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Keith J Collard Aug 2012
Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
funeral service now used of verandah,
but I hear music, not mournful stanza.
french doors open to a reminisce,
with boyhood heart, of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
captured ambiance of a setting sun,
shown from chandeliers highly hung,
day I was born, born the day of prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

Girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
bedraggled boys now dapper and genteel,
vest and bow-tie, a knightly feel.
chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
happy drowse in  mansion estate.

Cuff-links, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
they sprang to dance,I stepped back,
invisible in shadow with tux of black.

Shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
hips, gentle waves, right before they pour.
boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabers,
legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
said rivaling chaperess, past semblance of queen.

"You should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
her class my crush, that crushed me so much.

She strained me, even the shadows she gave,
black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.
crude metal and wood classroom seat,
clasped her waist of slender physique.
she was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
and tended to by servants of light and gale.
light loved her skin of Mediterranean sand,
and wind enthralled by each and every brown strand.

Light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
her shadow curtsied under my desk,
long legs danced in irritableness.
mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent, to an earlier invite,
then on, suitor blinded me with light.
and Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" show of hands, who do not have a date?"
slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

alone, she shown that no one asked her,
this stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
hand fell with boy of teachers match,
wind shrouded her,from the window sash
rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
but I looked through burning ray--

To see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
a goddess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possibly go,
to prom with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
or know where I could place my glance.

Wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
it was pierced by light at my feet.
"will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"prom" and "me" before most painful part.
my name in her beautiful free hand,
the color red from hearts inkstand.

(Class bell rings) I travel over star lit lawn,
the music gets louder as I return to prom,
eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
as pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

Only a glass-maker could imagine my sight,
seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

A princess which tournaments were held,
for which every timber of mansion were felled.
not for Rome the mansion's Corinthian column--
--for her--from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
with my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
under willow, I play the last thing she said--
my name--as I shunned from last chance,
now back under willow, cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
even if it was with my own heart-break.

I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses--
--still--as lights flicker out and a coffin closes.
Iris Liu Feb 2012
you should never trust a woman
believe me, I’ve seen the things
they are capable of, they trust
and let trust, only to be broken
they are forgiving yet never forgiven
they don’t learn from mistakes
but instead wait
they wait for proof of humanity
and stand frozen in stone and patience
but forgive me for
my hasty generalization
Sarina Apr 2013
Mother Earth has birthed billions of nymphets
knees that flirted with their socks so much it left prints
coquettes gyrating Bubble Yum
         on digits, her sunglasses’ stems,  a split end.

Mother Earth gave us nymphs so
bodies would not be loamless either, so we can be as
fertile as gorges far from any lofted stone wall.

Mother Earth, that she was never nubile
labored faunlets with pink gumwads upon their genitals

and frothed when one creation alit inside another.
Glenn McCrary Aug 2011
In a sphere of infinite narcissism



Wicked homosapiens tread the horizon



Daunting threats of turbulent tragedy



Dawn upon the hopeless, roaming souls



Sheathing them with treacherous shadows



Of atrociously, covert crucifixion



The elite coquettes hearken



The tumultous sound



Emanating from multiple, acrid massacres



Tainting these notably wounded hearts



Within a satanic plethora



Of acrimonious equivocation



By nightfall a harrowing suicide



By daybreak a dreary mourning



Catastrophe is all that occupies



This infamous wasteland of avarice



By Glenn McCrary



© 2011 (All rights reserved)
erin haggerty Apr 2011
this is the dwelling where wind is a bell and a beacon for death.
where youthful pursuit is punctured by family names or famine of fortune.
boys in bands buoyed by Onos and shared women.
lawyer fathers and social ***** mothers whose children are forbidden to **** up.
one street reserved and smothered by talking townsmen
whose belligerent brides keep tabs on their fellow middle-aged malicious
minded low-lifes
engorged in gossip are the parading fat men who rise early to feed off ones business capital tragedies
****** shortcomings of the stuck and single prey off tweens tweeting of body glitter and b-cups.
clique chick coquettes play house with their shiny image seeking male counterparts
who sing songs of their leather faced lady friends with plastic claws they now admit they would never marry
antagonizing cute couples secretly copulating with former loves' lust
only to mingle with conspirators molding to dominant thought
once a waitress always a waitress
with overdrawn bragging rights and unemployment checks
serving snobs like themselves who sip savignon
self-righteous polo popping perverts accompanying their prized play things
who join the charles river emigrants and stale french pastries
scouting the waste colored palace of prejudice.
now blades of winter draw months of blue blood
bringing forth frozen thoughts slowly dripping onto thawing skin.
another warm summer sun  forthcoming
foreshadowed by this wind-chafing forlornness.
though i will fall in love again
and bridge rats will always be kings.
Paul d'Aubin Jan 2016
Florilèges de  trois poésies sur le café «Naziunale»
de Vicu

1- Premier Poème sur le café de Vicu
(Été 2010)
Un marronnier et trois tilleuls
Sur la fraîcheur comme un clin d'œil
Sous le soleil immobile
Dans l'ombrage des charmilles

Une façade de granit
Sur une salle composite
Sur les murs plusieurs footballeurs
Et d'un vieux berger la vigueur.

Pouvoir s'asseoir, se reposer
Et par-dessus tout siroter
Un verre de bière pression
Sans un souci à l'horizon.

A côté de vous, il fait chaud
Mais le zéphyr souffle tantôt
Sur votre peau, une caresse
Il faut dire que rien ne presse.
Une torpeur qui vous saisit
Un parfum de moments choisis
Mais après tout c'est bien l'été
Et son cortège de beautées.

Dans votre verre un pastis
Comme une senteur d'anis
De jolies filles font le détour
Parées de leurs jolis atours

Verre levé vous plaisantez
Pour l'œil des belles attirer
Mais les coquettes vont leur chemin
En masquant bien leurs vrais desseins





2 - Deuxième Poème au café de Vicu
(Été 2012)

Oh café de Vicu
Tilleuls et marronniers
Aux ombrages si frais
Apaisant les cieux lourds
Et les chaleurs de plomb.

Un chat à la queue courbe
Vient chercher les caresses
Que des femmes distraites
par des hommes ombrageux
Distraitement lui donnent.

Un tempo de langueur
Violone tes douceurs ;
et la « Serena » fraîche
fait plus que rafraichir
notre quête de soifs.

Oh café de Vicu
Tu sais nous préserver
Des vains emballements,
Des fureurs dérisoires
Propres à nous gâcher
Le songe de nos vies.






3 - Troisième poème sur le café «naziunale» de Vicu
(Été 2013)

Une large façade de granit, percée par deux larges portes,
donnant sur une vaste salle a haute cheminée.
Un marronnier et un tilleul vous font don d'une fraîcheur bienvenue,
A l'intérieur comme une icône de la «belle époque» une photographie de groupe d'hommes Corses en canotiers ou feutres mous prenant fièrement la pose devant l'appareil a trépied et le photographe pénétré de son art.

En face l'on voit la mairie de couleur rose, a l'escalier ventru,
Sur le côté droit, une pharmacie antique, aux volets bleus,
Et puis vers onze heure, le tiers des tables sont mises pour les repas,
Et les jeunes serveuse pimpantes s'affairent,
pour poser les serviettes en papier et servir les mélancoliques buveurs de bière «Pietra», a l'arôme fin de châtaigne.

Proche de ma table de Formica vert, deux belles blondes aux coiffures soignées,
sirotent leurs cafés et commentent avec un sérieux excessif une brochure de géographie plastifiée.
Mais parfois sourires et rires viennent donner a l'air léger cette adorable féminité qui manque tant à notre monde de brutes.
L’air est comme cristallin, et la lourde chaleur de Vicu semble conjurée par ce café-terrasse qui est havre de paix et de fraîche douceur.

Deux Corses, à la barbe bien taillée lisent avec une étrange attention, l’édition journalière de «Corse-Matin», interrompus par un ami de leur génération portant beau un feutre gris.
Les épagneuls du café sont curieusement rentrés dans la grande salle, alors qu'hier ils étaient accroupis en terrasse comme aimantes par la chaleur.
Il est maintenant 0nze heure trente docteur Sweitzer et «l'Humanité reste toujours au carrefour» hésitant entre feu vert et feu rouge dont traitèrent si bien Radovan Richta.
Mais, tant pis, la question ne se résoudra pas dans les douces langueurs de Vicu.
Les premiers dineurs ne se pressent pas aux tables dressés.
L’effleure un peu à Vicu, comme un parfum de l'Alambra, ou les repas sont repoussés **** dans l'après-midi ou dans la nuit.
A l'inverse, les couche-**** viennent se convaincre de leur réveil en s'attablant en terrasse demandant un double café, en passant commande d’un double expresso.

Paul Arrighi.
La clarté du dehors ne distrait pas mon âme.
La plaine chante et rit comme une jeune femme ;
Le nid palpite dans les houx ;
Partout la gaîté lui dans les bouches ouvertes ;
Mai, couché dans la mousse au fond des grottes vertes
Fait aux amoureux les yeux doux.

Dans les champs de luzerne et dans les champs de fèves,
Les vagues papillons errent pareils aux rêves ;
Le blé vert sort des sillons bruns ;
Et les abeilles d'or courent à la pervenche,
Au thym, au liseron, qui tend son urne blanche
A ces buveuses de parfums.

La nue étale au ciel ses pourpres et ses cuivres ;
Les arbres, tout gonflés de printemps, semblent ivres ;
Les branches, dans leurs doux ébats,
Se jettent sur les oiseaux du bout de leurs raquettes ;
Le bourdon galonné fait aux roses coquettes
Des propositions tout bas.

Moi, je laisse voler les senteurs et les baumes,
Je laisse chuchoter les fleurs, ces doux fantômes,
Et l'aube dire : « Vous vivrez ! »
Je regarde en moi-même, et, seul, oubliant l'heure,
L'oeil plein des visions de l'ombre intérieure,
Je songe aux morts, ces délivrés !

Encore un peu de temps, encore, ô mer superbe,
Quelques reflux ; j'aurai ma tombe aussi dans l'herbe,
Blanche au milieu du frais gazon,
A l'ombre de quelque arbre où le lierre s'attache ;
On y lira : « Passant, cette pierre te cache
La ruine d'une prison. »

Ingouville, mai 1843.
Le ciel si pâle et les arbres si grêles
Semblent sourire à nos costumes clairs
Qui vont flottant légers avec des airs
De nonchalance et des mouvements d'ailes.

Et le vent doux ride l'humble bassin,
Et la lueur du soleil qu'atténue
L'ombre des bas tilleuls de l'avenue
Nous parvient bleue et mourante à dessein.

Trompeurs exquis et coquettes charmantes,
Coeurs tendres mais affranchis du serment,
Nous devisons délicieusement,
Et les amants lutinent les amantes
De qui la main imperceptible sait
Parfois donner un souffle qu'on échange
Contre un baiser sur l'extrême phalange
Du petit doigt, et comme la chose est
Immensément excessive et farouche,
On est puni par un regard très sec,
Lequel contraste, au demeurant, avec
La moue assez clémente de la bouche.
Amour ! le seul péché qui vaille qu'on se damne,
- En vain dans ses sermons le prêtre te condamne,
En vain dans son fauteuil, besicles sur le nez,
La maman te dépeint comme un monstre à sa fille ;
- En vain Orgon jaloux ferme sa porte, et grille
Ses fenêtres. - En vain dans leurs livres mort-nés,
Contre toi longuement les moralistes crient,
En vain de ton pouvoir les coquettes se rient ; -
La novice à ton nom fait un signe de croix ;
Jeune ou vieux, laid ou beau, teint vermeil ou teint blême,
Anglais, Français, païen ou chrétien, - chacun aime
Au moins dans sa vie une fois.
J'ai dans ma chambre une aquarelle
Bizarre, et d'un peintre avec qui
Mètre et rime sont en querelle,
- Théophile Kniatowski.

Sur l'écume blanche qui frange
Le manteau glauque de la mer
Se groupent en bouquet étrange
Trois nymphes, fleurs du gouffre amer.

Comme des lis noyés, la houle
Fait dans sa volute d'argent
Danser leurs beaux corps qu'elle roule,
Les élevant, les submergeant.

Sur leurs têtes blondes, coiffées
De pétoncles et de roseaux,
Elles mêlent, coquettes fées,
L'écrin et la flore des eaux.

Vidant sa nacre, l'huître à perle
Constelle de son blanc trésor
Leur gorge, où le flot qui déferle
Suspend d'autres perles encor.

Et, jusqu'aux hanches soulevées
Par le bras des Tritons nerveux,
Elles luisent, d'azur lavées,
Sous l'or vert de leurs longs cheveux.

Plus bas, leur blancheur sous l'eau bleue
Se glace d'un visqueux frisson,
Et le torse finit en queue,
Moitié femme, moitié poisson.

Mais qui regarde la nageoire
Et les reins aux squameux replis,
En voyant les bustes d'ivoire
Par le baiser des mers polis ?

A l'horizon, - piquant mélange
De fable et de réalité, -
Paraît un vaisseau qui dérange
Le choeur marin épouvanté.

Son pavillon est tricolore ;
Son tuyau ***** la vapeur ;
Ses aubes fouettent l'eau sonore,
Et les nymphes plongent de peur.

Sans crainte elles suivaient par troupes
Les trirèmes de l'Archipel,
Et les dauphins, arquant leurs croupes,
D'Arion attendaient l'appel.

Mais le steam-boat avec ses roues,
Comme Vulcain battant Vénus,
Souffletterait leurs belles joues
Et meurtrirait leurs membres nus.

Adieu, fraîche mythologie !
Le paquebot passe et, de ****,
Croit voir sur la vague élargie
Une culbute de marsouin.
Denis Barter May 2018
I am the one you’ll deem contrary;
I strive to be a worthy adversary.
I refuse to accept the status quo:
I speak up to let my listeners know
I listen, but seldom change my mind!
I hope you will realise and find
I am the one you’ll deem contrary.

I am aware of my own poetic limitations,
I love to nettle listeners’ irritations.
I watch their countenance closely, then
I learn from their expression. When
I daydream of what might have been,
I laugh at hilarious scenes often seen.
I cry when suffering rhyming frustrations:
I am aware of my own poetic limitations.

I am a sceptic of self proclaimed experts;
I admire all girls, coquettes and flirts.
I respect the modest educated man,
I expect to assist me when he can.
I accept all men as equal on sight,
I reject those who think that might is right!
I deserve to reap my just desserts
I am a sceptic of self proclaimed experts!

I am the one you’ll deem contrary:
I have found serenity, when solitary:
I dance when my day is free of pain,
I sing when the skies are blue again.
I want for nothing of which I know,
I need only for the sunshine to show.
I pray for the poetic extraordinary.

I am aware of my poetic limitations,
I am a sceptic of self proclaimed experts.
I am the one you’ll deem contrary.

Rhymer. May 23rd, 2018.
poetryaccident Sep 2017
Tell the world I’ve put down my gun
retired to shadows away from charm
the limelight with due rewards
no longer calls to this fighter

I’m not seeking to make my mark
with prodigy to extend mankind
beyond generations yet to fade
but in their time all will expire

it’s not that bullets have run out
or that rust has seized the works
as the barrel is still strong
on the shelf these matter not

the powder’s state no longer counts
be it dry or gone to rot
when the pistol is set aside
to gather dust away from sight

no longer questing the fair coquettes
worthy foes to bring to bed
laying low with equal joy
companions sought for at least one time

now I leave to join the march
of past shooters without a cause
musketeers with only self
to pass the time without recourse.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170916.
“Put Down My Gun” is probably not about the six shooters of Western lore.
poetryaccident Sep 2017
Tell the world I’ve put down my gun
retired to shadows away from charm
the limelight with due rewards
no longer calls to this fighter

I’m not seeking to make my mark
with prodigy to extend mankind
beyond generations yet to fade
but in their time all will expire

it’s not that bullets have run out
or that rust has seized the works
as the barrel is still strong
on the shelf these matter not

the powder’s state no longer counts
be it dry or gone to rot
when the pistol is set aside
to gather dust away from sight

no longer questing the fair coquettes
worthy foes to bring to bed
laying low with equal joy
companions sought for at least one time

now I leave to join the march
of past shooters without a cause
musketeers with only self
to pass the time without recourse.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170916.
“Put Down My Gun” is probably not about the six shooters of Western lore.
acacia Oct 2021
please look at me dreary-eyed, you see: birds green a laughing, buzzing bee: commune with me

                                  tracking through the garden
soft steps dreaming of a shard of grass that sits by my face like a razor blade: thoughts are paletted, vignetted by the Sun, November Sun: I bring a blanket, I lay it upon your feet, a fair sight:

                I turn my head back

           to look at you

                       my hair is
wafts of cigarettes, wafted by smoke :
                                 nicole, nicotine,  her laughs ring when she cries, like mine . . .

tobacco fills my nostrils stream. daring to lay, visions of being a dainty queen: lay upon me tenderly, gently with lace. tell me how you've reached such heights—
but still, you remain grounded. two feet near your knees
on the ground I am
looking at you with doll eyes, I like this angle of you

[vision requested: eye dilates and the mind wides:

I like this angle of you —vision of you (indivision, virtual, individual) in the water grafted out by phonemes, my pheneme and genemes are mesmerized by you: I see you puddling my views, and backpedaling behind me, whipped faster like the trees did blow behind me, my ears rush by me while the air stays attached: drifting through the road and drafted outside, would you rafter her: the bike went faster down the way: the rushing grays and slight light linely variations of the cities and towns as I zoom the world by and the ground seems closer as a gray and brown and green cement: touched lightly with your nose, my being and your being sandwich stucked together because of my will, because of your choice, because of My Will. I will.

end vision. ]


sprackled Moorish skin, toned into your mouth:
my mouth curves outwords
like a spoon twirling towords you
like cursive connecting the letters of your name
I taste the shapes on my tongue
it spells out VALLEY, a hidden road, a hush green dale somewhere in Scotland:

but my cheeks flush
and wishes to be coquettes,
like a doll: my eyes are brown
do you see? cascade, cassanova, player
release:


  — soft bones

... why, you look the way you do ...
those eyes ... slinted and glinted like the gray spots on the moon ... like you do ... when you think ... the way you do ...
when you look down at me ...

towered far away, but I'm close
                                      I'm here
                                                    I'm here

resolved, soft words: I'll make you proud
look into my bedroom eyes, show me how to love;
touch me there, with birds of love; sing to me
with your notes, written in Spain; energize me
with the Sun you got, shadows: the shade,
it moisturizes and it bleeds down through the creeks
like ice cream: melting away, and it wavers in the air,
Vermont is a few nights away. you are so smooth,
echoes croon out my throat like milk: galbanum.
itching and cough, the cries, vibrato: tremendo:

reach out, reach out: papa.
soft strokes, like a cat rolling on,
fur headed out there. it slithers still there,
towards me, dark gray and lightning eyes:
smoke streams by you,
stench and smell, perfume of cigarettes and I feel the voice
on my calves and my neck:
the Word wraps around me
and coils around my relayings.

her is now, her time is loud: reading these
tries, the words reach out: luckily,
your lust still has me: oceans calling rolling,
near you, and the magic that follows through
your skin near, me whipping apart my
white button shirt bought in Rome: lick my
*******.
Ciel ! un fourmillement emplit l'espace noir,
On entend l'invisible errer et se mouvoir ;
Près de l'homme endormi tout vit dans les ténèbres.
Le crépuscule, plein de figures funèbres,
Soupire ; au fond des bois le daim passe en rêvant ;
A quelque être ignoré qui flotte dans le vent
La pervenche murmure à voix basse : je t'aime !
La clochette bourdonne auprès du chrysanthème
Et lui dit : paysan, qu'as-tu donc à dormir ?
Toute la plaine semble adorer et frémir ;
L'élégant peuplier vers le saule difforme
S'incline ; le buisson caresse l'antre ; l'orme
Au sarment frissonnant tend ses bras convulsifs ;
Les nymphaeas, pour plaire aux nénuphars pensifs,
Dressent hors du flot noir leurs blanches silhouettes ;
Et voici que partout, pêle-mêle, muettes,
S'éveillent, au milieu des joncs et des roseaux,
Regardant leur front pâle au bleu miroir des eaux,
Courbant leur tige, ouvrant leurs yeux, penchant leurs urnes,
Les roses des étangs, ces coquettes nocturnes ;
Des fleurs déesses font des lueurs dans la nuit,
Et, dans les prés, dans l'herbe où rampe un faible bruit,
Dans l'eau, dans la ruine informe et décrépite,
Tout un monde charmant et sinistre palpite.
C'est que là-haut, au fond du ciel mystérieux,
Dans le soir, vaguement splendide et glorieux,
Vénus rayonne, pure, ineffable et sacrée,
Et, vision, remplit d'amour l'ombre effarée.
KorbydAngyle Jan 2021
note...this is someone speaking at me

What shall I the mighty chi bring the you the chunt this time?
Would you like to dream we're in a movie on a couch perhaps?
Or were nightmares too much a part of you and this which is mine
that I bring sings of much untrue
... too different a tune
That touching the twists in the road led to forked tongues
When the truth of deserving better haunts all you do
You can't accept the gift of life that delivers more ease
and class than you
Done with your luck because even if you owned your own pond
   you couldn't figure out how to **** a duck
  or sew mittens or sings songs
and on and on and on
Quoi(what) twa? Little needy vices turn cooly boy munchkins into
molly jumbled ripped up torn about scratchy bopped bumpkins
Coyote hosiery got coquettes working the windows
   of your soul again dreamer
Lights out vicious confused bishop...
   of freedoms true reign my... black satiny sheets
of mine their a' plenty of stains
So I ask you again, if you please, in all sincerity
What should make disambiguation of
the solipsism that is your only sensation?
Joy stampedes rain, summer in the southern hemisphere or maybe
You should stay in your place set for a man that can watch from afar
as the spin class whip and pipes of unknown undergrounds each and every furthest extreme form
And continue to bounce(as my ****) the days to night and the avenues of extreme are really nothing more than
The view of a sky with  Santa Ana breezes light, as I the foxy,
watch the morning sun...alight...  as I am, light and perfect
Another day to make gist of your black magic and all that you've done
changed the name from the first "She Spells Muffin Mufyn" guess folks thoughts it was a dummy funny attempt

— The End —