"bosomed" poems
Selfies,
I can smell the desperation,
from here.
odors of worry;
rippling anxities of uncertainity.
two dimensional,
instantaneous impressions,
pixelated presentations,
and
Teenage frustrations.
up tilted camera.
held against the light,
Illuminating eyes ,
and eradicating spots.
that looks like a good one.
Vicarious representation;
of how good
one could look,
fallible and hopeful.
big bosomed dame
showcasing blessed cleavage,
pulsating the adolescent
bulges.
delivered to
metal passenger,
thereafter shown
among peers.
networked to unknown.
Friends who'd never
met eye,
or
touched skin,
or
even spoke.
self conscious
cropping of images.
fat and fearful.
wasted hours,
dying for love.
False dream of
captivating the messes with her selfie.
The very ugliness
of impressions.
Oh, how shallow we've became.
The denial
of the impact of aesthetics.
laughable,
torrents of judgement
Skinny,
fat,
ugly,
behold their desperate eyes behind the selfie.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home,
Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine;
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
To supple Office low and high,
To crowded halls, to court, and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,
To those who go, and those who come,
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone
Bosomed in yon green hills, alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And ****** feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.
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Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress, and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with love's anguish!
But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers as you have done before;
O, come Divine One, descend once again from
heaven's golden dominions!
Your chariot yoked to love's consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you once came gliding from the utmost heights, to
the dark-bosomed earth.
Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.
Asking me what I sought in my hopeless, bewildered desire.
Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should
Persuasion summon here?"
"Though today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, soon she shall return them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly!"
Come to me now, most Holy Aphrodite!
Release me from my heavy heartache and anguish;
grant me all I request, be once again
my ally and protector!
"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of ****** to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his "On Literary Composition," published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, "Hymn to Aphrodite" may have been composed for performance within the cult. We do know that Sappho was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of ****** were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called "the Tenth Muse" and the other nine were goddesses. Keywords/Tags: Sapphic, Sappho, ****** translation, ancient Greek, hymn, Aphrodite, Zeus, daughter, immortal, goddess, holy, lady, heaven, enchantress, enchantment, love potion, charm, spell, persuasion, beguiler, beguilement, mistress, discipline, ********** prayer, prayers, chariot, heaven, descent, ally, protector, lust, desire, passion, longing, *** crush, girlfriend, women, grief
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 2:51 AM UTC
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.
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The dream haunts me
often, far too often, building
in intensity but is initially
disguised in absurdity and the
nonsense of a young man's lusts
with an old man's deficits.
This woman-like entity,
ill-defined at first but forming
voluptuously, emerges from
swelling curtains. She moves, more
levitates, toward my bed, buoyed
by what I don't know, but angelic-like
it would seem. Or perhaps
an Aphrodite reincarnate?
Oh this goddess, what pale
skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed,
jutting ******* ***** that
beckon, nearly drool, and pursed
red lips beaded with sweet
juice stolen from the wild cherry
tree beneath my window.
Far too much clarity for a simple
dream. But such a dream! And what
seething testosterone I feel!
I am become a hedonist, raging,
pulsing spermatozoa, renewed
of time and youthful energies.
Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy
compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly
impaling the other on this love bed
to the result that each cell of our
individualities melds. We are indistinct,
yes - as one, and any ****** impulse
between us is shared to the point of
utter exhaustion, depletion. I am
nearly drained of life, it would seem.
Then, as it always must,
the scene changes, Act II.
Inexplicably, shedding a ******
serpentine-like skin, she slings it away
and drops limply upon me - entirely
skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless,
sexless, motionless. The horror
of a diabolical hollowness
stares through me, and I am
suspended, fully terrorized, in
this paralysis. So, this is
succumbing to the Succubus?
God, my dear God, that I should
never dream again!
--
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
I laid nose-to-nose, in tall, old grasses, with a spirited coyote, some nights ago.
He said to me, with lips unparted and low, shiny eyes - to listen.
Hesitantly, I inched forward and nudged that coyote with my face, prodding him for something more.
But, nothing came.
He simply stared back at me, unblinkingly.
“I listen!”
I shouted with a heart on fire.
“I listen more than anyone I know!”
The coyote continued his staring game, quieting my bosomed flames.
Stubborn - they erupted, something ugly, from the valley, into the mountaintop.
Spilling from eyes, in the mountainside, I screamed back into his so loud,
The mountain ached from its shut in echo.
Patient " the coyote waited.
So, I stopped.
Somehow surprised, I found that, after the flames subsided into greys of ashes, in silence, I had begun to listen.
That coyote’s eyes were urging eyes, unmoving " unrelenting.
Obedient, I drew forth my worn, careful bag out and placed it, gently, in the dirt between us.
The coyote snatched it, in the grain between our breaths, and held it between clenched teeth.
I glared at him with challenging eyes " he stared back at me, just the same.
I reached out to grab it, but halfway there, I heard the coyote command me,
“Stop.”
The coyote lay there, my ashes raging about loudly " still silent, my bag between his teeth.
As the ashes settled, his glaring eyes mellowed, and I watched as he gobbled it up.
--
A crow cawed somewhere.
The full moon shone down approvingly.
My soul sighed once.
My body followed.
The coyote slept -
I bowed my head in silence.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 2:09 PM UTC
The rain splutters at me in foreign tongue
As my mind hurdles under a mushroom
Shelter from the pelting lashes
Of nostalgic memory
Such vulnerable home from woes
Like a rodent hole in flooding summer
They tell me I am a finicky rat
That will not survive outside Sakubva
Ratatat-tatatatat-tart!
Oh but how true!
Each day I walk out in the morning
Come evening I pick every footprint I left
Back home
Prompted by need to use my footprints
Once more
Take care!
The radio blares
Save save save save
The television frowns
Wise up
Recycle is the trick in these hard times
Discarded beliefs, discarded memories, discarded tastes
Can be recycled
Recycled dreams, recycled husband, recycled wife...
I scrap my bottom in amazement
After all there is always a grain of virtue left
In what we discard -
O how I love the scent
God has made it that way
That each time you ****
Before you go
You save a nostalgic glance at your ****
Suppressing a sense of loss
For a part of you left behind
Like kites tied to strings we are
We regale in our false splendour
At time's mercy
The fruits of mental ************
Deflowered by new ****** worlds
Of lewd dreams in striking G-Strings
Gyrating ***** of fantastic insanity
That lure us
Into the heavy -bosomed clouds
Pregnant with cultural retribution
For the anarchy coursing our veins
Like the burning pain on my back
Each evening when I bend double
To pick up and bag my footprints
I left in the morning
This is not madness
When I tell you to let your beak
Of tolerance peck and peck
On your ****
What difference is there
Between **** in your belly and
**** steaming betwixt your legs?
What difference is home
When you are young and when old?
Riding on the back of butterfly dreams
When I am a newborn macho
In the bullring of entrepreneurship
Or O such cosmopolitan hunk
In the realm of fashion and modelling...
Sounds like sheltering under a mushroom
That springs and dazzles but a day
Hope I will hurtle back
Hope sweet home, home sweet home
I am a finical rat
That won't live away from home.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
Mid autumn’s eve
Dancing dust and flickering campfire alive
The slumbering women
With narrow waists
Fan the white-hot humidity
Rising in our *****
We are torn by a peculiar ***** pain
And an Ancient Whisper tells us to take them
But a Hollow Echo retorts our hammering heart
To be patient in our sleepless heat
As a watcher in the woods
Until the women’s voices
Are darkly wet with desire—
But we cannot wait . . .
An impish grin then pulls our lips
When the sinister silence
Drapes over the desirable women
We span their length with our imagination
Full bosomed and tawny skin—
Musk and wildflowers lavishly call us
And we, carefree with the flames
Take them with a Ruling Passion
Fast dance and star fire
Clawed and kicked fought and spit
Struggling dearly to save their thighs
Against the Velvet Night
Blood smell becomes the campfire
Dancing dust dies
And we return to our sleepless side
Our Eternal Hunger satiated for the moment
And the narrow waists
Lying spent and used were Murderously Furious—
But we could not wait . . .
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Surely the earth, that s wise being very old,
Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold
Thy sultry hair up from my face that I
May pour for thee this yellow wine, brim-high,
Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold.
We’ll drown all hours: thy song, while hours toil’d,
Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky.
Now kiss, and think that there are really those,
My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way
Through many days they toil; then comes a day
They die not,—never having lived,—but cease;
And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.
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She saw the kids on the slide,
each with their own
burden to bear:
burn scars,
post operative
patients,
cancer victims
counting the last days
on their thin fingers,
a kid with an eye gone,
lid sewn.
And she, Anne,
amputee, bad
tempered *****
12 year old,
big bosomed,
fine of remaining limb,
scanning the rest,
seated
in the wheel chair,
Skinny Kid behind,
hands on the handles,
warm breath
on her neck.
She was bored,
sun too bright,
kids too noisy,
nurse fart-arsing
near by,
taking temperatures,
changing wound
bandages, crouched
to see eye to eye,
thighs showing
stocking tops.
Hey, Kid,
she said,
get a peek at that,
indicating the thighs
and stocking tops
on view.
The Kid, thin arms
and legs, short hair,
11 year old, stared,
took in stocking legs,
black, warming,
looked away.
Don't get to see
that every day,
Kid, unless
you're their old man
or fond lover,
Anne said,
grinning ear to ear.
Skinny Kid,
stood, loyal,
whispered into
her neck,
want me to push you
to the beach?
sure, Kid,
get me
from these wounded ones,
these dying doomed,
let me smell
the salt and sea,
let me hear
the sea's song.
So the Kid, pushed
the chair, arms
out stretched,
over lawn,
down path,
she singing,
rude lyrics,
her one remaining leg
rocking
to the chairs' move,
the stump, showing
where her skirt ended,
shook and rocked.
Out the back gate,
onto the path
by the beach,
out of the nurse's sight,
or sound of voice's reach.
She thinking
of the Kid's
loyal touch,
his heaving her
from chair to bed,
the night before,
his thin arms
clutching tight
in case she fell,
the warm bed
embracing,
holding her down,
he standing there,
gazing at her
bare stump
with that innocent
stare.
He thinking,
as he pushed along,
how red
her stump was
the night before,
how the thigh
of her other leg
was white as snow
compared,
going red
as he stared.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
anti-narcissism,
painters with self-portraits,
the damnable face used
to kindred of inanimate things
taken for granted via still-life or impressionism,
damnable visage, yet
not exactly a finite banality of narcissism and acting,
it’s just there, if it isn’t being bosomed by
kissing it might as well be painted,
shame to leave it to simply frown,
or undue the english stiff-upper lip with
the fisherman’s hook, that phenomenon
of the fisherman’s / elvis’s upper lip aha hum hum:
it’s a twitchy eye when you mind the nerves
and just say: i’m in r.e.m. stages of parkinson’s:
rapid eyelid movement: got a joke coming
with the tourists, find your face in the throng
and give it four walls, a floor and ceiling and a campfire.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.
But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.
Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.
With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.
She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.
Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.
But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
here in the husk of noon
now bleached, now yellow
oracle of time.
we have made a place, neither inside
nor outside.
behind the city
and under, nightfall.
she planes the land, herself
slaked as butter
to grease the worm pits.
we languish as cohorts to the deepening exile
vexing from us, as flapping bats
nocturnal, pardoning the night its bounty
to the shame of diurnal reap.
there is an uncertainty now
bosomed in the fog of twilight.
behind us,
the interest in truth.
but we never came for pleasantry. we came for nothing.
absolute; the daughter of another time
swathed in the naivete of childhood.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
Let sleep erode the ground
Rest in its leisurely pleasure
bosomed and entwined
If I whispered over the miles?
would you hear the resonance?
sprinkled with sense of gesture
Let the night overcome the day
Rest in the autumn set suprise
blossomed and entwined
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
fulfilled two hoax with one tree express
stix and stones upon greenest branches
high birth dwell assemble ducks straight
wood delayed bosomed under ****
hyperventilating incubated *******
red face blemished mild to wild ***
harassed plucked feathered a ram pecker
bird sext for just a tuppence second
***** ladies tweet ravaged scramble
long white tees unclothe eggshells
knocking hollow full of yoke hard
pounding missionary position french
foreplay kisses ****** ***** in holster
expelling spermatozoa in suspension
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
i’m siding with the barber of tel aviv and the butcher from jerusalem, what the hell do you mean by trying to salvage celebrity culture with the crucifix clenched into the 22nd century?! we've got dinosaurs to mind... this is no time to be a monkey!
to quote st. paul: i left behind childish things
and started to toy with serious words
like toys having
found very little meaning in them, and so
in order that i ironed and tailored a banker’s suit
with the words: i took for inspiration,
and i did forget the childish things i once cherished,
but the phoneticism after, which i kept,
dwarfed the childish things i bosomed once,
and even though i took great depth to monk myself into
kissing the first corinthian like a samaritan,
i forgot the testament of cato, and instead spoke
like nero although through the mouth of seneca;
because i did abandon all childish things,
but i changed concepts of love hope and faith
into frivolity spoken of frequently but exercised as if a memory of youth
in that rarity worth a marketplace and religion.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Take a walk with thyself
softly, secretly
an hour before the dawn
thy feet feel grasses caress
and time awaits you
by unseen hand drawn
down to the bosomed river
plunge thou naked body
and be reborn
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC