"curvaceous" poems
Such luscious lips, with pinkish glow!
She's beautiful.
Her chapped lips, faucet like,
cascade only words of kindness..
She's beautiful.
Such pretty,alluring eyes!
She's beautiful.
Her heavy-lidded eyes : a pair of lenses
capturing only great sharp shots,
they see clearly only the good in people..
They never despise.
She's beautiful.
Such a lovely, curvaceous figure!
She's beautiful.
Within the slim figure, is a soul
who'll share her food with the hungry,
even if it means she'll be left with nothing
for dinner.
She's beautiful.
Beauty is only skin deep..
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
Brown maple sugar,
Cinnamon toast complexion.
Hershey chocolate chip.
Carmel Hazel brown eyes,
Red sugarcane lips.
Your curvy curvaceous thighs.
With enough melanin color blended so perfectly together, bronzing the brownish shade of your muscles.
Natural ethnic hair.
Thick, coarse or silky.
It is perfectly acceptable by me.
***** so big it needs to have its own legs to stand on.
Your blackness is ****
And it **** sure is beatiful.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
She’s what you call bootylicious
body just luscious
yeah, she’s got junk
in her trunk
bumps in all the right places
beautifully curvaceous
oozes confidence
no pretence
so much more than a piece of ***
lovely, funny and full of sass
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
I see you there
on your white sand beach,
in your little tight bikini.
Looking like a creamy white treat.
Infidel *****
Exposed skin
men all ogling your body,
with eyes like hands!
How would you like me
to take off my clothes in front of you!
Touch your body,
and kiss your lips!
Then you would see the effect you Infidel Flaunting Sexuality!
Your curvaceous body,
coated in sweat from the inflamed sun.
My blood boils thinking of you!
I am going to **** you American!
Put my tongue in your mouth,
kiss you!
Like you do in your pervert mind.
Your naughty fantasy
of naked man,
kissing you on a sunny beach,
tropical drink in one hand,
other hand rubbing and probing my body!
Infidel *****
Laying there,
so ****
you make me crazy!
Your passion *** will burn
in sinful fires,
and Allah will pass judgement
on your ***
I will **** you, for punishment
to your Infidel Flaunting Sexuality,
******* glistening,
lips red as the drink you drink.
Infidel *****
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 6:57 AM UTC
Your white bosoms releasing that white serum.
That curvaceous mound feeds humanity,
That makes the biggest humanity via motherhood wisdom.
Your pink ******* arousing that tempest blood.
That soft hill becoming hard,
That hardens which heightens the adulthood.
Your black ***** taming sin.
That concealed shape popping out to provoke,
That provokes to **** feminism in mean.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 12:43 AM UTC
Freedom is premium priced,
At the casino of the world nations throw the dice,
The tables are rigged by the fat rats and mice,
Girls in curvaceous miniskirts on poles entice,
***** laced drinks and cancer sticks merrily fleece,
Fizzy burgers are served filled with crucified cheese,
Layers of salt and blood and veins congealing with grease
Are the fillings inside the consumed meat,
Come to the sale of the century and let your life be diseased,
Take whatever you want and still you will never be pleased,
Remember, one day all will be held to account, so all evil immediately cease,
Do not make the mistake to ********** the legend of glorious Hercules
Or pollute and sell the message of almighty God so cheaply.
©Rangzeb Hussain
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:40 AM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
*Luscious and curvaceous
Sometimes with a pout
Airing some disapproval
With the wave of her hand
She turns back and
Gives a nonchalant glance
Sometimes disapproval
But her side glances
Reveal a different story
The gait of a ballet dancer
There’s rhythm in her feet
Voices her opinions
With her surreal notes
Her piercing gaze
Tears down all defenses
Here, helpless soul
Is mesmerized
It’s a luscious night*
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
There was no dragon
And there was no girl with hands bound with pearls,
But…
There was blood
And there was mass ****** littered all over the land and rivers.
There was no saint
And there were no hymns or marching pipes led by earls,
But…
There were lies
And there were bones inked to write and slaughter was delivered.
There was no lance
And there was no horse or swords drawn to help curvaceous girls,
But…
There was a red cross
And there was blood smeared on a pure white flag which flapped and curled.
There was no gallantry
And there was no dignity or pride nor was there justice delivered,
But…
There was a pale man
And he rode a pale horse and he rode from a land called Palestine.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
As I beheld a flower of rare beauty
In the silence choked heart of wilderness
The facsimile of a pretty woman came alive
From the coagulated heap of images
A woman…….! Isn’t she
God’s supreme handiwork
An animated form of chiseled art
A joy to behold
A figure of curvaceous ups and downs
God’s beautiful calligraphy
Her skin glowing as satin
Hands and fingers of creamy softness
Eyes reflecting love and gentleness
Voice musical and sweet
Moving with measured cadence
And walking with fluid ease
One who smoothens the rough edges of life
But Alas! A treasure rarely valued.
A loving daughter to her parents
An adorable mate to her man
A forgiving mother to all
The fountain spring of new life
The lovely mother to her children!
Though she is branded by many
As frail or fickle, infirm or impish
How empty is a man’s life
Who hasn’t known a woman,
Either as a mother, sister or daughter
Or a lover, companion or wife
This marvel of creation,
This miracle worthy of adulation!
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
*
*
Sitting in the shade of ****** lilies, is
the blessed beauty, the Heart of Summer
Her skin, shimmering russet
Her eyes, molten gold
Her lips, pouty rose buds
Her hair, a slick raven halo
Her body, curvaceous and slender
Flaunted by her diaphanous lilac robe
Through her sculpted nose, she inhales the
warm clime; her feet upon the verdure.
As she walks through the gardens, the
flowers burst into blooms, trumpets
to the song of working honey bees.
Ahead is a lake, clear, crystal and celestine,
stars dance and wink upon the surface.
She picks the daisies and adorns it in
her hair, thinking of her great empery.
Here in the palms of light and love, there
is no sin and no pain.
She hears the ringing bells of
nature, the song of wings.
'For I love all life and light,' she smiles, 'and more,
I will bring.'
*
*
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
by what light!this pains' dismay is taught and frigid
it is the earth upholding my footfalls genial and slow
i tread and mark the soil as turning sunder:the stain
last frail and withered node of light 7fold and thrice
the hills are marching under that calamity of orange
duskish and fowling their curvaceous hide. i'm loose and tight
in folds of grass. and i walk
and i walk
and i w
a
l;
K
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
No,
not short poems.
honest to goodness
short shorts,
jean-like short shorts.
No,
not those kinds that
the young girls wear,
jean lookalike stretch fabric,
skin so tight it makes
their ole daddies' faces
wince the same color blue.
in the middle muddle of fall,
now you write of short shorts?
Well, I was told I could not write this
till after the summer was final gone
from the rear view mirror glass.
Once I wrote/imagined about
a woman of a certain age,
who emptied her armoire drawers,
time to transition and take things
that could no longer be,
to the thrift shop,
for others to be
thrifty in.
Except for one bathing suit,
a two piece back from the days,
when two pieces meant
you were proud
of what you had and
what you didn't have -
the same suit she was
wearing grabbing her little son,
then a man of six or seven,
(now a dad with a son,
of three or six or seven),
in the photo on the night table,
some thirty dreams ago.
Man you take a long time to make a point!
what's all this got to do with short shorts?
one summer day,
a woman I know,
an actual
fire-breathing dragon,
went thru the drawers
of her ***** blonde armoire.
there she "found" a pair of
shorts shorts, from some
thirty dreams ago.
it did not take
too much encouragement,
just a little courage
to try them on,
thirty dreams later.
now these short shorts
were the old fashioned kind,
they look liked cut off jeans
but were not, they had rolled up
cuffed bottoms to increase the illusion.
They no longer fit!
Yup.
******* short shorts were
loose
around that curvaceous waist,
known as my favorite place.,
where I rested my head once again,
after,
we celebrated.
that is my poem about short shorts
that I've been carrying round
until the curfew was lifted.
but even tho I like short shorts,
I'll never ask someone to wear them,
risking scorn and mockery,
but I know for a fact,
those short shorts did not
get thrown out.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
I like to bite,
not overly hard,
just enough to make one wince,
perhaps, a sharp intake of breath,
showing that my bite is hard enough.
I so desire feeling soft flesh,
tensing between my teeth,
especially when rounded and firm.
Neck first, working downwards,
nipping into the shoulder,
chewing that succulent muscle,
with tight, tentative nibbles.
I am even bitten in return,
my pressure gauged by intent,
taken from the one biting me.
If teeth come hard and sharp,
trust me, then so do mine,
if they are loving and gentle,
once again, so are mine.
I work across the *******
delighting in the ***** *******
chewing drawing responses,
tongue sliding over her stomach,
lower, lower, down to the hips.
Biting very hard into thighs,
making her cry, back arching,
bringing writhing gasps to die for,
reaching her vulnerable centre,
soothing with deep, heavy licks,
tantalisingly teasing, so sweet.
Suddenly, flipping her over,
rough as you like, choice slaps,
smarting on her plump bottom,
before biting, biting, biting,
taking in every curvaceous part,
devouring, chomping, so yummy!
I part her legs, diving between,
my tongue lapping in a frenzy,
deep, deep, tasting the juice,
before rising, pinning shoulders,
entering, gliding, slowly, surely,
giving long, languorous strokes.
Hips grinding, hard and deep,
circling round and round,
momentum building, building,
firm hands gripping her hips,
flesh slapping against flesh,
as we match our rhythm,
lunging, pounding, thrusting,
exploding, on and on,
more and more, until,
we are spent, trembling,
slowing, easing.
A final twisting whip,
circling the very edge,
bringing smiles,
a playful giggle,
it tickles, so nice,
I lean forward, so good,
nuzzling, caressing,
ah, all because,
I like to bite.
©Paul M Chafer
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Nevermind the obvious quirks in my physique—
the thick thighs,
short legs,
t-rex arms,
and that ample, curvaceous figure of mine
which I own and work every day.
*[Listen,
I'm certain I could get into the glitter—
no doubt I would have a killer stage name—
I figure I’d get pretty used to the instant gratification—
and there's no doubt in my mind
that whatever I lack in grace and *** appeal,
I could make up for in
charm, wit,
and a cuteness that I'm still growing into.]*
But see, I have a slight fear of wearing heels.
It's safer for everyone if I stick close to the ground.
And although swinging around a pole
seems like a good time,
my motion sickness would probably kick in
and I'd ralph hard
on at least one of my investors.
Aside from the faulty mechanics I'd bring to the profession,
I've got my own rationale.
I like knowing
that when my clothes come off,
it's for reasons larger than money.
I like knowing
that I've left a little to the imagination
and can unleash it at my leisure.
I like knowing
that my secret weapons of mass seduction
are, in fact, secrets.
I like knowing
that I still have something to blush about
when I think about how I spent my Saturday night.
Nah,
I could never be a stripper,
but hot ****
do I enjoy perfecting the art
of smiling while naked.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
Supple and smooth, silky soft skin,
Sensual, secretive and seductive,
It curves, full of curvaceous curls,
Hips glisten and warm to the touch,
Flawless flesh full of flirtatious discovery,
Horizons hatch with moist mystery,
Lascivious legs luscious and long,
And there nesting was a stark naked message,
It was sculpted in lines shaped with skull bone,
At the source where beautiful Life is birthed,
Right there at the doors of delirious desires,
Death held seat on the throne of Life.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Mysterious Night
Come look on vistas ever sweeping the hills a maiden walks in white she seems to create
Greater light follow her into the night where fire flies is her crown and lights up her curvaceous gown
And the gentle dawn she breaks by her sleepy eyes that causes the heart to be the only sound that is
Heard as it thumps with approval add a touch of dew to her hair if you dare a swaying week kneed man
Isn’t the most attractive sight but what can be when you’re caught in the awe of such loveliness like the
Current of the Seine just turn on the Paris lights stroll the west end the glow from the shop windows
Adds to the flow mix it with jasmine and here the slow expressive violin drift along the empty street
Its heaven coursing stop the carriage driver it is the perfect night for a carriage ride in the park
Somewhere as you listen to the clip clop of the horse’s hooves you are transported to the sea coast
Of ole Monterey out at the point of the peninsula the mighty waves crash over the rocks in the
Moonlight the night does speak with wondrous overtures love is the thrill that covers all the land
Mermaids sing from the hidden mysterious places that they alone know and then all the picturesque
Vivid images end alas it was just a lovely dream if so why do I still smell the Jasmine and a perfume that
is only sold in Paris
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
I don't fit.
If only it were that easy. If only I could go to a different store and find a better size. If only I could unzip this skin and find a better fit.
My body feels foreign as I move and stretch, watching my reflection in the mirror. This cannot be me. It can't be.
Because I do not have ******* today. I do not have a large, curvaceous body.
No. Today, I should have a flat chest. I should have muscular arms and stubble on my chin.
But I don't.
Instead I see who I once was. Who I was yesterday is not who I am today is not who I will be tomorrow. I want my current body.
I want the body that fits.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
Moonflower petals secreted nectar
the lovely sublimity of blossoming flower
Tall, thin~stemmed , pastel flesh~
bud to open
only after nightfall
An elicit echo
the way moonlight reflects
on warm raindrop
impearled *******
Her moist curvaceous silhouette
night~blooming lilt
with summer breeze
dulcet sway
Window open ,
sultry , and raining in
single delicate petal cast off
like a party dress fallen
in a beautiful mess
upon the rain puddled
wooden floor
Entrancing shadow cast
a pleasing taste
the flower’s exotic fruit
Satiate the hidden hunger
mirrored within
all – devouring
deep brown eyes
Writhed in the beautiful
passion throes
the naked sweetness
of the wanton agony exposed
✩ ✩☺ ✩ ✩
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
The sound of your voice,
linguistic forte
digital portrait combined,
reads lyrical, like Joyce,
the use of imagery -
elevating the plebeian,
resplendent -
the imposition sublime.
Pellucid prose, tête-à-tête
immersed in esoteric allusion
spoken with au fait.
Liberating my pedestrian
inhibition,
premise of surrender -
adrift, desultory,
delicious ambiguity.
Seduction begins in
the mind,
assets of imagination,
intellectual property;
side by side: lying supine
didactic invitation,
in assertions of diversion;
a chance to find
euphoria within our reach.
Linear alliteration;
fulgent flowing Fumé
Blanc,
fire and wine
private beach,
rhymes of elucidation
two bodies align,
I will learn if you teach.
Sensual epistemology,
curvaceous
figure of speech,
the Orphic; woeful
lover’s plight,
a porous song recite
art professor, verse confessor
tutor me tonight.
©2010 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
How exotic is this curvaceous dance within our brazen synaptic hemispheres?
The scholastic wisdom of the ages boldly pronounces licentiousness when Ashtoreth makes herself readily available to ravenous self-projections of post-modernity.
As we saunter around the parameters of entitlement, the monster will reveal itself with narcissistic glory whilst cotton candy is purchased by naïve populations of bewitched obedience.
Scan the desolate horizon where economical lap dances are nothing more than a mere mirage of repressed Oedipus conflicts.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
The Pitch Perfect 2 star has teamed up with plus size clothing label Torrid to create the capsule holiday collection which is set to go on sale in store and online from November.
Items from the 25-piece limited edition line - which includes cute koala-print tees and quirky microphone shaped accessories - will all retail under US$130 (RM466).
The 29-year-old actress - who is known for her curvaceous figure - was keen to design the collection after struggling to find "cool" and "affordable" plus-size clothing herself.
She said: "I've had a torrid affair with buying clothes all my life.
"I've never really felt like there's a brand out there in the plus-size world that is creating cool stuff, that fits well and is good quality yet affordable. So it was awesome to team with Torrid, who I think are doing such a great job in making plus-size fashion relevant and dope.
"I've been loving designing the clothes for my capsule collection. I've been putting my unique style and personal loves into the clothing and literally can't wait for the collection to launch!"
Rebel recently confessed she was encouraged to try her hand at design after realising her fashion choices had started having an impact on her fans.
She told Elle magazine: "It's becoming important for me. I saw a lot of girls were beginning to notice what I wear and I feel a kind of responsibility, because there aren't any women in Hollywood my size and age."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
i look down at my feet,
i mean phone.
i look up at the sky,
i mean thighs.
HER beautiful curvaceous thighs are all eye can see
as i compare them to mine,
and i shout-
**** you Instagram,
not this time.
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 11:15 PM UTC
Masterpiece of curvaceous precision,
Artwork sculpted and delicately lined,
As beauty’s natural definition,
She is the mold for all womankind.
The redness of cherries based on her lips,
Honey envies the sweetness of her tongue,
Waves aspire to the curve of her hips,
She’s more seductive than any song sung.
The trees model fruit on her perfect *******
While sunlight was made to mimic her smile,
She’s sensuality that never rests,
Longing for her dwarfs the length of the Nile.
Butterflies wings are no match for her eyes,
Her embrace is lighter than clouds above,
Her perfect beauty makes me realize,
She entered my life so I’d fall in love.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 9:45 PM UTC