soil
tearing stems in a sunflower field
lavender and daisies melt her heart like yin and yang
skin ruddy and golden from grand star kisses
bohemian waves compliment her cheeks
along with a blush warmth has masked
dream catcher strings substitute her veins
as if she was a native myth in soul and body
bare feet stained earthly she runs, flies
like a finch with dappled wings
the spirits underground
lift her high into the stratosphere
she lets passion overcome fears
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
comely, maybe
but not beautiful
my features are as round as vowels
and I carry the moon in my hips
I am an unpolished beauty
smooth pebbles resting at the bottom
of a cold clear stream
with an empty purse
imagination
my only currency
in this world
I am a shrinking violet
occasionally a rose
february-white
caught in your button-loop
long-stemmed red roses
stalk runways
hollywood bombshells
are bubbly as champagne
and full of flesh and light
but *** sans love
is still an empty bathtub
whatever happened to pin-up girls
long cigarette holders
and muted photographs?
I am distorted
in the fish-eye view
of the modern lens
in my fantasies
I am no longer sand and loam
I glow like a tall slim candle
though I am often numb and dumb
and my girls are as absent
as long lost unicorns
I am the bohemian princess
I travel through foreign lands
clothed in exotic costume
a jewelled headdress, and
indian pyjamas coloured sapphire,
turquoise and cayenne-red
my feet are near bare
and my hippie hair
is a mass of blonde curls
I take a sojourn in
southern california
warm desert air
soft against my skin
I surf in the salty sea
held buoyant by the waves
a sunset stains the sky tangerine
the palm trees
black against the orange light
click teasingly in the breeze
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
Trying to breathe,
TRYING TO BREATHE
into the woods.
An old woman
in a furry hat
& I,
laughing together
still somewhat
lifelike.
Ever too proud
to play
boomerang
or go fetch
for change
FOR CHANGE
we live out
of bags.
Exactly where
we're meant to be
& 'how you say?'
...all that jazz."
--shoo.shu #doubleentendres #poetry #spilledink #inthenow #inthemoment #underdog #homeless #boho #bohemian #wanderlust #gypsy #nomad
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC