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"cosset" poems
The yucca plant from my mother’s garden sits unattended and on the verge of death next to her eldest rose bush, now wildly overgrown and lightly blushing in the cosset of the midmourning sun.  Its withered rosettes droop down to its bed of maroon-stained stones in crisp, harum-scarum patterns as if the plant is spending its life like currency trying to touch its toes.  I oftentimes find myself wondering if the reason behind this slow rotting of mother dearest’s garden is hidden within her five-year absence.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say her nursery missed the d                                               i                                                  g                                                      g                                                         i                                                             n                                                                 g of her weathered hands. She was the biosphere of my world; I suppose that it only makes sense for the earth to match my thirst.  We sit side by side, that yucca plant and I, as we struggle to nod our heads towards daylight while we rise on the side of the house that is more or less cloaked in shadow; the side that she would sunbathe on during scorching late afternoons.  Perhaps without her body giving shelter, all her garden is doomed to atrophy like muscle in the sunlight. I find irony in the way that my mother’s favored plant was the “ghost in the graveyard;” a perverted parallel to the game that she never wanted us to play.  I think it to be sort of sardonic that her pride swallowed the possibility of a cure being found within that ****** plant’s roots. She, a third generation American girl, had blood as muddled as the mud that buried that yucca’s heart. The boundary line between Mother and nature coalesces into one: Gaea six feet under melting into soil I hope she becomes seawater.
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Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Floristics
The yucca plant from my mother’s garden sits unattended and on the verge of death next to her eldest rose bush, now wildly overgrown and lightly blushing in the cosset of the midmourning sun.  Its withered rosettes droop down to its bed of maroon-stained stones in crisp, harum-scarum patterns as if the plant is spending its life like currency trying to touch its toes.  I oftentimes find myself wondering if the reason behind this slow rotting of mother dearest’s garden is hidden within her five-year absence.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say her nursery missed the d                                               i                                                  g                                                      g                                                         i                                                             n                                                                 g of her weathered hands. She was the biosphere of my world; I suppose that it only makes sense for the earth to match my thirst.  We sit side by side, that yucca plant and I, as we struggle to nod our heads towards daylight while we rise on the side of the house that is more or less cloaked in shadow; the side that she would sunbathe on during scorching late afternoons.  Perhaps without her body giving shelter, all her garden is doomed to atrophy like muscle in the sunlight. I find irony in the way that my mother’s favored plant was the “ghost in the graveyard;” a perverted parallel to the game that she never wanted us to play.  I think it to be sort of sardonic that her pride swallowed the possibility of a cure being found within that ****** plant’s roots. She, a third generation American girl, had blood as muddled as the mud that buried that yucca’s heart. The boundary line between Mother and nature coalesces into one: Gaea six feet under melting into soil I hope she becomes seawater.
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A body encases a heart and a mind, No simpler answer could you ever find, Look deeper inside, What lurks within, Beneath a mantle of silken skin, Skin with a face that sports a smile, With eyes that twinkle, sparkles sprinkled, Some have tresses that glow in the light, Under the hair, the location of care, The seat of emotions, locked up in a head, A neck, slender supports along with a spine, Arms to hold close, to cosset and care, Rib cage encases the heart of poetic art, The heart when she functions, is easily broken, When love falls apart, it cuts through the heart, A series of chemical interactions, Disturbed a great deal by other's reactions, Bodies are beautiful temples, A place to retreat, Bodies need pampering to keep them sweet, So look after yours well, Treat it kind, Respect your body, Respect your mind! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
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Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
Emotional Body!
Let's not leave this spot This little piece of the universe For which we have fought To keep for just us. We'll stay inside today Make our resolutions for the year A map that shows us the way For all the days in our lives' calendar. Let's not go outside yet Into the never ending storm It's safe in this our cosset Together we can keep warm. We'll create a beautiful memory Watch films and make meals A 24-hour remedy To combat the year's ills.
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Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
Resolutions
I want to hold the back of your head,
 and pull your mouth into mine. I taste you. I taste you. Baby, your soothing lips taste of bitter coffee and mint. Your beard tickles my face. I smile against your mouth, I move to the tender hollow of your neck, and amidst the sweet cosset of my lips, I whisper, “We can't stay long.” Our longing held captive by a relentless hurricane.
 Yet, we’ll find our way.
 I'll see you soon in the eye of the storm.
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Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
Eye of the Storm
Violence grabbed me, pushed me around, assaulted my ears. You made me crazy. Staggered up in a blind rage. Decided to put an end, to this vile situation. Left it intensive care, the ****** alarm that got in my hair. Terminated its existence, for a little while. Gave it a shock of CPR, I charged it up again. Tomorrow, cosset it I shall. For it will be my day off and a good rest one and all! (C) LIVVI X
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Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
POOR CREATURE
a few words to knock my mandible loose I set it back into place; she can be sure my ears are ripe to listen her nails grew in her rearing days clamantly clawing 'til quiet is connate to me condign, burke a silent sting spoil, spoil, spoil spare the rod save a disparate word and you turn to strike the wind from me with it snag my heart on something keen rip it from my filthy sleeve cosset my mother when she cries bleed my wounds to quell her whine I could never spill enough to sate that empty barathrum just waits to lay me in her snare lets the bile sleep on the tip of her tongue best to burn the skin that's young upheave and hurl my cares around would I wait for your sorrow? for your penitence? I long for it but it would be swallowed up before the moon could set.
0
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
disomus
And what is love? It is a doll dressed up For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle; A thing of soft misnomers, so divine That silly youth doth think to make itself Divine by loving, and so goes on Yawning and doting a whole summer long, Till Miss's comb is made a perfect tiara, And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots; Till Cleopatra lives at Number Seven, And Antony resides in Brunswick Square. Fools! if some passions high have warmed the world, If queens and soldiers have played deep for hearts, It is no reason why such agonies Should be more common than the growth of weeds. Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl The queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say That ye may love in spite of ****** hats.
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Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
And what is love? It is a doll dressed up
I'll roam With emancipated souls I'll marvel the windows of god, A spark of hope To the sickened And doped I'll run the maze of mobs!!! I'll weary mine ways For I am not them I'm a flower A budding beast A being of old trend I'll taketh that needle Shoot to high speed A buzz and a boil And a terrace of green The benign hands to hold me To cosset and mollycoddle I'll insufflate mine request's and intentions Invention of augury and forecase hours!!!!
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Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
The forecast shalt be
“Coastline and the ghost mirage as I sometime see afore, Seashore of such perfections that linger into the morning, Shoals in the distance I imagine things we once dreamed of, I beseech to thee come and join me from this place of ours, In my alluring may you fall on me from wherever you are?   Secluded aft the deep inside where emotions stay hidden, Occulted enigmas of love and secrets can no longer obscure, Reverberated nucleic flow deep within my soul where you remain,   Dubious poetry gives a sense of affinity to ones love torn soul,   Celestial cosmos and is a sense of beyond the feeling of pain,   As the ocean once whispered its breath sand across our bodies, Perhaps best to have you belong in my unknown sentiment in life,   Perhaps one day we shall meet on an islet that we cannot assent, You can whisper your words of amenity as you epicarp my agony, Cosset fervently in your arms as I’m washed of my indiscretions, The last cinders of the autumn air will spend nurturing the winter, I as a sybaritic will follow you in this our silent observance,   By Andrew Guzaldo 03/03/2019 ©
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Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:49 PM UTC
“SILENT OBSERVANCE”
“As that of butterfly she sits not afar off from me, Ah I notice a glance procure every so often, Oh the body of excellence the skin of papal host, She has made me feel alive again with her allure, The wind blows the aroma of galbanum, From this ethereal beauty, As I now sit with an apothecary of emotions, Abasement has slain my inspiration to continue on, Light of another diurnal is not sufficient for my cogitation, Could earth be cloistered in some obscure place? In her curves and the galbanum of her body, I am besieged by the enlightening celestial beauty,   This could be the most ecstatic point of my life, Your skin, your big eyes, alluring one be my alluring one, You are beginning to be my light my shadow alluring one, Magnetism is what you are alive in front of me my allure,   I can feel the Tender Touch of your hands the tender lips upon, mine, As the sea influxes collide in the sea before us, As we cosset in the sand you are now my, Ethereal ALLURE” By AG 04/1/2018
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Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
“My Ethereal Allure”
Darkness wriggles in my body like grape vines, With their skin not so pellucid And eyes all bloodshot, They cosset my body gently, Only to inspect my phizog bounteous with torment. Bucketing their malevolence charisma into me, They beam. I could feel my heart crushing And my breath slowing down. I try to breathe Only to find myself Choking into the deadly littoral of darkness. -Khushi:)
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Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 5:30 AM UTC
Darkness
Yea, I seeketh one with me to build ourn own synagogue, One made out of kisses, and midnight cosset!!!
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May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Synagogue of amour'