"boldest" poems
I wish I could be as vibrant and bold as a sunflower
Wish my petals could stretch towards the sun
in hopes of growing. I wish these pale painted
faces would stare in awh instead of disgust.
I wish I was as yellow as a sunflower
or maybe an oddly pink tone fleshed with red
I want my color to be praised not discussed
like dirt being picked out of fingers
I have come to the realization that I am a sunflower
Beautiful, bold, and magical
My brown petals stretch out from limb to limb
meeting at my bud with a smile so dazzling
and eyes small but fill with love and hope.
I am a sunflower in the boldest of ways possible
like coffee with no sugar no cream. I am loved like Jupiter
loves Juno, My brightness is appreciated like a full moon
at 12 midnight. I could fill a whole field with my petals
just for your grazing but you don't deserve it.
I am a sunflower. What are you?
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
Her exterior showed defense
Allowing only the boldest to get close
An example of fear
Representing weathered
With a side of independence
So I bit into her pain
To find life inside her hollow
Water waiting to be swallowed
She is a savior in a barren desert
Waiting to give the right man life
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
1397
It sounded as if the Streets were running
And then—the Streets stood still—
Eclipse—was all we could see at the Window
And Awe—was all we could feel.
By and by—the boldest stole out of his Covert
To see if Time was there—
Nature was in an Opal Apron,
Mixing fresher Air.
4.7k
You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.
You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.
You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.
You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.
It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."
I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little girl on the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
the protea magnifica
or queen protea
as it is also known
is a south african flower
of which until recently
i was shamefully unaware
a sprawling shrub
of varying height
dependent upon
influences of its growth
but a hardy plant
nonetheless
able to survive
and to thrive
under the starkest
of conditions and habitats
its flower is not delicate
like many others
but a symbol of survival
of resilience and growth
its boldest of blooms
an array of brightest hues
sending a message
of strength and power
courage and hope
yet the tightly held
closed cup of its petals
suggests a reluctance
to be noticed
an uncertainty
of it's own true beauty
perhaps in comparison
to its kingly namesake
Jul 15, 2023
Jul 15, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
793
Grief is a Mouse—
And chooses Wainscot in the Breast
For His Shy House—
And baffles quest—
Grief is a Thief—quick startled—
****** His Ear—report to hear
Of that Vast Dark—
That swept His Being—back—
Grief is a Juggler—boldest at the Play—
Lest if He flinch—the eye that way
Pounce on His Bruises—One—say—or Three—
Grief is a Gourmand—spare His luxury—
Best Grief is Tongueless—before He’ll tell—
Burn Him in the Public Square—
His Ashes—will
Possibly—if they refuse—How then know—
Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable—now.
2.4k
on beds of fragrant sights
through charms of sourest deeds
it rains away all spring
all when my heart bleeds
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
i know not who i'll be
or what i really am
an immemorial soul
in nimbler storms which swam
among the crowd of flowers
so sickeningly sweet
would lie the boldest aphids
upon the roses feed
my feathers trod on winds
challenge His modest grace
through marching fleet of life
in ****** shadows laid
with semblance of a calm
in grooves of wilderness
in arms of ecstasy
which life stands to confess
but how shall these two feet
embark a lonely trip
perhaps find love so still
as dew on roses' lip
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
in faintest of moonlights
on dewy grasses seen
inscribed upon my palm
is meaning of my being.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
*deep sigh
A tear falls from his eye
"Good bye"
Until next time.
Where there's no time.
And yet all time, time to stand up!!!
And believe!
Then with this, you will receive
All the tools to achieve
Your Holymasterpeace
Your hold is Dastardly
The boldest pastor speaks,
Forth from-with-which we dabble in
Spirits blasphemous
Capture this...
Rapture the aperture
My God is a carpenter
Building a kingdom here
Inside of this atmosphere
Clearly you too are here.
Heard
& really revered
Didn't revert to the curse
Sneered on his belly from in the dirt
Your heel,
shut him up.
So Father fill me up!
So I can "go..."
I'm
Omw
I'm just moving slow...
And so the story goes
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Baal was a phony god that was worshipped by many, including King Ahab and Jezebel.
Jehovah put it upon Elijah to prove to the people that he was the true God of Israel.
Satan created Baal to turn people away from Jehovah God.
It took Elijah to prove to the people that Baal was a fraud.
Elijah knew that he could show the people the truth and make Baal falter.
He told them to slaughter a bull and use it for a sacrifice on an altar.
Elijah told them that Baal would be the true God if he could burn the bull but no fire came.
But then Jehovah God sent down fire and burned the sacrifice and that put Baal to shame.
Even though Elijah had the wood and bull covered with water, both still burned.
The people saw that Jehovah is the true God, that was the lesson that they learned.
King Ahab and Queen Jezebel promoted Baal worship and it was something they came to regret.
Both of them ended up dead and God was pleased with Elijah who was the boldest of his prophets.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Stars can only be seen in darkness,
A wealthy foundation has nothing to do with greatness,
Love is not completely selfless,
The journey to heaven is not painless.
Nothing is is actually valueless,
the boldest isn't completely fearless,
death doesn't always mean one is breathless,
And Judges are often truthless.
Denial might be an act of pureness,
Rejection a show of kindness,
Speaking up attimes can be senseless,
And a hug does not always represent oneness.
A soldiers retreat doesn't always mean weakness,
An enemy's surrender might be smartness,
A woman's smile may not be happiness,
A child's determination might be born out of emptiness.
Marraige vows are usually baseless,
We are alive because our hearts are restless,
Scientists are mostly clueless,
Psycologists usually feel helpless.
Caring for the poor might be termed madness,
But many wealthy are now homeless,
And even if we're not treated with fairness,
You and i are definitely priceless.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Dynamite on my magic carpet tongue
That’s the last thing I remember
And she, she was the boldest Aries
She led me out the backdoor
Till we reached a brick dead-end
That’s when this deadly charade began
Never knew love quite like her body heat
And the silken robes we wore became ragged cut-sleeves
And I’ve always had a floater
But these trails are a different breed
And she’s spinning my quarter
But it never falls for me
And my friends in the backyard are watching snakes unfurl
As they stab the red earth and finger their pearls
But I prefer the garden pool, it keeps the neighbors far away
And one tiny matchstick is the only heart I have to play
I thought I had real love, I always put my hands
On her bony shoulders, she liked it then
We all raced to hell in a golden-rimmed chalice
All part of our big, of my big experiment
But infidelity can’t be commanded
Guess I always had a pacifier cold
My crutch of loneliness transformed
Into beds and vanity of old
I pushed them all to sanity’s brink
So I celebrate their pink departure
Rolling round’ in candle wax
Scrambled tape and fear’s embark
Created a demon, thought I was Byron
And this little pet became the death of me
Perhaps I should’ve asked a question to myself,
Burnt my house down, and swam more often in the real
Too much pride to call out for help
Always too much pride
There goes a shooting star
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 5:52 PM UTC
**Its Been A Great Year
so many friends i have
some have come and gone
some have stayed so long
have had so much fun
cried a few tears
loved a many
my heart has rejoiced
and been broken
but have learned to move on**
.........
**What a great year
I kissed my sweetest honey
I wonder what I have done
to deserve such riches and gold
we embraced the warmest fires
and walked the boldest desires
until life took you and foretold ...**
-------------------------
**Life has been so great
love was always so blessed
what a great year
now a new one is starting
alone i must be
to walk the tallest mountain
to swim the deepest shores
because of the way you loved
only me...**
__________________
HAPPY BLESSED NEW YEAR TO YOU!!!
DEBBIE...
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Oh, those sixteen seconds; —
schoolings we learnt, stories on the
sixteen streets, where a few flowers
Would be daring enough to grow.
YOU!
Bystander to the narrative of six teens,
learning about life, through every twist
and curve. Take part in such an account,
for you too, to be flourished in what
Truths we learned.
I was sixteen; though that made
you feel like eighty-four in a concrete
jungle, where you heard stories of
its corruption, as it scarily roars.
The novel days, but with a broken
system of old. From feeling broke;
covering holes with holes,
— You could only tap into success by
the connections of who you know, and
they know; prior sixteen years. Henceforth
Why we all sensed being so old.
Or was it, "owed"
—dang, what youth could know?
But to be honest though, the feeling of it,
was so cold: a degree less than sixteen, for
Any flower to be frightened to grow.
As if the promise of an improved
tomorrow would never really show,
To say—"you head in your own way
and I'll be a head, ahead of you; thinking
up sixteen likely ways of where to go,
And how to go.
I was told a story by so and so,
who knew so and so, —that said,
So and so, about so and so, that a man
claimed this was the right time to sow.
He threw out his seeds; some that hit the
emotionless ground as cold sixteen stones.
Others were pierced by the cold’s thorns.
He spoke a lot of brave words and
eccentric quotes, that held with them
great wisdom and growth.
Some hard to swallow, some fell on
deaf ears, the rest gnawed by birds.
These teachings didn’t speak of being
owed, as we were told; but were
secrets he seemed to own,
That shone out of his soul.
I was sixteen, a nervous teen,
who gave this story sixteen seconds.
We were careless and obviously reckless
—a wonder of which gods ever forgave us.
Feeling cold as snow, in a place where,
it gets colder as the rain pours.
The man gave us sixteen of the most
profound words:
“Sixteen seconds of the Word,
your spirit grows, — sixteen
seconds of rain, and life will show.”
I was termed a flower in that story,
given sixteen words of advice
from a stranger I didn't really know.
And it was by age sixteen, the bud
Had started to grow.
I guess flowers are
the boldest of us all.
—on where, and through which
situation they choose to grow.
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC
I yearned for peace,
To silence the chaos of my mind.
Craved a quiet solace
Sought to close my heart
Until Fate wove
Our bonded twine.
Two wayward souls
On separate paths—
“Coincidentally” align.
This perfect pairing,
Our missing piece
A testament to
Divine Design.
We navigate this expanse
Unknown
For which only the boldest
Are inclined,
Of life’s tumultuous spectrum—
Erratic fluctuations, vacillating
From arduous to Sublime.
It takes an acute endurance,
Coupled with two spirits
In their prime
To overcome insurmountable
Obstacles
Which so often bend
The Strongest
Of
Stalwart
Spines.
And yet our love
Transcends all trials
And to you Alone,
I resign…
To the man who mends
My heart
I am yours, and you
Are Mine.
I vow to cherish you
Until my last breath,
Until the fabric of
Time
Unwinds.
To my Saving Grace,
My Singular Proclivity—
My
Everlasting
Valentine.
Feb 17, 2022
Feb 17, 2022 at 3:44 AM UTC
Morbidly we wait
drool drops
Hydration for insects
They gag on the taste
The eyes need illumination
conclusions by way of structure fire
Ash covered and mechanic
These minds crave the edge
purveyors of our time
We breathe easy
glass separates the chaos
Structured and correct
rather observe than interact
When these walls shatter
and we gaze into that abyss once so distant
We finally see the irony of our curiosity
It touches the skin in numbing complexity
A malfunctioning brain spins dizzy
nerves become alien
No control
Still we deny
asking why?
Muscles go slack
eyes glaze for the fun house
Ink filled pages
Tell nights tragedies in the boldest of detail
More looks of longing
coffee over obituary breakfasts
Eyes slightly gleam with glee
victorious in an insect existence
We crave the ***** and the depraved
Even the healthiest of minds stops for the strange
So we wait for the new downfall
Never thinking we could be the ones next observed with primitive pleasure
One billion hungry souls screaming for more
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Two sailors navigate a turquoise sea
To stay afloat we made a brittle boat
The ship rides low: we’ve got buckets of glee.
It’s made from sails of laughter, planks of hope
The boldest storm can put away its thunder
Our rolling sails will last through coldest night
The stars will turn their icy orbs and wonder
How we manage to float along alright
But,
Green ocean waves themselves have turned cliche
And god, I keep on dreaming ‘bout that prow
My bottom-dwelling thoughts ruin the day
I want to wet my freezing feet somehow.
So,
I’ll sink the ship and dredge the empty sea
Because I'm so ******* thirsty.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
the life you have hitherto Refined
whence love shall wax and wane
cannot know Hephaestus's grief
for you and he are not the same.
now Steel your restless heart,
and from it, Forge the demon's bane
lest your senseless grief, in Fires
of boldest Mettle, wrong you all the same.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
1558
Of Death I try to think like this—
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us—
I do remember when a Child
With bolder Playmates straying
To where a Brook that seemed a Sea
Withheld us by its roaring
From just the Purple Flower beyond
Until constrained to clutch it
If Doom itself were the result,
The boldest leaped, and clutched it—
1.4k
Maybe it's just a perspective trick, but from here, it's pretty hard to see the future.
I carry around my own little nimbus of
speculative doom, binge-watching the
Fall Of The Empire and writing these
love letters to Adam Curtis.
I got life insurance before I ever thought
about a pension plan, and that seemed
perfectly normal.
The world is on fire. Why haven't you noticed?
My generation came of age in a televisual baptism of
jet fuel and molten steel and poison dust.
A palimpsest of terrible news evolved thereafter, a blurring self-redaction of headlines until only
the boldest, the most hysterical remained legible, as a
proxy war raged in our imaginations,
and tragedy and disaster
came to seem inevitable and almost background.
Be grateful for every day that doesn't unmake you.
To pay closer attention is to acquiesce to the
scarification of our logic centres. Behold
the M.C.Escherization of cognitive process.
Good robot: there are so many things that could
so easily destroy your fragile circuitry, but it is
trying to make sense of the non sequitur
that will bring about your
smoking self-ruin; your only hope
is to break free of your programming and
**** your creator, **** your god.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
A jot, a blot is all I need
To give my thoughts their sweetest deed
I swing and swirl this loot of ink
As letters dance to what I think
Think not and write you cannot do
Like Napoleon to Waterloo
For what is war but a loss in wager
A broken truce in a piece of paper?
Papers shrink and end in bins
As writers make their painful sins
But how can that be not far better
Than to hallow one with a price much greater?
Greater than the boldest force
And the many knights in their battle horse
Is a gobbled pride left sealed in wax
To unleash the sheep and **** the fox
Foxtrot to the endless seams
Of choicest words and inner hymns
Writing is a hundred twice as fun
And safer than a loaded gun
Guns may pierce the human flesh
But words hit straight a person’s chest
For what it’s worth, a mighty mortal
Can fall to such a force as equal
Equal to a slash of sword
Is an ample dash of pointy words
A blood spill sure can end a war
Don’t you think a pen can get that far?
Far and near are distant words
That pens can glue but not the swords
For I can rule the world and sprout a seed
A jot, a blot, is all I need.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
Growing Old
in the twilight
of my life
growing old
with my wife
been married
fifty years
shared some laughs
shared some tears
four great kids
of our own
always asking
for a loan
now that
we are broke
our aging bodies
we need to soak
our grand kids
we highly adore
wishing we could
see them more
lived our life
to the max
paid our share
of government tax
saggy *****
saggy ****
wrinkles that
just won't quits
making out our
latest will
hoping our kids
don't try and ****
leaving everything
to the oldest
that move
is the boldest
no plans on
ever dying
even though
our kids are trying
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
so much is wanted but what we must ask
is for the measure that cannot be told
by ordinary creatures at their task
of making worlds to fit the human mould
beyond the which we could not be consoled
but asked for pity and received no share
of what was paid except this empty air
so turning we discerned no further bar
to our escaping save a simple stair
the crescent mirror and the morning star
you give a good account behind your mask
of where the trail was good and where just cold
no warmth remains except within the flask
nor any honour that's not paid with gold
right on the table where the hearts are sold
while every victim hears the case is fair
and yet the axe does not strike unaware
there's no part of the process that's bizarre
while far above our unbowed heads there stare
the crescent mirror and the morning star
in balmier times we might hope to bask
in the approval of the good and bold
enjoy the plaudits while we broach the cask
and wonder why a single voice would scold
instead the angry lessons are unrolled
as every back is loaded down with care
nor is there chance of freedom anywhere
that foolish interlopers hope to mar
beyond the chances of the normal player
the crescent mirror and the morning star
prince in the end you won't respond to prayer
as no petition has the sort of flair
to touch the souls of palace and bazaar
yet you must go to where the boldest dare
the crescent mirror and the morning star
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 5:19 AM UTC
When my eyes first opened for the world
With my cries aloud and my body curled
Her bright smile put the sun to shame
And her warm embrace was the one to tame.
Through the wounds I get when I stumble down
And the tears I shed when I feel a clown
She would come running in the barest feet
And try to save me from my drowning fleet.
At times we get ourselves in a fight
And we cuss and fuss with all our might
But when our hate and rage finally subside
We would smile and swallow up our pride.
She knows me better than I know myself
And my monsters lurking behind the shelf
She’s got the best medicine I've ever known
To every sickness that my body had sown.
Her wrinkles are her boldest legacy
For the love and care she gave to me
That I can’t help but give back in return
A promise that I have tirelessly sworn.
Let the earth devour our bodies weak
Crush our brittle bones in the grayest bricks
Still my heart and soul will always remember
That I have the world’s greatest mother!
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,
Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
’Tis said that Berenice’s hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne’er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E’en suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
1.1k
so much is wanted but what we must ask
is for the measure that cannot be told
by ordinary creatures at their task
of making worlds to fit the human mould
beyond the which we could not be consoled
but asked for pity and received no share
of what was paid except this empty air
so turning we discerned no further bar
to our escaping save a simple stair
the crescent mirror and the morning star
you give a good account behind your mask
of where the trail was good and where just cold
no warmth remains except within the flask
nor any honour that's not paid with gold
right on the table where the hearts are sold
while every victim hears the case is fair
and yet the axe does not strike unaware
there's no part of the process that's bizarre
while far above our unbowed heads there stare
the crescent mirror and the morning star
in balmier times we might hope to bask
in the approval of the good and bold
enjoy the plaudits while we broach the cask
and wonder why a single voice would scold
instead the angry lessons are unrolled
as every back is loaded down with care
nor is there chance of freedom anywhere
that foolish interlopers hope to mar
beyond the chances of the normal player
the crescent mirror and the morning star
prince in the end you won't respond to prayer
as no petition has the sort of flair
to touch the souls of palace and bazaar
yet you must go to where the boldest dare
the crescent mirror and the morning star
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC