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Muhammad Usama Mar 2019
In the remembrance of bows and curtsies,
Amidst the shed leaves,of pale memories,
I stood marred by, and married to your heart,
Thus, in question,your each and every part.

But like the sun at night stood forgotten,
Looking for a love never-begotten;
And seeking all the answers I was due,
Much like a priest sworn,did I worship you.

But unanswered prayers had love, undone,
Thus then against me, your self-conceit won.
Unrequited Love.
rebecca Nov 2013
the curtain has risen,
and miniscule snow flakes,
make their appearance,
darting to and fro across the sky-
their stage.

they quickly find partners-
one bows, the other curtsies.
and they begin to dance

twirling and spinning,
weaving stories with every move.
they dance a breathtaking ballet,
an astounding performance.

at the end of each snowflake's performance,
they sprinkle the world around them,
making the atmosphere light
as the lawns turn white.

inside a cozy house,
one filled with the spirit of the holidays,
two people sit at a windowsill
on the second floor.
they watch contently,
at the beauty just outside their window.

the two people-
a content boy and a wistful girl,
are wearing slight smiles,
as they enjoy the bliss of winter
and each other.

fingers interlaced,
with shoulders touching,
the boy plants a kiss on
the girl's forehead.
and they get lost in the moment,
watching the ballet
together.
Its happy yay :)
Kelsey Oct 2012
People these days
You don't know how to act

You follow the trends
And fill in things you lack

You'll be their best friend
But then stab them in the back

In our black sentence and prescriptions
You dance to your death

Playing around with things
Like acid and ****

With your gay canters
And chemical glee

With your low crooked curtsies
And your ignorant flee

You'll
Turn
Out
Like
Me
Tiger Lily,
Glowing bright
Soft velvety petals
Swaying violently
Against the storm

Swirling winds
Entangle her soul
Struggles to be free

Its wrath subsides
And the flower stands tall
Tiger Lily
Brightest of them all

Wearing the yellowest of bonnets
The greenest of gowns
She curtsies up and down
And turns to the sun

Petals tainted wild gold
Amongst murky swamps
Tiger Lily
Shining ever so bright
Thought I'd start out with one of my oldest poems.
emma joy Dec 2013
Maybe one day I'll make finger sandwiches
for classy luncheons
in a pagoda in my backyard.
We all will be jolly
and have balloon laughs
as we sip our aged merlot.
  And my young children will waltz in
  with their curtsies and bows and then
  go off again to be with their nanny.
And I will be occupied
with the things in my pocket
so I won't know what the dark is anymore.

                                                       ­                I'd rather live in the dark though.
                                                         ­                   In a raunchy studio apartment
                                                       ­                          with a semi-attractive but
                                                             ­                  the most beautiful woman
                                                           ­                                who is educated
                                                        ­                   and still knows how to color.
                                                           My children will understand what it means
                                                           ­              to be alive and I'll let them decide
                                                          ­                               if they appreciate it or not.
                                                                ­   We will feed the ducks every Sunday.
                                                                ­    I want to be among spirits not bodies.
MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding ‘frown’.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff’rence thrills us.
Would’st thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips—but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns,—in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt’ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.

  Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing,
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman’s soft Dominion:
Howe’er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would’st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis Animation.
John Leuven Apr 2014
I.

April made port.
The hordes of sand stood ready; surveilled
the eccentricities of April with a judging
eye. Lightwinds seem to sturggle pathing as if
they were still learning cantrips. No blood no magic.
All is well with my soul.

The crooning of the bony earth woke the
slumbering April-bud. It sang in seismic trembles.
We danced with the needles that recorded this symphony.
The ticking of your hair. The elevated pulses of
sharp, angled red; we rejoiced in the every spike.

Ruminations preserved.

II.

Sometimes, I wish there were
parking lots for ants in front of a bar
where they would swap stories while
drowning in vats of apple saliva.

Their antennae would sway to and fro,
and there would be proper queues which
would make the sight more stunning and
post-apocalyptic. There would be lots
of kissing. There would be courtesy and curtsies.
There would be stories about patriotism; how
they so love their Queen and would fight
for Queen and colony and breadcrumbs and peas.
There will be no discrimination; no one
shall look at one ant and say, “Hey, sugar-lover;”
the winged will fall in line as much as
the crawling red and black.

Ruminations reserved.

III.

O cold, cold, Earth, t’was your day, in echoing chime!
The miters sanctified by satyr priests bore bare
relations succinctly longed for and wanted! Godspeed!
The atmosphere wears its gown, the Aurora, in celebration!
The drum-line needs no motivating, it goes ever on, the snares
rumbling in sync with the fire-ants marching in time,
the fire-ants marching in time! Never before had a white flag
been as unnecessary. O cold, cold Earth,
cruise the orbit with this enchanting chanting, ever-going on.

Ruminations deserved.

IV.

The Queen is dead.
Long live the Queen.

*Ruminations unheard.
claire Nov 2011
beautiful like a rainbow on a cloudy day
She twirls in her bright yellow galoshes and coat
that angelic face towards the sky
Her bright blue eyes bring the sun but her dark black hair continues to praise the rain
beautiful like the dazzling lights on the stage
light brown eyes twinkle as she curtsies to the audience
perfect golden curls making her shine
Silky music resonates from the cello and she seems to be suspended in time’s strong arms
beautiful like the strokes of vivid paint across her page
brilliant green eyes intensely stare at the paper
the brush end in her mouth as she smudges a line
her handsome red hair is in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, all speckled in red, blue, and yellow
Jade Mar 2019
I had my first kiss at the cinema, the contour of our silhouettes illuminated by the glow of the rolling credits. He tasted like Altoids and cigarettes, an ambivalent concoction of ice and fire. At one point, I'd bitten him by accident. Whether this was a manifestation of inexperience or (seductively, with heat in her eyes) hunger,  I'm not sure. But, sitting there in the thrill of My Something New, I was certain of one thing: this was a red carpet moment, the stuff of silver screens and glimmering Hollywood starlets and rows of type writer ribbon waiting to be transposed into something theatrical.

After the film, we sat outside a cafe a block over, the fever of summer adhering to the back of our necks like (giggling) misplaced hickeys. Smoke corkscrewing from the end of his parliament, he told me how John F. Kennedy was addicted to opioids. I couldn't help but think back to earlier that afternoon when he first admitted to being a smoker. How he'd asked me, "Is this going to be a problem for you?" hesitation rising up his throat like bile.

I smiled because 'Everyone's got their poison," I replied.  

And poison? Well, there's something so strikingly poetic about it, don't you agree?

(beat.)

JFK must have been Marilyn Monroe's poison, I think.

"So," I offered, "What do you really think happened to Marilyn Monroe?"

"How do you mean?" he said between drags of his cigarette.

"I mean was it really an overdose or--"

"Was it an assassination?" he interjected.

"Mhmmm."

Another drag of his cigarette.

"As they say, the simplest answer is often the correct one."

"Maybe. (beat.) But what makes for the better story?"

After two weeks of courtship, he took his leave. My mother's obvious, unwarranted disapproval was, perhaps, a source of anxiety for him. Me being freshly eighteen, he was also concerned about that (sarcastically) whoppin' three year age gap. (beat.) Not fully buying it, are ya?

Well, neither did I.

Here's my theory: his feelings (or lack thereof) were the reason he called it quits. And instead of being a man--instead of being honest, instead of owning up to the true nature of his intentions--he spun some relatively believable excuse. A coward's way of removing himself from a situation he doesn't want to be in. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't as disappointed as I would have anticipated, had I foreseen the end of our fleeting romance.

I was (beat.) fine.

It does make for a great story, after all. (wryly) But you knew that already.

Because for every Norma Jean, there's always a Marilyn Monroe.

Tell me then--who are you?

(beat.)

Girl curtsies, transitioning into a tableau of Marilyn Monroe's iconic pose wherein she attempts to hold down her dress as the air from a nearby subway grate threatens to expose her undergarments.

Lights fade out.

{Fin}
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Kristaps Oct 2019
In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;

The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.

I was yet to understand blood.

When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.


In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
                 all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.


There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.

I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,

they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)


In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.

So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.

And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
✿⊰✲⊱✿
A plain white sash across his chest;
with black trousers and matching boots.
"They look so happy together," Sarita
leans over to my ear, a smile in her
voice as everyone cheers.
"They really do." I say back. "Long
may they reign."
Hand in hand, Donna and Dean
descend down the steps as Paul
emerges from the crowds, the cheers
dying down.

✿⊰✲⊱✿
"Donna, Dean!" He embraces Dean like
a brother, and kisses Donna's hands.
He has a playful grin. "Welcome to
Luciuscemi!"
"Thank you for having us," Donna replies
as she looks around. "Oh my, you weren't
kidding when you said everyone was coming."
"We all have love for you. And we are all
thrilled about your marriage."
Donna turns to face everyone. "Thank you
all ever so for all your presents. Even now,
my men are still unpacking. To everyone
for wishing me and my family well, just know
I am greatly touched and humbled by all of
your support and kindness."
As she curtsies, we all cheer and return the
favour.

✿⊰✲⊱✿
I shyly approach her. "Queen Donna."
"Little Queen Lyn," she chuckles as we
embrace. "Ah! You look lovely!"
"Compared to you, I'm a plain Jane.
How long did it take to make a fine
dress?" I stroke my finger on the vibrant
embroidery on her skirts.
"Months. I'm just glad it was finished in
time for Paul's fine event. Same with
my love's jacket!"
I see Dean and Paul laughing together.
"By the way, thank you so much for the
rose-silks you sent me. And the crates of
wines and teas. You are quite the
connoisseur for your age. The book you
supplied me about each and every one
of those herbal teas is very impressive."
Second part of 9! ^-^
Lyn ***
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"But I'll admit, how Paul is looking at those two is
bothering me." I raise a brow. "Ainhara, you
go and speak to Sue and Yidna, tell them I will
be there shortly."
Tucking an apple blossom in her hair, she curtsies and
leaves my side, joining the diverse conversation,
and joyous laughter.
As I walk up the steps, I see Edmund and his wife
walk down, I smile and nod their way which
they return and I am by Paul's side.
"Why is the King pouting now?" I roll my eyes.
"I legit may poison Brandon's food," he says.
"Paul!" I hit his arm.
"What! He's tempting me to do it! He's all
over Esshi!"
✿⊰✲⊱✿

"Oh my," I facepalm, "You're upset that Brandon
is entertaining Esshi?"
"Yes," Paul pouts. "No fair, I saw her first! She's mine!"
"Oh Paul," I sigh and laugh, "Sometimes I don't
know what to do with you."
"You can help by assisting Luciuscemi take arms
against Huarean."
"Behave yourself!" I hit his arm again. "You are not going
to war with Brandon."
"He's flirting with my girl!"
"Talking, not flirting. There's a difference. He's not you!"
At that moment, Esshi giggles in response to
Brandon's comment.

✿⊰✲⊱✿
"I'm the only one that should make her smile
and laugh like that. She's too adorable!
So, I'm gonna wife her!" Paul says.
"I won't let you. And no, I am not jealous!" I cut him off and
walk down the steps, smiling at his antics.
"You're not going to stop me, Lyn!"
"Challenge accepted!" I wave my hand and
walk to Kim, Donna, Dean, Sue, Ainhara and Yidna.
"What was that about?" Sue asks.
"Paul's upset Brandon's talking with Esshi."
"Seriously?" Yidna tries not to laugh.
Kim only chuckles and Donna shakes her head.
"Between his incessant flirting and playful nature,
it's a wonder how Esshi has not exploded from
shyness. She certainly is a timid thing." Donna sighs.
Part 10, part 2 ^-^
Lyn ***
wordvango Sep 2016
with dripping elegance
the Venus' Pride
the False Indigo
with proud long stem protruding
the Blue Curls dew
covered extend
roadside curtsies to all
who pass by
dancing
like cultured pearls
in the morning
light.
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
Dad was a blowhole,
Mom, a plankton feeder
Who never neglected the pod.

The hunters would come
In their little asinine ships,
Looking to stick our
Good sense with sharp points,
Harpooning us into believing
We'd be better off dead and used for fuel.

But Mom would read to us
Stories from books about high water,
And tip those boats right over.

Nothing dared swim in our wake on such nights,
She was queen to the waves,
Who in bows and curtsies,
Became her subjects.

Little did we know this long, arduous journey
Was driven not by kingdom, but by extinction...
the sea sings its august notes,
curtsies and prances like
a two year old colt,

believes that the wind
forgives its cold voice,
rises and falls –

its icy engines strong warriors
battling beneath the clouds,

its flowing barrels voices
of gossiping steel.
bakedjones May 2014
curtsies and torn *****-hose
i am the the tiny pieces of dust you inhale
how does somebody tear my *****-hose for me
if i have already done it myself?
Bryce Jun 2019
When the flower blooms
She smiles her pleasent hues
Her juices ooze
Advancing petal and raising shoots

A blubous tower in her youth
She curtsies, twirls in my view.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
✿⊰✲⊱✿
"Ainhana, Esshi?" I call and they enter,
both were in similar fitted peacock lavender
elegant dresses that reveals their necks
and the slim waists; their hair packed into
neat buns. I smile, "You both look lovely!"
"As do you, My Lady," Esshi curtsies.
"Let us make way," I smile and they nod.
After quickly embracing my mother, I began
to make my way to the entrance my palace,
my ladies in toe.

✿⊰✲⊱✿
The afternoon coats the land and skies in
orange and red, but it's a sight to behold. The
air is so crisp and the birds glide and sing.
At the foot of veined marble, a grand white
carriage with sculpted timber being led by
four horses. The guards stand by the door;
the flag of Aurelinaea flapping in the wind.
"My Lady," the coachman smiles and bows,
"You look exquisite."

✿⊰✲⊱✿
"Thank you," I chuckle as he opens the door.
One of my guards helps me in and my
handmaids before closing the door. As the
Chief Guard gallops on his horse, giving orders
to his men, I see my mother stand by the entrance.
"Safe travels, my dear." She says, waving which
I return as we ride out, on our journey
to King Paul's palace!
Part 2 of the Gala! ^-^
Part 3 will be out tomorrow!
Lyn ***
TMReed Nov 2019
Buried inside—we blameless pets
rove mollified through worlds of kind.
Rough n’ tumbles polish curtsies
for a tempered pair, spotless n' blind.

Never to slip, never to falter,
ever, we pets, sturdy in hollow.
Leap in rhyme, step with reason
‘to splitting morrow—grit n' swallow.
Rationale empties in practice.
WiltSov Apr 2019
skittish, though warmth in splices
curtsies the cells on my back

sleeping next to hot water,
****** sentences writhe for honey

pull that fingernail from the hammer,
dilettante can be my only pleasure

dictioned through playful scraps,
you’re interpersonally–strangely–kind

a case of baskets, take my brain with you
hum before you rattle thaumaturgy out

remain seated–
critique grandly–
...this perfunctory serf is dead.
Mahpiya May 2020
The night sweats away into the day, blackness running down
the west side of the sky.
We wake with the light and clothe in fabric
that sticks to damp skin and chafes still tender
arms and legs.
Westward, the night is dying, bathed in yellow heat.
Morning flushes warm and hazy, coltish on its legs.
Perspiration still clings to grass
and baptizes naked feet as we move past.
We are seeking the young hearts and lungs of the earth,
vibrant, blood-dark, and ready. Sharp in scent and
delicate to the tongue. Touch them.
Taste them.
A gentle killing; reverent caress,
preformed with crooked curtsies and twisting hands.
I'll carry you to my mouth, sweet one, small one.
Pitted, seeded, smooth and *****.
Forsake for me your manger-bed, a sweet cradle,
but I know sweeter.
My touch destroys, creates, transforms.
Quiet electricity, precious greasy energy.
Come apart beneath my teeth. Collapse. I worship you.
Come to me.
Come to me.

— The End —