"courted" poems
I burnt down the metal cage
that confined me
I have broken up with God
and I am blossoming
without his hand pushing
my head down
I eat blackberries straight from
the bush
tasting the dirt where they grew
the tightest bud bursting
into fruit that nurtures me
that sustains me
I am Godless and cageless
I am a woman of
flames, starting fires
wherever I go
burning, burning, turning
into ash
into the very dirt I courted
with my purple stained
lips
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
Filipino immortal of time
I'm courting thee now;
And making thou mine
We both kneweth
This day wouldst arrive;
Now taketh mine hand, stand by mine side.
I hadst amour'
For thee, for so long;
Now let's maketh, the sweetest amare song.
Ourn affection, tis obvious
For all to see;
We art the real deal, not some farce dream.
As tis we shalt meet,
As thou shalt get that engineering degree;
I'll taketh a trip, or we'll meet in between.
I'm courting thee now,
Tribal of tropic's;
I'll get ****** in thy saliva, bodie's close, bliss the main topic.
None material's needed
As ourn belief's state;
Ourn devotedness, not some internet kiss, everlasting mate's.
So now thou shalt knoweth
Thou hath been courted;
To showeth thee mine love, and to me thou art more important.
Other's shalt judge
As other wilt mock;
Yet we shalt be happy, in romantic cot's
Even if we art poor
With none food on the table;
Ourn love shalt speaketh loudly, none words needed, nor label's.
We shalt write poetry
As it becometh true;
Sweetest earl Jane, just wanted to sayeth, I loveth thou more to.
Tagalog language, thou shalt teacheth me better
Queen earl Jane;
This is thine courting letter.
I'm not all the other's
As thou doth see;
I am thy Hari, thou art mine Reyna, in whom I believe.
As I knoweth thou don't feeleth
Good enough for man, nor God;
Just wanted to telleth thee, thou art mine, and God's all.
I just wanted to let thee knoweth
I looketh up to thine light;
Thou inspireth me so much, as to other's, thou art vital to life.
So when thou feeleth down
And wanting to leap out of thy brawn;
Remember tommorrow ill be here, as well as ourn own god.
This is mine courtship letter
As now I'm courting thee;
We both want it and need it, mine best friend, life, and queen...
I loveth thee so much
We both none more canst hide;
Thou art mine Earl Jane, thou art mine life....
To thee; dearest Earl Jane..................
©Brsndon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane dedication/あある じぇえん
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Far away in ancient Jerusalem
Stood a garden, long, long ago
Home to giant oaks and figs
And plants and shrubs of every kind.
On every season, from time to time
Merrily they would burst into bloom
Filling the air with fragrance sweet
And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer.
Amid the riot of flashing shades
Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads
In a corner, there a Lily stood,
Sans scent and sans grandeur.
A poor loner never once noticed
Nor skilled to steal the show,
Those, brilliant in shade and shape
With contempt openly quipped
‘It’s such a shame
She grows among us
With such pallid shade
And nothing to rave’,
‘Lilies are such lazy lot
Giving only seasonal blooms’
Rang aloud their haughty comments
Rashly blurted out and blunt
The poor Lily wilted in shame
Wishing she had never been born.
Late that evening, through the garden
Into the newly dug up grave
A band of people came with lights
Bearing someone cut and scathed.
With blood oozing, drop by drop
From wounds, left by piercing nails
The body, carefully wrapped in linen
Was the body of Jesus - Son of God
The one who bore the sins of the world
And courted the most accursed of deaths.
The body embalmed was laid inside
And sealed with a giant block of stone
Soldiers posted to guard the tomb
And every vigil so prudently kept.
Early by dawn, three days hence
While it was still very dark
From inside the tomb had come
Rumbling sounds and a blinding light.
Flowers en masse blinked their eyes
Beheld a man, gently walking out
The wounds still fresh on his palm
And the linen that swaddled, lying behind.
As they watched this queer sight
In awful amazement, they did see
A host of Lilies, white as snow
Far more beautiful than any of them
Bowing their heads in reverential glee
And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life.
All the flora in silent shock
Sighted from whence the Lilies came
They sprang unforeseen in those spots
Where drops of blood from his body fell
Then onwards, without fail
April sees the grandeur and grace,
Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms
Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth
Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze,
And giving delight to all who behold.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
The trouble with writing a
relationship through technology
is that the bygones are never gone.
Why do I pour a drink in your absence
and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks
like *********** lips parted, heart racing?
I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling
but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart
being doggedly masticated in the maw of another
I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't,
wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me
for my identity.
My mug shot, beside
hers.
After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now?
I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that.
Everything I wish I had been and said.
The pages left blank, I should've painted red.
In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors
I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy.
At the time, you know, it was like falling upon
The Secret Garden
unbefouled by poison nor passion
to inhale the heady scent of white rose
and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage.
The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine.
I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology.
We courted on Facebook and Gmail,
it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances.
Now my mate belongs where I do.
Loving, tenderly, wisely true.
I cannot start loading the page for the future
so much as delete our archive,
a prelude to love
written in diminished chords,
sung by the jilted and ghosts.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Where are the Eleanors
And Godivas riding
In power and insight,
With spirit and mystique.
They aren't in jewelry
Or splashed on jeans.
Vishti refused to attend
Her drunken Lord;
She is no mirror for Isabella,
So inexperienced in love.
Anne H. fought for liberty,
Bella likes to shake blonde ringlets
On her shoulders;
The nervous Anastasia,
The clumsy Swan,
So modest
And ill-spoken
With downcast eyes.
Katniss is no Palla Athena
Or Garibaldi, though there's promise.
They are bound, timid heroines.
Malala never shot an arrow,
But spoke like Rosa, like Golda.
Yet, your childish sword-bearers
Are still desired by the men
They encounter;
Not as Susan B was courted.
Do they understand
How the chase ends,
These self-depricating heroines.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
I'm never alone, but I always feel lonely,
Surrounded by sycophants and courted by cronies.
My only true value is that which I give
To myself, nobody's willing to just let me live.
Jumping through hoops made of fire and bone,
Searching for nought but a place to call home.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
Waiting for him,
Was like a,
Mindless abyss.
I thought,
This time I should give it a shot.
Add plus venture,
Into a realm full with pleasures of flesh.
Rather waiting to lie in sepulcher.
Thence came the wooers,
On horses, chariots, planes and cars,
Courted me to the foreign lands of brand new emotions.
Greasy, exotic, curious and even obscure ,
To satiate my hunger,
They poured,
And I sinfully devoured.
Ooooh!
A whip here.
Ouuch!
A tickle there.
Aahhhhh!!
The sheer unfolding of their classy work.
Every night lusciously they came,
Wrapped me in an awe of satire, skepticism and imagination,
Not to say of the bruises they gave,
Tears I shed of Anger,Pain ,Love and Hate.
Still I followed them blindly and agape,
Because a new world in me was taking shape.
Of Shakespeare, Freud, Tolstoy, Eliot, Byron, Wordsworth and my then fav,
the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
A medley of fantasy, fact-fiction, comedy, realism and romance.
Oh!
What not I chanced upon.
All emphasizing emotion, imagination, scientific and natural thought.
There was no stopping of these gnawing hunger pangs,
None lasted more than a one night stand.
The foolish me, unaware, cascaded in the fatal encounters,
Not knowing the pangs are of soul to reach the supreme ******
Thence came a Seer
The Prophet,
The Wanderer,
The Forerunner,
It was as if he can rip me with his thoughts,
And see my soul through that tear…..
I distinctly remember that divine night,
The moment I held him in my desirous hands,
I was no more in dual fight.
Things started falling into place,
Was no more in that abysmal space.
Still I would say,
It’s a current phase.
This soon would also evade.
New Lover ,
For every new night…
To cut a long story short,
Just so,
Because of your low attention span,
The lover, the poet , the wooer
Was the great
Khalil Gibran.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC
This decent lady,
Courted by all and sundry,
She'll turn out fine,
Getting better, like maturing wine.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC
There it was in the middle of nowhere
All grown up with wisteria vines
In the summer when the wisteria would bloom
It looked like a beautiful fairytale
Daffodils once grew beside the concrete porch
And azalea bushes too
Forsythia grew near the concrete walkway
It's yellow blooms I used to pick
In bouquets for my Mom in springtime
Two or three bushes bearing white flowers
Once grew beside the house too
Inside it looked Victorian
Even though it was built
In the 1940s or 1950s
How surreal and dreamlike
It did look inside and out
Even though when I saw it
It looked like repairs were a necessity
The floors needed to be torn down and replaced
The house was in dire need of electricity
And in want of being cleaned and organized
Bags of trash and other things
Needed to be sorted through
The house needed a new roof and ceiling
The ceiling and roof were falling through
Some of the floors were collapsing
Or they would crumble if you tried to put
Even one of your feet on one of the brittle floors
Yet that was my favorite home of all
And I miss you since you were torn down
Just last summer
It seems longer or shorter in some ways
In other ways it doesn't
Even though I never lived even a day
Inside of your comfortable hominess
My Mother and her sisters and parents did
My Dad courted her inside those very walls
Which were torn down just last summer
I wished I could have lived inside those walls
Replaced only what needed to be replaced
Keeping as much of you as I could
But you were destroyed
And I never had a chance
*Oh, how I miss you,
Dear little rustic country house
Which was like a home
And felt like home inside*
~Marian~
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Capped at the knees again,
Just another year flying with its scythe,
Cut back down with my feet rooting in cold soil,
Continue the rebuild for lifes reap,
Waiting for the clasp of hopeless farmers hand,
I know why with all the analytical purpose,
To serve life chain propaganda,
Evolutionary biome's scandal,
Breaking free from the loop you have set on full speed,
Watching the track play out,
Another record hollowed out,
High on the repetitive sound,
Loud it rings around space,
Lacing milky ways courted silence,
Rays transfer and escalate along empty darkness,
Light reflected gas,
Champagne bubbled star sky,
Here I lie severed before decay curls,
Wrapping a broken brain
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
Tracks trembled, catering for my destination westward, field
alongside industry courted, dancing the miles ahead, celebrating
scenic mystery, roaving in splendour, hills pumping spellbinding
grassy greatness, devouring, readying for mountainous masterpieces
I am sun drenched in strobed springtime, relishing the thaw
of rivers running forever, snowy peaks holding onto winters
shivering tale, huddling cold coats like pashminas trailing....
unfinished,their needlework on pinpoint exercise
Inside I sit next to myself, folding minutes into moments of memory,
tracks decreasing inner city air, and I regard
evermore with special splendour, the developing rocks and craggy cliffs
arriving neatly at the foot of the sea waving white flags, receding, chasing....
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
OH ! born to sooth distress, and lighten care ;
Lively as soft, and innocent as fair ;
Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought
So rarely found, and never to be taught ;
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind,
The loveliest pattern of a female mind ;
Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest
With all her native heaven within her breast ;
So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin,
But thinks the world without like that within ;
Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless,
Her charity almost becomes excess.
Wealth may be courted, wisdom be rever'd,
And beauty prais'd, and brutal strength be fear'd ;
But goodness only can affection move ;
And love must owe its origin to love.
*******
OF gentle manners, and of taste refin'd,
With all the graces of a polish'd mind ;
Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke,
And from her lips no idle sentence broke.
Each nicer elegance of art she knew ;
Correctly fair, and regularly true :
Her ready fingers plied with equal skill
The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill.
So pois'd her feelings, so compos'd her soul,
So subject all to reason's calm controul,
One only passion, strong, and unconfin'd,
Disturb'd the balance of her even mind :
One passion rul'd despotic in her breast,
In every word, and look, and thought confest ;
But that was love, and love delights to bless
The generous transports of a fond excess.
2.3k
She looked at him with blue eyes of silken seas
Across the table a hand on his, intimately.
The gaze was a lovers gaze, fixed on each other
Both laughing and she had a perfect smile that all could see.
He courted her until their marriage day.
Her father dreaded giving her away.
She kept the house neat and gave birth to a son.
The perfect couple, everyone would say.
Work got hard, and his job was being given away.
They were shipping it to India, as they do these days.
He started drinking to ease the pain of not being able to pay all the bills.
She started feeling ignored and started taking prescription pills.
Every day they would remember the days when no worries existed.
They forgot to live in the moment and be grateful, slowly aging.
Life never stood still and it never will.
This "perfect couple" now argued and fought, sometimes raging.
It was never their dream for him to be unemployed.
They should have been overcome with their son's joy.
It wasn't meant for them to stay together through all of their strife.
Just as they became married, no longer were they man and wife.
She looked across the table at me through creased, aged eyes.
I looked back at her with my sweetest smile.
My mother reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
Now as I hear her story, I can finally understand.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
She’s a Republican
In Democratic clothes
Which means - she’s beyond contempt
Someone to be loathed
An anomaly?
Well if you’re askin me
She’s what every one of ‘em
Pretends to be
A centrist
Who might go either way
On any issue
On any given day
She likes to calls it
A winning strategy
But it’s still selling out
As far as I can see
She’s a Republican
In Democratic clothes
But with the right pedigree
As everybody knows
She’s very bright
That’s obvious - it shows
Though you’ll find her
Wherever the wind blows
I often wonder
Who she really is
Behind the mask
I’m talkin ‘bout square biz
It’s hard to tell
With the naked eye
How she really feels
Though some of us do try
She’s a Republican
In Democratic clothes
Her popularity
Is always in the throes
We love her one-minute
Then hate her the next
She brings out feelings
That are that complex
She’s very hard
For us to get to know
How much is real
And how much is for show
That’s the question
On many people’s minds
What’s goin on
Behind those closed blinds
She’s a Republican
In Democratic clothes
Who’ll run for president
One day I suppose
She’s very suited
For the life she chose
A prodigy
Who won't be unopposed
There’s so much baggage
In her sordid past
The kind of thing
That usually tends to last
She’ll ascend
But then she’ll drop so fast
Say what you will
The dye’s already cast
She’s a Republican
In Democratic clothes
Who has a war chest
That grows and grows and grows
She’s courted equally
By the rich and poor
With the kind of access
That many would die for
But still she’s baffling
To say the very least
It’s hard to tell
The nature of the beast
And to add insult
Along with injury
Is we don’t know
How she's gonna be
She’s a Republican
In Democratic clothes
Who lost my vote
But that’s just how it goes
When one has trouble
Being who they are
It doesn’t matter
That they’re a rising star
I can’t support her
Under any circumstance
It would be foolish
To even take that chance
Though I do like her
I have to admit
I’ll vote against her
Or maybe I’ll just sit
© Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester - all rights reserved.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
I remember her then:
Pale skin and rouged lips,
Playful whim and pendulous hips.
Oh yes, I remember this.
The fairest of them all,
Midnight-maned with eyes that wish,
that she were born under the rule
of a queen and not a witch.
Who chose this?
It was I who tried assist,
and when the thorn of roses missed,
I knew the witch could not resist.
Sickened magic, poisoned apples,
Made to seem a tasty dish
Made their way onto the table
of my true love's wedding gifts.
Later, in the darkness,
hiding true love's wedding bliss,
I was courted with foreboding
As if this, our only tryst,
would be soiled by the treason
that this hateful witch insists.
I lay there in the dark,
my lover's breath, a ghostly wisp.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 4:08 AM UTC
Oh to be courted.
It's somewhat like observing
The bird of paradise tidy up.
Immaculate his display, his stage.
He proceeds to dance.
Hopelessly invested. Commited
To his caper. To her acquiescence.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
Her mother bore her at a young age,
A simple, unforgiving mistake.
I felt pity for her but not as much
as I admired her.
She is beautiful,
And for some time I courted her heart.
But she left me there
leaving me open to the cold world.
They've changed her.
She is no longer the girl I fell in love with,
But one who continues the loop
Towards another mistake like her mother's.
I try to protect her.
To scare away the vultures,
but it is impossible
to scare them away from their newest prey.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
*blood stains her canvas
congealed crusts, fresh streaks
frayed corners and edges
the tattered toll of pain, loss
how best to depict my love on her
overlay her with beauty
to develop a patina of care over time
reduce her suffering to pentimento
her landscape shifts constantly
with the quality of her light
I must blend to the shade of her mood
her want...her need
work from the palette of my heart
in the spectrum of my love
paint her in courted color
every tone of every hue
brush her being with my caress
creatively styled to her moment
pastel tenderness...primary strength
bold strokes of passion...bright splashes of spontaneity
to portray for her a frameless existence
of unlimited intimacy and peace
but she does not rest on my easel
and I am merely dreaming of the art of love*
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Come to me, my dearest one.
Let me get inside you more;
naivety is your nature,
thus eager to please
and to be pleased
—time flies like a fleeting bluebird,
a fairy in its blue bright spirit,
and still you’re nearing my presence.
Almost there, so be afraid of me,
and yet fond of me,
for I'll never let you stray off anymore
—stop your wandering, no more—
and ‘tis the proof that I hold you so dear.
I long to relish that imminent moment
where you’ll give me the enjoyable tickles
while struggling in my arms tightly locked,
kept held in my blooming *****
in ominous anticipation.
Alas, I'm much eager to please you so
—and I do expect, you would feel the same;
that is what I know from your eyes
trying to shun my eagerness,
still neglecting my attentive gesture
beckoning you to join me,
but you will hide it no longer,
for all of your struggles, big or small no matter,
fans my fanatic yearning for your soul.
So accept me, my foolish child
(so carefree, but still shuddering)
as the dim evening clouds
would shroud the skies above,
sealing off the passage of light
that was once so brilliant,
but now without a reason to exist.
And you, the courted,
don't just stand there
when I come to embrace you heartily,
so induce me—do ****** me,
and betray your fear
to be accepted by me, and only.
Do me a favor, and this shall work
as a token of passion for me;
the perfection is all yours:
the purification of our intents,
the petrifaction of our conscience,
the completion of our unison,
ceasing the compliance
with the rigid standards
of the unworthy.
Wings of the butterfly collapse
altogether, and you will be
awaken, knowing that, my love,
you are truly a butterfly.
Like a pair of moths,
we fly into the torchlight burning incandescent.
Sep 4, 2020
Sep 4, 2020 at 5:54 AM UTC
*How dare you
Stereotype girls
As worthy of a bouquet
And not
How dare you
Imply that
You were not to be seen
With her in public
Was she a monster, a ghost
Or something else?
Was she ugly or what?
Maybe she wasn't as pretty
As those girls
You've been following on Facebook
Liking their profile pictures
Every time they make updates
Or that girl on the wallpaper
Of your phone
Or that girl you've always been dying for
To be your girlfriend
Who looked so much like
That teen star on TV.
How dare you
Tell her you loved her
Call her baby
When all you did in the end
Was left her
For another girl
Who now bears your future baby
How dare you
Drive her home after work
For a week or two
Ask her if she still loves you
Because you think you are still
In love with her
But then after a month
You're with another girl
Took pictures on that
Famous hilltop
Then said she was just a fling
How dare you
Read her poems
Make her believe
You admired her poetry
But all you did
Was get this idea
And tried writing a poem
For another girl you courted
How dare you
Demand for her time
When you were so bored
Of all of your free time
And all she did
Was to free her me time
Just to compromise
How dare you
Tell her you feel the same
When all she supposedly
Wanted was to be just friends
But you hid from her
That you already have your own girl
How dare you
Dare me
Was I a fool
When all I thought
That love
Was the most beautiful feeling?
How dare I?*
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 4:20 AM UTC
Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.
Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.
Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.
What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:59 AM UTC
You want to know what I want?
A proper date.
Flowers. Not always. Once every few months is fine.
To be wooed, courted a bit.
Gooooooood *** Bodies drenched and flushed.
A **** Fine Kiss. (Suddenly gathered in someone's arms in the middle of the street.
The kind that leaves you breathless, panting, and needing more.)
A good cuddle on the sofa during THE WALKING DEAD.
Hours of intellectual conversation as foreplay.
You want to know what I get?
Hanging out with friends.
Pictures of flowers sent to my Facebook inbox.
Someone letting me know they're quite keen on me, but only until I show an interest back.
Half-hearted whatever-the-hell that's supposed to be.
Lazy kisses where the mind wanders.
Forcing my dog to cuddle during walker attacks.
Having to explain what "Beware the Ides of March" means. Among too many other things.
Mind games.
And secret messages so their wives don't see.
I get creepsters
and/or
married men
and/or
people from out of town/state/country who fancy me.
That last one's not bad, mind you. Just not very possible.
So if you're keen...
ask yourself...
...which one of those categories do you fall under?
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
A castaway in the island of failed loves, my heart
moved in jungle pathways, lived alone in caves,
I sold it to a courtesan who courted it steadfast
never had I felt such an ease in my days dark.
Love is a clandestine merchandise in market places
by lovers, men and women of charm and magic
mixing power and allure, when the price is just right.
The street of our evenings was full of laughter,
my love life there saw many sunny seasons.
We walked hand in hand and my sweetheart was eager
to please me as my heart was full of love's languor
the meaning of love was still obscure for me and her,
though we thought it was nothing but love, that
kept throbbing in our every vein, it really mattered.
To the tune of Blue Danube, we would wildly waltz,
the sad thought it brought, made me weep inside.
if the world is so wicked let's die together,
and I see her dance away totally inebriated
footsteps sounded near, we lost true interest
pain was chasing us, all the way from behind,
we were disillusioned, love slowly got drifted
gently dissipated breaking our hearts.
As I cross the corner of the street alone,
with my heart bleeding, often the girl for the day in tow,
I feel the pang of a heart, seeking my love waiting
the courtesan who kept watching me, her glassy eyes moist,
all these days of wandering, eventually our eyes met.
I sold my heart to the lonely courtesan, she wept, received it.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
We eat in the restaurants
Eat in the bars
By the bistros
Against the street or on the ground
It does not matter where we are found
As we eat like we are dancing
With no one around
Who could possibly be watching?
Inside your own home
A house of a lone star
Impossibly pondering
How the pauper used wood
And turned it into cooking.
Food can be shared for
A life once cared for
Kept to yourself
Perhaps you beg not to share it
An octagon plate and octagon jades
Caramel vinegar rain
Tossing and turning with lightning veins.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land
broken
The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing
"never change Lou lou!"
he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.
© Sia Jane
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC