"delightedly" poems
Warm, sheltered frame, tender heart
Little girl delightedly arrive the world
Bright and joyful, safe and secure, she believed
As men bow down and pray to the She lord.
Her home filled with love and faith
Brilliantly safeguarded her wholeness
Curiously pondered on the world outside the home
Would be bright and joyful, safe and secure
As men bow down and pray to the She lord.
Stepped outside her blessed shield
Got entangled in the scary ropes
The beautiful world suddenly played a cruel role
Whenever she ran, many watched her go
Many minds, eyes, strength shackled her soul
Once the safe and the secure world
Became the unguarded, unheard, and unsaid hall
Still, men bow down and pray to the She Lord.
Many touched her and go
Play with her extant and throw
Bruised heart, wounded skin
She kept herself dragging, seeking her home
They failed to feel love, passion, and peace
Courage and devotion dwelling within
Still, men bow down and pray to the She Lord.
Men worship Lord Durga with the feel
but don’t succeed to see her essence in every being
Daughter, mother, wife, friend, colleague
Every girl carries Durga in their will
And men bow down and pray the idol She.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 12:58 PM UTC
The stars though far apart in the sky
wink, talk to each other
such display of friendship above,
makes me shy.
Introduced by a friend,
brought together by destiny
at the instance we knew
we wouldn't want this to end.
Be it poor, be it witty
you crack jokes with so much variety
sharp brows, beaming eyes
you are a charming girl
with words so wise.
Up in the morning, we seven
treaded along the woods, in search of heaven
Ah ! so beautiful, in the nature's lap
trees, birds, the lake and us
reading each other like a fluent rap.
Things started making sense
knowing and telling each other
revealing our striking resemblance
despite words not being spoken,
so pleased we were, delightedly shaken.
Again at that friend's wedding,
we huddled, danced, got alive and kicking
watching you make people laugh till the end
so proud I am, to have such a gem of a friend
Awesomeness is stepping to the next year now
alas ! I have to finish this somehow
cherishing our moments in each way,
though being so far away,
my sweet friend, you truly made my day.
wishing you a very very happy birthday
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
Mmmmmm......Good Morning Honey.........
Delightedly awakened by your lingual dexterity
Opening your mouth to engulf its fullness
******* and slurping, hastening its juices
From escaping and running down your chin.
Its tangy nectar making your fingers slick and sticky
A tighter grip you employ when it slips within your grasp
The sound you're making is so ****** the fullness of your lips, so enticing, .....so....so
Ah....ah............ahhh..........................aahhhhhh!!!
I do so love it when you eat sweet peaches in the morning!
Fancy a napkin?
-----ChawzzyScript
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
I remember the Tropicana Beau from Syndale,
She delivered my order at the welcome pub Dazzle-
It was the smile she was affording that day,
And now she is the jealous infection from the social bay…
I looked at her same contours hesitantly,
And they have been exposed much sharper delightedly-
She appealed me her demystified glory,
Two weeks later she left her job for the clearance money…
I remember her tears washing the ***** streets in the market,
She was refused by every seller for credit-
Those scanty clothes she was affording that day,
And now she prices her perfection in that way…
I looked at her eyes and she believed in me,
And ma editor startled me, “Sir, who is she?”
She gave me her perfect look and the rest did my camera…
We worked hard to frame her saying, “Love You…Rihanna!”
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
DREAMING OF BEING REAL
I waited with
the bubbles
to cross the street.
One big bubble
winked at me.
It had a rainbow
just off-key of its center
like a Cyclops
eye.
'Bye! ' it blinked
and went out of existence.
I felt sad.
I had really liked that bubble.
My daughter
waiting for red to go green
continued blowing
families of bubbles.
some of the bubbles
crossed the road
before the lights
changed
and got hit by a 69
bus.
Others busted
on a lady's hat
but the lady didn't
notice it.
One hitched a ride
on an exclamation mark
pretending to be
a dog's tail.
Two little baby bubbles
travelled over on my shoulder.
Some newly blown bubbles
dashed across the road
leading delightedly
the way.
Others disappeared up
into a blue so blue
(you wouldn't believe it)
as if summer
was trying to be
a perfect picture postcard
of itself.
'Hold my hand now, love! '
the father in my voice
tinged the words
with love and care.
'Ok! '
my daughter said
trusting the words
the bubbles in the bottle
fell asleep
and dreamed of being
real.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 3:42 PM UTC
You were a storm that ruined her.
She was a piece of land who delightedly endured you.
She asked for rain, you gave her hurricane.
And after you're done, you left her ravaged.
But that's fine, she was an artwork;
And she still is.
She gave herself to you, but she'll never give herself to anyone else.
Your paint was the only thing spilled to the canvass;
Her canvass.
And if we are to dust her heart for fingerprints,
I'd be certain we'd only find yours.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
DREAMING OF BEING REAL
I waited with
the bubbles
to cross the street.
One big bubble
winked at me.
It had a rainbow
just off-key of its center
like a Cyclops
eye.
'Bye! ' it blinked
and went out of existence.
I felt sad.
I had really liked that bubble.
My daughter
waiting for red to go green
continued blowing
families of bubbles.
some of the bubbles
crossed the road
before the lights
changed
and got hit by a 69
bus.
Others busted
on a lady's hat
but the lady didn't
notice it.
One hitched a ride
on an exclamation mark
pretending to be
a dog's tail.
Two little baby bubbles
travelled over on my shoulder.
Some newly blown bubbles
dashed across the road
leading delightedly
the way.
Others disappeared up
into a blue so blue
(you wouldn't believe it)
as if summer
was trying to be
a perfect picture postcard
of itself.
'Hold my hand now, love! '
the father in my voice
tinged the words
with love and care.
'Ok! '
my daughter said
trusting the words
the bubbles in the bottle
fell asleep
and dreamed of being
real.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
For Selena & Justin
Sometimes...
When the heart
Is broken
And the spirit
Is dying
And love
Is fading
Overwhelming
Sometimes...
When the eyes
Are so blind
And the sun sets
On Paradise Lost
And Gilligan's Island
And the captain's
Forgotten
Sometimes...
When the fragrance
Is a touch foul
And small dog
Walks away
With a big growl
Perfumed air
With wide smile
Sometimes...
When Silence
Is Golden
And harsh words
Are forgotten
Never to be
Spoken again
Reawakened
Sometimes...
When gourmet tastes
Greasy spoonfuls
Mouth waters
Sinfully
Delightedly
Unexpectedly
Predictably
Sometimes...
When hands touch
Warmth ignites
Sparks fly
Fireworks
Starry night
Vincent's soul
Lost somewhat
Sometimes...
Boy and girl
Love and hate
Song and dance
Fire and water
Coals simmering
On Summer Camp's fire
Waiting...reigniting
Written by Richard Wlodarski
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Addicted though, instinctively
to that enchantress, dark angelic night,
sweet condensed sleep, eyeing at me,
moon's silver light, naturally
remains my beloved, closer to heart,
One great delight, is this:
my contradictory wish list, that adds up.
I am unfazed, proudly
carry the contradiction of this world
in my every vein.
Has any one any legitimate business
to ask me to choose one or the other?
What you see as contradictions, won't stand,for long
easily merge,dissolve and vanish to take a new life,
as standpoints change, vision gets deeper,
illusions wear off, as darkness leaves,
and mind learns to transcend beyond
all the self imposed limits. once seemed formidable,
I delightedly see the brooding night
making peace with the waxy melting moon,
falling silently in pearly drops from the sky.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
From within the convoluted mass,
under the thatched dome
and behind the aqueous lights;
across untraceable connections,
through routes bridged
and those bridged out;
madly scavenging backyards—
secret lattice stairs leading to
three stage subterranean cellars;
retracing swale worn steps
through made-up rooms, and
higher still,
to the cobweb dormer attic,
grabbing. Thumping. Tossing.
Disgorging the till and tailings
until the exasperation mounts
like the minds bulk, to locate
a single word— not the perfect word,
but the only word,
which, tongue bowed and harped,
will cavort delightedly with its neighbors.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.
The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and wore her wedding dress early.
The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:23 AM UTC
~ for Rob Rutledge -
@ 6:15am
~~~~~
we all are living, reading and writing,
paycheck to paycheck
even if by happenstance, our bellies full,
for the white sheets we lay our words
down and upon, our supporters of
ids and egos of egg shell thin lifes
are the bare emptied shelves
of our unending, still ongoing
pandemic pandemonium,
razing times
of eroding joys
the sheets are blank, but our souls
wearied, helmed and whelmed
by the unending of the unexpected
that demands, orders and commands,
no matter what
pour it out blasting
unleashing the rage
compelled, compiled,
completely compulsing
we
selves ordered to compose
giving form and firmament
to our vaporous innards,
releasing new oxygen from
the tides inside and without,
clashing ideas, irregular notions
that demand we poets responsible
for reconciliation and auditing for
human truths
we awake barren but weighty,
the emotions are rustling in the
now daily, common,
mighty metors of gusts of higher winds,
spreading fire and measles to spite,
not despite
our fragile failings & flailings
oh goodness and grace,
let that be the colors of
our skin, our face,
essay on, sashay with a
swinging motion,
yes, rhyme and rhythm
and deliver us with words
so soft, they shatter the
gloomy desperation of
what confronts our entirety,
when the terrors of our
sleeping dreams cannot be
differentiated from the
sad eyed waking
ones
so write, and right,
these troubled times,
when trolls, dragons
and yet unnamed monsters
seek to take away our
tiny green planet, watered,
seeded and plentiful fruited
plains enough to satisfy us all
if we are so emboldened to choose
all of us over our lonely selfish selfs
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC
Unfortunately, I suffer
From a perpetual desire to lean
Towards you when you're most unaware
And silence your lips with my own.
I'm afraid I selfishly cover you in kisses,
In an action of petty mortality.
As a fool with a view of the stage.
And yet what's worse, I fear you are
Entirely to blame.
You see had you not been so perfectly flawed
I could have resisted.
And lived a life so blissfully mundane,
That I might remember
Not to drink on Sundays
Not to laugh too loud
Or stare too delightedly.
But the world is not kind in that way.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
OUR MASGOUF
The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’ brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.
THE MAGIC DOLMA
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.
THE KEBAB GLORY
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC
I watched the city disappear, then
watched it re-emerge from the night sky,
dabs of watercolor on a surface gathering pigment
I hummed and watched myself shudder and stumble and balk because,
(and I want to sit you down and tell you this
somber eyes, twisted fingertips)
I loved deeply, completely, and I crawled down the steps
of letting anything and everything go;
I moved on, I moved away, but I lacked the strength to disintegrate
the questions pooling in the bottom of my gall bladder
"well what if
would you..."
I was different then, I fell so delightedly!
but things did so hurt, time stole the breath from my throat
and I soaked my pillows so thoroughly I drowned.
I want you to know that,
I want you to know that I have had my heart broken violently
and softly (and perhaps that was worse)
I have loved and I have ****** and I have watched a boy like you fade into the sunset.
pacing through the motions:
feeling bright, content
things are new and better but
I'm capturing unextraordinary in all the traps I set for bliss,
like a maze I'm losing where all the dead ends say
unremarkable
and screaming at the walls
"start feeling, you ****
because I have sweet and loving and caring but I find myself craving
the instances I hated when he would spit fire
and I would burn bright, because I am a purveyor of highs and lows and I
just feel flat.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Some countless summers ago…
I was your blushing bride
you were my verdant flame
Our laughter would echo the walls
melting like
hot molten paraffin
drip by drip every
noon night and day
One evening…
after a sudden cloud burst
just like our impromptu love making
I delightedly
followed a trail of ants
on the floor.
There along the window frame
I saw a long tail
(probably a resident of neighboring monkeyhood)
Only on coming closer
Did I see
It was not our friendly neighbor
But a king Cobra
suspended upside- down
I shrieked and shrieked
Till you pulled me back
Into your embrace once again
Yes it was the summer
When I was unfamiliar
With death’s strange dialect
Somehow I don’t fear snakes anymore…
But I still carry the smell of you everywhere
…citrus mingling with wet earth…
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
“You can never go back,”
someone famous once said
and it’s true.
Wading out from the paddy field, I swim around
to view this piece of the past from the water.
But it has changed. Its name, its appearance.
Fifteen years on
and there is more, more of everything
but less of spirit.
Our memories stay frozen while the world
moves on.
I climb the steep stairs from the lake.
An old woman sits under a Carlsberg umbrella.
I feel foolish, but I have to know.
“Was this once called Christa’s?”
She cackles delightedly through her
betel-ravished gums
and in broken English I think she is
trying to tell me she is Christa.
I walk down the hill
past a stream of local “hello” purveyors,
but they blur behind
the gallery of faces mood-lit in my mind,
people who once meant so much
lost now in time and distance.
You can never go back.
You can only lift the lid of history.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Who is she
What is she like
She is dark
They call her consumer of hearts
She lives like a chess game
She doesn't mean to
But every move she makes
She cruelly calculates
She loves the games she plays
But I think it's because
That's the only way she knows
How to trust
How to not get hurt
She pulls on heart strings
And she tugs at synapses
Biting free connections
She sinks her teeth into their souls
She watches what color they bleed
Delightedly she tears them apart
Her heart is gone
She can't remember if it was taken
Or if it was simply one of her own victims
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
I never believed in happy endings
Because they never really seemed to exist
Not until I met you
Not until you made me believe, and I couldn’t resist
Resist you and me. We were so impossible
Never did I know, I’d love you with all my heart
And you’d love me too, for who I am
But now that we do, I can delightedly say that you are my life and not just a part.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 11:41 PM UTC
happily, you decompose
releasing your woes
even as they drag away your laughter
euphorically, you dissolve
losing your resolve
to live, even as your fears leave you
elatedly, you decay
your skin turns ash-grey
and maggots dig into your flesh
passionately, you molder
your recently-cremated ashes smolder
the flame devoured you with all the ferocity of a lover
joyfully, you disintegrate
forget the cold burn of hate
and misplace the memory of love, too
blissfully, you rot
lose your affinity with thought
your mind a directionless searching
delightedly, you wither
there is no time to dither
no time, full sprint to oblivion
reverently, you splinter
welcome eternal winter
relegate warmth to your fleeing memories
earnestly, you break down
your will is to drown
all your issues are a rising sea
fervently, you fall apart
you thought you were so smart
with death comes release, no?
h.f.m.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
It was 6 in the morning
Aurora delightedly said hello
Good morning sunshine
You're eyes are small but precious
I can see the soul of the world in your eyes
She blushed,
Her cheeks turned red as the sky
A smile appeared
Brighter than the dazzling sun
Luminous
Radiant
I love her
Mostly in the morning
Because after dreams she looks mysterious
And I want to unravel her secrets
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
Vroom vroom,
splutter splutter,
she so struggled,
did the woman with the raven hair,
she forgot to service it.
Once again.
she was in a mega dash,
to sweep the moon,
in magic fash'.
Her potion full up with emotion,
she had just discharged,
blooming clumsy woman,
she spilled it on the deck,
she lost her lust for life.
If you look a little closer,
You may even spy a tear,
Trickling from the eye of the witch queen,
so precious and so dear.
Her alternator was broken,
her spark was flaming gone,
her broomstick battery,
hell,
it was totally flat.
Looked like that was that!
Along came Merlin,
He gave her a jump,
from his magnificent techno machine!
Her newly ignited besom,
lurched forward into life,
She cruised the moon so super,
It was just last Sunday night.
If studied through your telescopes,
Looked very close indeed,
while you stared up at the super moon,
You may just have seen the witch queen,
flying past delightedly.
You may have even seen her smile,
as her exhaust spewed moons and stars,
Thought maybe it's time for a car.
A little less trouble,
Hubble bubble!
(C) Livvi
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
Blind skies have gleaned
their stories from the strumming of the bored,
but they do change them.
They rearrange them,
their outcomes, slightly,
and, when they retell them,
the words fall back to us lighter,
delightedly so, than they were before.
It's just us.
We've heard.
It's just us, more called,
and they shared this secret:
*Those blind skies aren't blind at all.
They only pretend
not to see, as they bend
the wind to help us.*
They let us think,
The movement's thanks to me,
when we tell our shortened tales
where the Lord doesn’t deliver us.
We tell them to no-one
and anyone in particular,
by pecking our thumbs with an irregular,
scratched-out beat.
It happens too when they slow us down,
and we punch-in our excuses.
*I would have gotten here sooner
in fact, but the tactless crow I followed
took a crooked path.*
That's when not-blind skies wink
and they lift our rhythmic letter-breaths
to become the stuff of linty pockets.
Some day, one day,
not a spare hour or minute
but the splittest second before
a glory-less death,
our stories will snow back on us.
We'll hear them
and the words will feel
familiar, though a little more gray.
Then the smallest voice
we've ever heard,
somehow both ours and theirs,
will say, *The gist is got
but the endings are not
quite right. Yet,
I admit they're also righter
than my telling's long-ago was.*
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC