"centrally" poems
Blush!
The blush of pinkish,
As flamingo fandangos,
In rhythmic tangos,
Long legs centrally bent as she stands,
Flamingo masquerades as delicate swan!
Sort of strutting,
Elegant,
Thought not!
Woman masked as flaming flamingo.
Lady tall in height,
Wistfully wishes on starlight night, bright,
Clear eyes sparkle,
A tint of mystery's mystique,
No teardrops,
He fed her fire with touch of love,
As if were both sent from above,
Two strange birds can only tell,
If love will grow or tears well!
Passion kissed her on her cheek,
Left her blushing scarlet,
Jesus wept and cried out loud,
'This woman,
She's no harlot,'
Both dangling suspended in ether clouds ,
Dozy as hell,
These two dreamy birds are two of a kind,
No similar creatures will you ever find,
He struts peacock feathers glory.
She blushes,
Escaped from love story!
Eccentricity,
Idiosyncrasies,
Rule the day,
Hurry up,
Bring him back my way!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
Jason had this penthouse apartment that was centrally located in Beverly Hills.
He was incredibly clean, but in an overwhelming kind of way.
The carpet and stuff were spotless, the cabinets were plastic, and the paint was not chipping. I felt like I was in a Doctor’s office waiting room.
He was snoring loudly, and just at the right moment he opened his eyes.
"Ha! You are dead! This is a dream, right?"
I felt a bit offended, as I was obviously the one snoring.
"No, no!" He pointed at the clock. "It's 4AM!" (Lucky number 8!).
"You're a zombie! You're dead and you're dreaming!”
“I’m a zombie, alright!" I yawned and started to hack up zombie gore.
"Watch out!" He screamed and jumped out of the bed.
"All right, you monster! I'm dead and I'm dreaming! I'm dead and I'm dreaming!"
He chased me around the room.
"You're not dead, you're a zombie! You're a zombie, that's just what you are, a zombie, so it's a dream!" He threw up his hands. "You can't win!"
“I can't win, yeah? That’s right, I can't win. That's my luck, ha-ha!”
I hope you like midnight horror flicks." His face crinkled with confusion; the zombies smile that I was always afraid of flashing on.
"Well I didn't say I was a horror movie person. Oh, that's right, but you said, I'm dead and I'm dreaming, so that's a horror movie, right?"
I thought about it.
"Okay, I guess it's more like...like if a zombie comes to my door..."
:: 09.24.2020 ::
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 2:49 PM UTC
Life belongs to Monday morning.
Still, I'm haunted by Sunday teatime.
Scones in the parlour at the back of the house.
With mamma and poppa and sweet baby Jayne.
Toasted crumpets together,and drank hot cups of tea.
The crumpets were toasted upon a huge open fire.
Jayne had been sleeping in the cot by the door.
Too young to eat crumpets and scones, she's not allowed tea.
The baby still sleeping remains in the parlour.
It's warmer in there.
And so to the drawing room with round rosewood table.
Nature of the cloth thereupon changed.
It's marked with the symbols of a, b and c.
A painted on canvass that ends with a zee.
It's crimson, edged with gold.
In the centre a YES and a NO.
Centrally placed a wine glass.
Knock knock on the door.
Now there are five.
Tonight the table may come alive.
They're hoping.
A standard lamp, rather dated stood in the corner.
Had a scarlet shade with golden tassels.
They sit round the table.
It's just what they did.
Fingers on glass.
They're calling out.
"Is anybody there?"
The room becomes chilled.
Atmosphere stifling.
Glass moves around the circle.
A...R...I....E.....L.....spellbinding.
'Twas the spirit of the dark poet,Plath.
Darkness from sorrow, no more tomorrow.
Another spirit in attendance.
Takes Sylvia by the hand.
Into the light, escorted by guide.
Goodbye sorrowed poet.
Walked into the light.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
(c) Livvi MMCV
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
یقینوں کی سرحد، سوالوں سے آگے
گمانوں سے اوپر، خیالوں سے آگے
حقیقت کی پہچان باطن سے جاگے
دلیلوں سے بالا، حوالوں سے آگے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
جلایت سماوی، تپش منتہیٰ ہے
ذرائع ، وسیلے، نشاں, استعارے
قدم دو قدم ساتھ چلتے سہارے
سبھی راستوں پر توکل زمینیں
سبھی گردشوں میں مقابل جبینیں
ہجومِ سلاسل میں قلبِ مجرد
جہاں نہ رسائی ہو ایسی وہ خلوت
وہاں کوئی نفسی، خودی، نہ انا ہے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
وہاں پر خدا ہے، وہاں بھی خدا ہے
ع
۱۰۔۳۔۱۷
The dominion of faith is beyond the line of questions
Above the strata of probabilities
Ahead of the limits of imaginations
Recognition of truth arises from within
Independent of reasoning and evidence
Unaffected by references and certifications.
Where is the boundary of my awareness?
Heavenly light, infinite candescence
Resources, means, symbolisms, provenance
Temporary camaraderies and companionships...
On all paths, the ground is made of tawakul
In all circumvolutions, brows are directed centrally
In the swarm of connectivity, the core remains vacant
Where nothing can reach, such is the solitude there
Where there is no person, no self, no ego
Where there is the boundary of my awareness
There is God! There, too, is God.
A
10.3.17
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
Emptying memory:
The sun does not block out
The stars,
The soul did not absorb them
The water vanishes the fire,
Petrified light,
Executed dust of old flesh
In a tomb of earthly thoughts;
The Sol centrally corners the eye,
Blinded by the word
In a litany of days,
Crushed hopes fall on nocturnal
Flesh,
Old as Cain and Abel
As smooth as assassin pagans,
Kissing the eclipses
In a fit of rage on a wounded bird,
Theatre of peoples
In a cosmic garden
Impaling moons
And guillotining the planets,
Eating fire on burning lips,
A thirst for living water
And a wisp of gentle air,
A swarm of deities with
Overgrown origins in a circus
Of faithful,
The sanctum was exploded
With idealistic dogs licking
Their own *****
The amphitheater of man
Stained with repetitive slow thoughts,
Drunk with light
Hidden in shadows.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Allegedly white, so clear and clean
Anointed space allotted for a sense of place
Answers the questions-what, to whom and when
Absolutely no spot, couldn't stop those painter's pen full of grace
Beautifully colored by their rational brush
Bravery and angst may both consist out of that abstract
Bitterness-inspirational expressions might include to make some blash
Better viewing too once the master piece is being construct
Captivating such attention
Culturally trades tradition
Cultivating mixed emotion
Centrally concealed attraction
attitude Behavior character
has now
a Bridge connection
created by art
or should i say?
" art By creation " on and off
a Blank canvas !
© solEmn oaSis
#shapeofapparition
my tribute to all
the poets and writers
here and outside
@ Hello Poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
Life belongs to Monday morning.
Still, I'm haunted by Sunday teatime.
Scones in the parlour at the back of the house.
With mamma and poppa and sweet baby Jayne.
Toasted crumpets together,and drank hot cups of tea.
The crumpets were toasted upon a huge open fire.
Jayne had been sleeping in the cot by the door.
Too young to eat crumpets and scones, she's not allowed tea.
The baby still sleeping remains in the parlour.
It's warmer in there.
And so to the drawing room with round rosewood table.
Nature of the cloth thereupon changed.
It's marked with the symbols of a, b and c.
A painted on canvass that ends with a zee.
It's crimson, edged with gold.
In the centre a YES and a NO.
Centrally placed a wine glass.
Knock knock on the door.
Now there are five.
Tonight the table may come alive.
They're hoping.
A standard lamp, rather dated stood in the corner.
Had a scarlet shade with golden tassels.
They sit round the table.
It's just what they did.
Fingers on glass.
They're calling out.
"Is anybody there?"
The room becomes chilled.
Atmosphere stifling.
Glass moves around the circle.
A...R...I....E.....L.....spellbinding.
'Twas the spirit of the dark poet,Plath.
Darkness from sorrow, no more tomorrow.
Another spirit in attendance.
Takes Sylvia by the hand.
Into the light, escorted by guide.
Goodbye sorrowed poet.
Walked into the light.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
(c) Livvi MMCV
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
My sexlife is only existing by the thought thereof; it is a film cancelled in pre-production. It is an abandoned studio wherein the lone director stands centrally - scoping the remains of an epic never made, eavesdropping the voices of people that could have been involved and the props and the grandiose sets left in shielding shades.
Maybe someday the script can be rewritten, the thirteen hundred volt lamps will light up the stage where an actress vents her soul and it burns onto celluloid solely destructible by time. The company has decided to let the studio be, maintain it, so that the film can be revived and the passion rekindled, yet for now the studio will be left unattended.
I guess I will visit occasionally.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
*My heart’s stuffed with hot pieces
Of coal, it beats feebly the stitches
Keeping it together being worn
Frightfully thin, scared it’ll be torn.
It does still beat though in fierce
Defiance, seldom makes a fuss
Or a feat to capture my waning
Attention, guess it’s befitting
Only and solely to me, a component
Centrally vital to survival to be kept in mint
Condition, so why my dearest heart
Though art an assemblage of ****
Lime like angst, frustration and raw anxiety?
I implore thee to practise some emotional sobriety.*
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
Darkness follows
me along the wall
I see its eyes
in the mirror my life
as a smokescreen
across the shallow
these treaded halls
garnish gallows
is it
midnight
or is it
noon
centrally marooned
one step away
too late too soon
my partner for life
one of us
is gonna be doomed
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 8:19 AM UTC
What’s it to me and what’s it to you
I’m not quite sure I understand
I don’t think you know what you mean and mean what you know, you know?
Or maybe you do.
I’m sure things all make sense
In that brain of yours where stop means go
What’s left and right and up and wrong who really knows?
And a life in someone’s footprints might as well be their shoes.
It’s all ******* all of it! I’m sure you can agree
the world most centrally certainly couldn’t shouldn’t be what it seems!
Because I’m not so sure I can shake that off, you know?
Face value is always much less than it oughtta be.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
Nobody told me how much stronger my hands are
than I anticipated; I have been composed for
so long that I underestimated the weight of the cricket bat
I used to drive the ball away with on the dry ground
near my house every evening. I can smell the perspiration
on the handle. I ****** it firm against my chest dead centrally
where under the skin and flesh my ribs meet and **** the beat
was so good that I couldn't help persisting; made a fist
with my right hand and beat it hard where the bat struck,
and suddenly I'm moving like a streetcar with its jerky clanging act,
bam and the edge of November bam and the duality of breath
bam and the corrective range of tears and bam and the pressure
of reddening spots and bam and bam drop of bam you bam assurance bam a space feud bam a rivalry bam of delicacies bam he's back and bam bam bam bam sneaky tom who goes there bam parched bam ****** bam oh death oh stop oh word oh letter oh fruit oh seed oh diesel oh Rayban eyes oh bam oh bam oh bam oh canon fodder that is true and oh bam oh bam oh bam oh bam a civil service due to be silent,
to be quiet.
I know, hey. I know. Sleeping well and good.
Well, well. I'm sorry it took so long.
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
There are mansions in my head
some half built and others painted red,
but each on its own,a
home for my thoughts
of which there are many.
Any one of which of whichever one I'm in
teaches me something and I can begin
to learn.
Some mansions are cold,some are quite old and
others brand new,some centrally heated in these I am
seated on quilts made of dreams unpicking the seams
of my days in the night.
I might decide to override the imperative,dismiss the
narrative and demolish the lot,
I might not and
that's what the mansions are for,each door that I go through
leads me to thoughts which are brand new,
it bothers me though that some are painted red,
I don't like that colour,
I prefer blue or green,red's just
obscene and angry,
is that me?
angry?
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Time becomes another line
that
sits deep upon my face
centrally located
suffocated by the mass
of
those who then would pass by me
without a single glance.
Each day strips off the day before
a peep show that I've seen and
in somewhat less than awe
I find I have to look.
People
pinioned by their lack of care
I know it
because
I've been there
never watched nor seen those
Inbetween
stepped over the cracks in
worn down steps,
let's hear it for the blind men
who can see
but are
unkind men
let's hear it for them
after all
aren't we those kind
men too?
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
Getting off on the wrong foot wearing odd socks and this is what knocks me for a six.
Can't concentrate in this narrow strait, too much shipping, feels like it's slipping away.
Only the coffee is hot today.
I cooled in the breeze of a Southern night to wake in the morning
cold and goose bumped
No cats on this tin roof.
It sorts itself out and I do too
on the wharf where the stevedores sing.
Plimsoll lines are fine if you're not wearing them, I wore
tropical palms and drank coconut milk for tea.
amusing myself by abusing the truth
no cats on this tin roof.
Informally normally but not always so or so the thesaurus informs me and though centrally located I relate to the suburbs.
They call this the bullet as it pulls through the tunnels under the streets where you walk,
but they talk some **** don't they?
if it meant we could fly we would,
most hit the pavement wondering why
there are no cats on the tin roof
truth hurts more at thirty two feet per second per second.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC