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Kewayne Wadley Jun 2022
I come to life when you touch me
Fluent & continuous.
You've unzipped my lips and tossed
them to the side.
I've never fallen &
been caught so freely.
I've never paid attention to how
flat the world really was.
A jagged peninsula
Eloped in oceans embrace
Curved in explosion.
Sometimes it feels like I am
Drowning.
I've never paid attention to how
flat the world really is
Chipped off, covered by you
falling deeper into you
Are you struck with her figure and face?
    How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
    Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
    I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
    Is my very particular friend!

How charming she looks — her dark curls
    Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
    That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
    That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
    She's my very particular friend!

Then her voice, how divine it appears
    While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
    And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
    Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
    I'm her very particular friend!

Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
    To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
    With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
    Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
    She's my very particular friend!

Her brother dispatched with a sword,
    His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
    With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
    Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
    She's my very particular friend!

All her chance of a portion is lost,
    And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
    Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
    (Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
    She's my very particular friend!

That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
    It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
    And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
    Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
    She's my very particular friend!

Oh! never have pencil or pen,
    A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
    Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
    Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
    She's my very particular friend!
Àŧùl Nov 2013
Let me declare in the opening of this article that at the time of writing this article I was a young man aged almost 23 years but have never had *** as a personal choice based upon my experience. My reasons for not getting laid till now are not many but just three reasons:
1. I am a guy who is a one woman man.
2. I believe that whatever may be my future wife's virginity status, I am not to loose it to anyone else but to herself.
3. I have analysed and found that for Indian men the best age to loose their virginity is not before 25 years of age and similarly for Indian women, the best age to loose it is not before they themselves are at least 23 years of age.

You all might already have labeled me various titles till now, but wait let me tell you the whole story and I would rather recommend you to be ready for trashing all your presumptions. It's all about self-control that this article is about. You can easily relax and lie back as you are going through my article.

I have a female friend from a big city in India who has been subjected to the raging problem of today's world. I'll be referring to her as Dhara, she was in the first year of her college life when she fell for a good looking rich guy and this guy, Sagar, was her classmate.

In the beginning of their relationship, they both were like the very much perfect 'made-for-each-other' couple like in stories. They both shared a golden relationship between each other and neither of them were aware that one day they will be made to separate away from each other.

The two of them seemed inseparable and one fine day Dhara even eloped with Sagar to start a new life with him. Sagar took her to a new home that he succeeded in procuring for them. It was a farmhouse away from the city. Dhara started following all the daily chores as an ideal housewife would. Both of them ceased attending the college and dedicated all their time to love making. Three months after having eloped, Dhara happily told Sagar that she was pregnant.

In the mean time, Sagar's father who is a powerful person in politics decided to make him marry a different girl for political benefits. And this way a problem arose from this fact that Sagar was told by his family that soon he would be married to a girl for political reasons. Along with this, both Sagar and his father were jailed in a political context. The trouble which had befallen was resolved by another powerful politician who bailed both the father-son duo out of the problem with a condition that Sagar married his daughter.

Sagar then told Dhara regarding the same problem at his home. Dhara straight away went to Sagar's home hoping to win hearts and showed them the Mangalsutram which Sagar had tied around her neck. The Mangalsutram turned out to be the same which Sagar's mother had found missing.

Dhara was accused of thievery and was put behind the bars for the same in the followup time. Sagar somehow succeeded in bailing Dhara out from behind the bars. Soon, Dhara was asked by Sagar to take some emergency contraceptive pills which halted her pregnancy in a period less than three months. Then Sagar ejected himself out from the unregistered marriage, resumed his regular college studies and ditched Dhara.

Here, both Dhara and Sagar were at fault according to me. Neither of them were at an age which could be considered marriageable, either medically or morally. Both had studies to undertake which they turned to for diverting their minds.

Dhara shared with her elder brother regarding the same event having taken place in her life. Then one fine day, I met Dhara at our university's Students' Activity Centre - SAC, where I had been to the University Food Orbit - UFO, and I started conversation with a group sitting there and we both got to know about each other and exchanged numbers at her insistence.

So much experience had made Dhara a wisecrack when it came to making friends. She accepts that it was her mistake that she took a rush of hormones to be love.

In addition to this Indian viewpoint over the subject, a Western viewpoint needs to be mentioned separately because of the biological differences between our bodies' biological observations and our differently made up societal liabilities and settlements.

The West has a superior physique for both men and women and professional services. So the ideal age to loose it dips by 2 years.

To end with the article, I would like to summarise the best age and conditions of loosing virginity globally with a special localisation to India:
1. Get married firstly and then loose it only to your life partner.
2. If you must still have the pleasures of love making before your marriage with the person you have your first *******, keep it safe and pleasant. Use a ****** or similar contraceptive if you must have *** before the ideal age but remember that these may fail as well, even if rarely.
This is not a poem, so comment keeping this thing in mind.
Originally published at:
http://aksspiritualthoughts.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-best-age-to-loose-it.html
Shaurya Pal Jan 2014
As I scarpered away, I could hear the voices,
echoing through the steel walls.
The cries, the vociferations, catching up to me,
couldn't fathom the escape, with a plan full of flaws.

Turning left, bending right,
running in circles, an endless plight.
The drug they induced,
pumping through my veins,
blocking my vision, severing the mains.
Don't know for how long,
I can put up this fight.

The sentinels advanced,
as fast and agile as they ever could be.
The alarm had rung more than once,
red lights poured all over the scene.

Needle in hand, dipped in ataractic,
who were they fooling, with that mild sedative?
I raced with every semblance of life I had,
couldn't survive this hell-hole.
Another day here would've driven me mad.

As the unexpected turn came,
I banged the door with the unknown name.
Fell face first, the momentum it carried me,
Scraped through the floor, stomach felt queasy.
Warm liquid oozed out of my nose,
dripping tardily as I rose,
the environment all but blurry.


Insanity Prevailed


As I blacked out,
I recalled how I came to be,
this house of horrors, delivered to me.
'Magnolia', home of the mentally challenged,
avowed 'care for the community'.

The head-shrink had advised,
you be safe, a feeling I imbibed.
A wry smile and that was it,
'Magnolia' She exclaimed,' would deem you fit.'

Believing in every word of hers,
I opened the door, welcomed
by the smell of fresh carcass,
the shabby floor with spots of dirt,
and people, oh lord the great unwashed,
like walking zombies, feelings inert.
They looked at me, some smiled and some laughed,
others cried, rest merely coughed.
So this is it, the house of the harebrained,
this was going to be my life,
Living among the insane.

I harbored no ill will,
But I couldn't absolve,
this feeling, inside me,
no friends no family, nothing normal.
Lasting with the un-dead,
my new destiny.

They filed me,
Gave a number, names were difficult to process,
66 it was, perfect, contributed  distress.
Admitted to my room, solitary for the neophyte,
'Morning' they said,' begins a new life.'

With a wicked smile they left me alone,
I was meek enough to cry, stiff enough to moan.
I wailed the whole night, the walls resonated,
the shrill of metal, the demons it encouraged.
The lights polished off, staring at the darkness,
all the monsters , the behemoth, dancing around me,
an invitation to their everlasting music.


Insanity Persisted


A specter bobbed up from the tiled floor,
gazed at me and pointed to the door.
'Rise, Awaken, my soul',
and the door opened with a loud crack,
'You must hurry, the guards will be back'.
I sat bolt upright, the apparition never lied.

Nose still bleeding, I took flight with haste,
looked back, they had dropped the chase.
It felt safe after a long time,
The world must know, of their wicked little crime.
They had to be stopped, the Doctor, the Nurse,
all of which were part of the crust,
which protected the whacko who experimented on us.

End of the hall, I noticed the Blue door,
It had to be the one, which will take me off-shore.
Head still paining, the doses that drained,
the vigor and strength, I couldn't sustain.
One last time, I had to draft
my will my power, from within.
To conjure up all my might,
before the shadows cave in.

As I drew nearer, towards the blue threshold.
I knew there was no looking back,  
nothing left to unfold.
I slowed down, one step at a time,
I could taste freedom, a taste so sublime.
My hand reached the door,
and gently turned the ****,
I pushed open the exit
and stared at the waiting mob.

Before I could assimilate,
with my failure and disappointment.
Someone jabbed a needle,
covering my mouth, crackling my vent.
Pushing me again, down the memory lane.


Insanity Pursued


The days were bad,
the nights equally worse.
A thin line existed between illusion and insanity,
indistinguishable they became, virtual and reality.
One could hear screams, begging for mercy,
Which the henchmen showed no sign of,
and continued to treat the already cured.

Those who betrayed, yearning exemption,
were treated with immense brutality.
Straightjackets, shackles and all sorts of gear,
were enough to put a man in psychotic fear.
The staff comprised barbarians and sadists.
Who lacked the basic sense of morality.

Shock therapy, voltage to its max,
bound and gagged, glued to the sacks.
The jolt of the lightning hitting them hard,
enough to churn up the flesh into lard.
They drugged the sufferer, the dupe would tranquil,
the fallout was horrible, it would make them frenzied.

For those beyond cure,
who lived for mere existence,
earned their own private, privileged experiment.
A special space, a hidden chamber,
well beyond, beneath the ground.
Defecated walls, layered flesh and blood,
****** fluids scattered,
in abundance, constituting a flood.
Human torture, vicious and cruel.

In a place so dark even the demons would fear,
how could I survive? This life to me was dear.
And the patients, the patients wouldn't help,
for them it was a game, live a day, reward for the next.
Some were quiet, lost in their own world,
speaking, whispering and talking to themselves.
Some looked sane, but stuck in paranoia,
for them the universe could any day cease to exist,
pertaining to their biggest phobia.
some were smart, they indulged in theories,
the real world mattered less to them.
And then there were the trigger-happy.
The truly maddened ones, violent with rage.
Every day was a battle, they fought within the cage.
They couldn't help me, for I wasn't crazy,
Just your usual guy, a victim of fate.

Magnolia was a place, where people ****** away their souls,
I wasn't ready to sell mine.
I had to escape, make an elaborate design.
There were no doctors at night, just the cruel handy-men,
had all the time in the world to formulate a plan,
question was, to execute when?

One night the attendant came,
wearing  a strange jumpsuit,
pen in breast-pocket,
woke me up and proclaimed, 'Get up you imbecile,
it's your turn in the lab today.
Stand up now, I ain't got all day!'
'HAH! You could try young man, to put me down,
but I ain't going to your lousy town'.
To this he smacked at my retort,
and laughed with a disgusting little snort.
'One more time you test my good nature,
and I swear to God I'll ruin your caricature.'
'Go ahead then give it your best shot,
You want me dead, do you not?'.
His laughter, this time, deafened the silence all around.
'You're dead fool! If it were up to me I'd skin you flesh and bone,
The amount of ruckus you create, the annoyance you hone,
But the good doctor has plans and once he's done with you..'
His unfinished sentence struck a nerve so strong,
my eyes rolled over,
what could possibly go wrong?

So the man with the strange jumpsuit,
dragged me all the way to the office.
The dimly lit room, ornamented a large crucifix.
Dear lord, you see how they mock?
Came back the degenerate with a big round lock.
'Oh yes, this is for you my friend,
chains aren't enough, straightjacket I will get.
Sit still you half-wit, else you'd regret'.
And I smiled and waited.
He returned as promised, with the piece of vestiary,
a twisted sense of humor, whoever built this monstrosity.

He stared where I looked, into his breast pocket.
'What's missing pal?' I asked in amusement.
He stopped everything and looked around.
With a motion so fast, it could only fly by,
gripping the pen, I poked him in the eye.
Ink exuded instead of blood,
the large man fell, loud with a thud.
The immense pain had him in shock,
now was the time for me to run amok.
But I kept focus, and ran for the door,
promised myself never to look back anymore.
Eloped with the only chance I foxed.


Insanity Reigned


The source of light was so strong,
I twitched a lot, just to see what's going on.
Caged in a room, no wait, a theatre!
****! I was so close to getting out.
The staff, I assume, were prepared all along.
Hatched a sinister plot, to show where I belong.
They had me now, tied to a work bench,
metal clasps around my wrist,
belted to the maximum limit.
For some odd reason they had me gagged,
the tape tasted foul, hygiene they lacked.
I wrestled my wrists with the wrought metal clamp.
But they were tight, wouldn't budge,
getting them off needed more than a nudge.

Alas the doctor came, with a frown upon his face,
With great ruefulness, he peeled off the tape.
'You caused us a great deal of trouble today.
None of our methods have impacted on you, what do you have to say?'
'Serves you right, you junk-less freak!' I was happy he was disappointed,
'That's not a very nice thing to say' responded the doctor, almost agitated.

He picked up an instrument,
a big long nail, the pointed end was so sharp,
I could feel it piercing through my brain.
Next he lifted a mallet,
which shone so bright it reflected upon my face.
To what devilish purpose could they serve?
The doctor took his time, and allowed me to observe.
He wore his mask, the mask of a surgeon,
at this time of the night? Surely he wasn't
planning to operate on me.
'Leave me alone, what are you doing?
Surely you know I'm not to be blamed, I don't belong here.
This is insane!'
'Wrong again 66, the society would never accept you.
You killed your wife and children, ******'s on you.'
It was at this moment the specter re-appeared, right behind the doctor.
Calling me, my name,
'They're all lying, you didn't **** anyone, they're framing you.'
'LIAR!' I spat at the doctor, 'You know she's is alive and waiting for me at the doorstep,
As always' I said.
'Yes she is waiting, but only at her death bed.'
'LIAR! You know my kids are sleeping peacefully at home!'
'Yes they are, but the sleep is eternal.'
'LIES! I can't **** a person,not even a fly!'
'And yet you poked my assistant right in the eye!'

The specter now appeared closer,
in a calming tone almost a whisper,
'Do not believe a word they said.
You're not a killer, just a victim of fate.'
Exactly, that's precisely what I meant.

With all the strength my voice box could muster,
I cried so hard the doctors ears could rupture.
' LIES! LIES! ALL LIES! You won't get away with this, the truth will come out.
Why would I ever **** them for crying out loud?'

'You're right, the truth shall come out, but not in this form, not from you.
66 has to die, a fact you always knew.'

No one dies today

'Hold him still.' The good doctor ordered.
A pair of hands inclined my head south,
Another pair, taped away my mouth.
I could hear music, a soft hum.
It had calmed me down ,that bass drum.
It kept beating at regular intervals.
The specter now, beside me,
placing her hand on my shoulders.
I looked up towards the sky, a light bulb
glowed right above my nose.
The doctor raised the nail,
a dot replaced the light source.
As the blot grew in size,
the light dimmed, luminance was minimized.
The music almost placid,
it made me smile, a smile so gentle.
The doctor enounced,
'This will only hurt a little.'
And as he struck, the spirit vanished,
the music stopped.


Insanity Triumphed
Part 2 of The 'Karma' trilogy
David W Clare Feb 2015
She was my lover all night
sensual perfection we held each other tight
We eloped into our anechoic room
Escaping the world I was her groom

I kissed her slender feet and hands
The only thing wrong she was married to another man

Honeymoon in Singapore
It was unplanned but meant to be
I wonder if she still remembers me?

Housewife and mother of two
Sinful synchronicity rendezvous
On vacation when we met
Our lust was hot and so very wet

We kissed and bared our souls
Hard and soft in loves loft we rolled...

Honeymoon in Singapore
His wife was my bride tonight
we both cried in the morning light
We were one in flesh she took off her wedding dress in wanton caress

The only thing wrong she was married to another man!

Honeymoon in Singapore
It was unplanned but meant to be
I wonder if she still remembers me?


True story of a *** lustful night with a pretty married ultra exotic Chinese-Filipina girl in Singapore
Oct. 2009

Singapore is the microcosm of urban perfection
Lust in Asia is worth dying for to many an expat!
I met men who lost it all over a dime a dozen bar girl! (Common in Bangkok, "Thighland"...)
Sour Patched Kid Oct 2014
Thousands of electric pulses
scattered in confusing patterns.
Imagination convulses,
tattered, mind under matter.

Enveloped by space and time,
pardoned by neither,
eloped by both.
Pacing.

Shooting from the hip,
mind's eye is blind fire,
pawing through the labyrinth,
waiting for the shift.

Hopeless.
Blunder.
Shocks.
Over.
Robin Carretti Dec 2016
He's singing
Bergdorf Blonde
Conde Nast Traveller
Rude or ****
Explode Bombshells.
He's singing I'm getting
married
Such a Pushover puppet?

Slave over the silken magnet
Oh so swift and swell let
the show begins

Those ritual love sin's
Miss Polly String smile say cheese
He's the Maneater enticing grins
His Trump Tower bell?
Oh! Hello Poetry
People like twin packing
Playgirl smooching
her lips pillow talk

The puppet stalk
their suitcases, but surprisingly
she falls down and trips
Play up your string's
Love act of rings
Her killer lace went into his face.
They all had a puppet inside.

A daredevil ride
Nowhere to hide
Las Vegas Nevada,
Like no other place.
She was in her prime
Diva,
Donna so Dollie, he had
a craving bank her they all
had to thank him
The foursome the Follie's
Do him
Torn to be so trendy
Such a spendy

Walmart of walnuts
Two amazing dollies
She's the magazine of
Italian Fendi.
Pulling her hair more flair
The whole shebang cashew's
Pushed by his split so
picky pecans.
How it went to her
Big little liar nephew's.
Like puppet curfews
  Hello, Poetry New.
The white wedding blue's
Magnifying big lip's.
He needed a Holly-doll
The next clue?
Silk strings taped up
That puppet took a mighty
long trip...

Did I say plastic puppet is real porcelain skin faces?

Playgirl's cries needed
a dominating diet
Hefner smoking jacket suit

What a demonstration,
pulling on hemming mini
skirt trims chances
dangerously slim
So condemning
caused a riot.
The other crowd what
Oscar Meyer Wiener.
Going to the Vet doggie collar he
was tied to be fit silk suit
Las Vegas show trainers.
Who got caught with the puppet
Honey tricked peanut butter playgirl
Puppet show went all hobbit
over "Twitter" mixed whirl
        
What a nut sometimes you feel
like a nut
sometimes you won't and she
knows you don't

The rest going to H---.
Must I B dreaming?

He's singing I'm your puppet man,
Elephant nose cleaned out the planter's
Such a big spender and tipper.
Brooklyn his name Lucas @ the circus!

Like a physic knows your inner thoughts,
hanging on a string.
Everything that comes out of his mouth is two!

I have a puppet surfing the internet
wrapped her around
Felt an undercurrent_ it was
like pieces of glass
soundproof,
his crafty fingers.

Is he doing the best he can?

He's pulling her madly
Puppet computer search
Penny the dreadful
He expects us to jump when
he's oversexed active
looking for his puppet chair,
in the back.
A ****-day puppet!
He's the pig face twilight zone
muppet's
Well doing the can-can two
Playgirl's
hit the fan
The puppets became
the Gentleman

  Playgirl's shuffling "Rose" deck
   Hollywood screen bedding
    Puppets skillful  making

        The Poem Day.
         Puppets pray
         String cheese display

Obsessed stories Puppets.

Playgirl's color gypsy Rose Leah  
Miss Natalie from the woods preach
Silken Marionette.  
So wrapped like someone's gift
But used thrifty bed
He's in his red-hot Corvette.
Instead of roses, his thing french brie
Stock market up and away tie
I rather have my pasta bow-ties
Swiss, the air she's the playgirl
  Swiss Alp's skiing
he ripped his pant's Swiss Alps hole.
Marilyn Monroe playgirl presidential
dancing on the Christmas pole
Love tropic Pineapple dole
  The bed red hot Corvette. console

Instead of roses, his thing was cheese.
"So Swiss" with holes of lace my face
I hate to burst your cheese,
He dragged his shirt open

Twice the fun playgirl she eloped
I became his string cheese pet!!
I'm not your string cheese.
Hello Godzilla, puppet collection
Bella bella Genie mozzarella

"Puppet overpriced sales
All your friends are a puppet male.
Make a wish blowfish

In all the year how I tracked men's nuts,
she had to string together nut job's,
eat a string cheese.
Polly didn't want animal crackers,
Groucho became like a ******.

The puppet master showing
his game piece
and pull on someone else's
This is kinda playful and with quite strings of an edge
ARCH Apr 2019
Bare feet
Teared clothes
Eyes with tears
Consoling her fear
She was *****
Broken and burned
Still people taped
Her parents told her
You'll be not married
Nor have kids
It's better to be silent and mild
Her voice being shivered
Shouted! If my words
Will not shout
Rapists voice will be loud
World will make me choose
Tough honor or life
I have nothing to loose
Nothing to loose
People may refuse
May repel my voice
But i being robbed
And justice is what
I wanna eloped ♥️
Women's aren't *** toys ! They are the powerhouse of a house.  Women's are 100 men . **** is serious matter across world.  Wse have to change our mentality and ask our sons to respect not only who gave birth to them but also other's daughter,mother and sister #raiseyourvoice
Share your views and share this♥️
Dm for collaboration
BSween Feb 2021
I sit beside you
A thousand miles away,
Holding your hand in my heart.
I can see your eyes
That can only look back
To where the sun was hot
And your childhood stretched
Beyond peace.

Until dreams undid you.
Your heart wasn’t big enough
For the monstrous three time loss.
But  the fourth broke you
And Hope eloped with Happiness.

Living became coping
And you, ever grateful for a nod.
In your prison you did your best,
But broken tools don’t always mend
You were wrong, it turns out -
Love isn’t always the answer.
Dave Gledhill Jan 2015
I see your hand waver, now you're faced with a ghost,
not the raw, killer features that were nailed to a post.
Just an old, dying cowboy, trying hard to play host.
There's a chair if you've mercy, and a story...come close.

The liquor of youth lights a fire in you, son.
Puts that flame in your eyes and the heat in your lungs.
I wore that expression, before your thread was spun,  
so let me unload, you can shoot when I'm done.

Growing sore in my saddle as the nag became lame,  
I sold off my shooters, then re-mortgaged my name.
But tease out the creases, we're exactly the same;
two felons of fortune, wanting someone to blame.

See, I never got settled, didn't take me a wife.
Sailed a ship in a bottle, on the edge of a knife.
I put stock in misfortune and invested in strife,
took diminished returns, paid no interest to life.

But corralling cattle won't hold them for long,
they're born to roam free where they know they belong.
Soon the lipstick and whiskey begins to taste wrong,
as the backroom piano sighs its monotone song.

By a tangerine sunset I scraped off my boots
and considered an orchard as it set down its roots.
As a buzzing of insects idly nurtured its fruits,
I was deafened by silence. My own garden was mute.

So I clutched at the earth as I fell to the floor,
to ask for forgiveness, as you darkened my door.  
Seems redemption's eloped, like a gold digging *****.  
Just a name on a tombstone, for a few dollars more.

Quite an end would be fitting for a fool so innate,  
who has squandered his years until the hour is late.
Son, unholster your weapon and wipe off the slate,
I beg execution, swift vengeance,  But wait...

Did I catch my reflection as it fell from your face?
Like a hound in a heatwave, too tired to give chase?  
Son, the trail that you're riding is easy replaced.
You can stand in the sunlight, or come sit in my place.
Rangzeb Hussain Nov 2010
The walking dead slumber with deadly aim
and let sleeping dogs die,
Mongrels
heat anger in forges of spiteful flame,
Corpses see and hear more
than these walking sightless, tongueless, earless
lifeless poor,
When shall these sleepers awake?

The Bonfire had been piled high,
Almost reaching the cold abode of Mars,
The fear to light it was replaced by
recklessness as the season rolled on.

The stage was set and the audience of
Porcupines and hawks were eager, impatient
for the peaceful Overture to expire
and the deadly Act to commence.

Young Spring was delivered from the womb
and cried for nourishment
when,
Suddenly,
The last bars of the Overture faded into obscurity
and
“The Unholy Holy Crusade”
was ignited upon the starry stage.

The embers of Autumn burst into lashings of blame’s flames
and into forgetful numb snow did the show go.

The porcupines raised high their itchy spikes
to cast their vote of united damnation
while the crowds outside the theatre
cheered the unseen and unheard.

Earth herself
trembled beneath the raw fury of the
Satanic Play,
The volcanic eruption of unnatural hatred threatened
to torch the outer reaches of Mars.

This Bonfire of passionate poison
showered upon the naked body of Truth,
First it gagged and then it bagged Dad,
Mum’s screaming lungs were ****** out,
Her ears were drummed
while her lovely eyes sprouted wings
and flew out from their socket cages,
Her seductive legs snapped away
from the weight of her body
and waltzed headlong into the vaporised night,
Her faithful Left arm stayed to comfort her
but the Right one was yanked away and eloped with a
hot man-made
mushroom cloud that blotted the heavens,
The people were hugging loved ones tightly as they scattered
in the winds of bombastic devastation.

Moonlight dripping from the eyes of a restless red Moon,
Lone witness to the uncivilised crime.

The stork brought a newly born Life
wrapped in the soft garments of innocence,
He held the precious Life in his beak carefully,
caringly, lovingly,
On Bonfire Night he delivered the package to
a young ****** bride,
When the present was unwrapped
warm flames kissed the young baby inside,
A newly born Life arrived,
She was wrapped in soft and sinless rags,
She was carefully caressed,
Lovingly fed,
On Bonfire Night was this desert princess born
to a young untarnished bride,
Three storm soldiers arrived bearing candy,
When the sweet was unwrapped
warm flames burst out to kiss the young baby’s insides,

“Aargh!”

“Aargh!”

Silence...

Death plucks another trophy from the garden of Life.

The broken, charred fingers of the child
clutch the peeled hand of the unborn mother,
The earth of the child has shattered,
Her globe is no more,
Her remains are strewn across the industrial carnage
of the cold Spring.

An act of war against Mars,
“O, sacrilege!
Man, thou dost concoct evil.
Vagabond, thinkest thou superior?
I shalt shackle thee yet
to the accursed gates of Hades!”


The first Act ends,
The safety curtains drawn
and the theatre of blood explodes with applause,
The hawks shout out at the top of their wheezy lungs,
“*******,
it was like the Fourth of July celebrations!
Wow, man!
The sky was full of stars!
Stars, our stars!”


There is a lull between the next Act,
The walking dead gather up the sticks
for the next Bonfire Night,
Windows on the world continue to
drivel and stir the steaming early evening news,
Invisible men pick at the brains
of the sleeping,
This race is the supreme master of
exchanging insanity for black diamonds.

Beware you guy,
They are sipping the priceless grey treasure
that is your birthright,
It will be
with the theft of your precious
jewel that will finance
another glorious victorious production of
The Bonfire Night,
This time, perhaps, in
stunning Summer.

Remember,
Remember,
Don’t you ever forget
the
Filth
of
November.




©Rangzeb Hussain
Yasha Harkness Dec 2015
At age six you bought me a pretty lady doll
I remember your anger
The day I married her to another lady doll.

At age sixteen you bought me a beautiful dress
I remember your anger
When I asked for a suit instead.

At age twenty six you b(r)ought me a husband
I remember the day so clearly even now
**It was the day I eloped with my girlfriend.
how little you know me
Turbulence of displaced warmth.
A shiver hooking limbs
with the lure of touches promised
by sultry eyes
now
closed to the world for the night.
Exiled
from mind.
Seduced by fatigue.
Your lover eloped with a dream
leaving you behind
to walk alone along the stair to the kitchen
and the dinner abandoned there
because of her promise.
K Balachandran Jan 2014
In deep psychedelic trance
his companion painted
canvases that mix past,
present and future, factually
as quantum physics would vouch;
all of it co-exists, don't turn
a blind eye, it's not fair.

"There is more past here
that try to unseat future,
than the presence of present,
we would make reality sleep
won't believe in its patented lies,
we'd create a present,
in its fantasy, see the future"

The narrative is pictured as fallows:
The Cat and the Mouse
stopped their games,
they invented as a past time,
and also serious business.
Lucky prince befriended
a happy pauper.
The beauty beguiled
the friendly beast,
both eloped and
lived happily somewhere.

The bored king hugged
the leader of the coup
"I was dying
to abdicate at the earliest,
you were my last hope,
good riddance" he yawned,
sounding like cockerel.
He looked much relieved;
uneasy is the head
on which a crown sits
like a ****** politico
at the moment of election result.

The painter watching
what is going on said:
"Well, the colors I selected
this far, were all wrong.
Now, I am going to look twice
before I decide"

But when she worked
on her imagination
her manifesto was thrown out,
she was far more spontaneous
there is the rub.

Can't say, whether
the philosopher was pleased or not,
one can't  definitely tell
he only smiled and hurried back to
catch the last bus he missed.
How 'real' is the physical world we capture with our brain within the limitation of  our senses!
When I reached in to clean off the glitter on your face,
Did your throat ache because of the unheard voice?
When I said: relax I won't kiss you
did the unheard voice say: "I wish you would!"?
This then music that was denied

All the times I didn't touch you,
did you shiver and get chills?
Did my wondrous breath caress your hairs then?
Did your follicles once wake?
Leading to yawning pores
Inviting the warmth,
of a touch, and the moist excretion of the connection
thereof

And your dry lips with lines dividing symbolizing the walls of your soul yet to be broken
and your bright eyes when the right words are spoken
Or the nerve-wrecking look that had me choking
I was myself and I truly was, maybe you thought I was joking

Was it the distance or questionable persistence?
The fear maybe, that had you critical of what you should feel
Perhaps the vicissitudes of fate that have a stationary couple reel
Or the gravity of occurrences, where I had to keep up appearances
Maybe just you. Maybe just me. Or the doubtful We.

In all reason; logical to think that perhaps the feel
that keeps me away from you
and you feeling like a slave when with me
if you believed and trusted, we could have eloped
Escaped the prison of doubt and insecurity, uplift the hope
Use the ladder of surrender
climb down the 'chance' rope
and then we'd elope

But you stayed with the other guy who says what you want to hear
who drives the car that has them cheer
who sports a profile that gives him credit
Never minding your heart's merit
I leave and enter the wild
I am a wolf from afar
And a die-hard romantic at heart
These are the melodies that live on
Unsung hymns of love lore
May they be heard deeply and penetrate as the sound of spores.
Nuha Fariha Jun 2014
Pencil lapsed over paper, strokes struck blank.

Curves raced up and down the stairs, lines longed to curve.
Loops eloped to a wedding
Spirals sprung out,
Dashes dashed,
Crosses squares with circles
Triangles jumped over rectangles
Ovals wove throughout

Dot was left to point out
The empty blank around him
Mark Edwards Jr Oct 2018
At wits' end,
he overextends,
as time was running low.
Yet his mind devised,
through blood-shot eyes,
a way to end his woes.

A chance, perhaps,
by happenstance,
to finally take control.
On a sliver of hope,
while dreams eloped,
an endeavor to mend his soul.

As the stars aligned,
the gods divined,
and the man would have his chance.
Through foreign lands,
devoid of plans,
on a razor's edge he danced.

Now settling in,
the outlook; grim,
... but was it all for naught?
As he looked in the mirror,
t'wasn't man, but his fear -
the demon he had sought.

Now face to face,
his heart; it raced,
but he knew what he must do.
He gazed inside,
and began to cry,
for the demon that he slew.

Though beaten and broken,
within him awoken,
a soul now free of strain.
With time to cleanse,
with himself - make amends,
no longer a life in vain.

And over time,
he's clear of mind,
seeing beauty in his days.
The ironic part,
is within his heart,
he still finds comfort in the Grey.

09/30 - 10/01
2018
Mary Gay Kearns Dec 2018
The morning lay hazy in the blue
A fantasy of candy floss mists and dew
The trees on either side of the road
Water colour Cotman patches of ochre
Dabs gently mixing
Caressing the unclothed hedges
Where berries formed
And what we shared
Eloped the earth.

Love Mary ***
There once was a poor cowboy,
Who had one Horse and a Cow toy.
But, one summer day
The Horse eloped away!
At the Cow's back and left the cowboy.

#
Limerick**
Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira,Dubai
23rd November2016
Akin to Edward Lear's Book Of Nonsense, in a jiffy I'm planning to come up with one as well. It's title being: "The 21st Century Book Of Nonsense" by Edward Kiko, that being my antonym.
ROBBED BY TIME

Once upon a time,
A friend in need at all times,
Time was such my best friend
And so we hopped till the end.

To my castle he'd come,
For he was always welcome
Any time he ever wanted to,
Something my queen loved too.

We'd ramble woodland paths together
As he reeled off one story after another,
All day long having a good time
Till when castle bells could chime.

Time was not of this world,
But a great war lord
Of a very far away land,
King unto the realm of fairy land.

He who had a novelty crown
Bestowed upon him by a fairy clown,
A crown not of gold but of palest silver,
A precious gem from the fairyland silva.

With lurve in the air one morning,
My friendship with Time died aborning
When he chose to do something frivolous
Just when the Sun's rays were so glorious.

Time emblazed my heart,
Something that didst hurt
When he smiled unto my wife,
Such a great shock unto my life.

He gravitated towards her after a deep sigh,
Like a whirlwind, my mind whirled high.
He thus gallantly asked her for a dance,
And was granted a golden chance.

Keenly I watched this flint-hearted boy,
Thought him skint but feared not nor coy.
With alacrity and in broad day light
Together they cwtched in delight.

He whom I always enjoyed with the wine,
There enjoying with a queen of mine
Whilst committing mischief;
This friend of mine such a thief.

Time whispered thus into my Queen's ear,
Whispers I could hardly hear:
Alas! He promised her the moon
For they'd eloped by noon,

To places strange I might never have a clue,
To where mortals have never dared walk to,
All the way to the realm of fairy land,
Such, such a very far away land.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
10th Aug 2016.
I've been sick for the past days though thank God I'm here to share and sip from the well of poetry once again. Oh how i missed you my dear friends! Honestly, I'm all thankful to the Almighty for "TIME" didn't vanish away with my life all the way to fairyland the same way he did to my queen!

#Time #Lonesome #Me #You #Relationships #Melancholy #Fairyland
sobie Mar 2015
My mother raised me under the belief that monotony was a worse state than death and she lived her life accordingly. She taught me to do the same. About five years ago, my mother died. Her death steered my course from any sort of seated, settled life and into a spiral of new experiences.
For months after she left, I skulked about each day feeling slumped and cynical and finding everything and everyone coated in the sickly metallic taste of loss. I noticed that without her I had allowed myself to settle into a routine of mourning. I pitied myself, knowing what she would have thought.  Life was already so different without her there and I couldn’t continue with life as if nothing had happened, so I jumped from my stagnancy in attempts to forget my mother’s name and to destroy the mundane just like she had taught me to. I had to learn how to live again, and I wanted to find something that would always be there if she wouldn’t. I had a purpose. I tried to start anew and drown myself in change by throwing all that I knew to the wind and leaving my life behind.

I was running away from the fact that she had died for a long time. When I first picked up and left, I befriended the ocean and for many months I soaked my sorrows in salt water and *****, hoping to forget. I repressed my thoughts. Mom’s Gone would paint the inside of my mind and I would cover it up with parties and Polynesian women.
I was the sand on the shores of Tahiti, living on the waves of my own freedom. A freedom I had borrowed from nature. A gift that had been given to me by my birth, by my mother. I tried to lose myself in those waves and they treated me with limited respect. More often than not, they kicked me up against their black walls of water. They were made of such immense freedom that many times made me scream and **** my pants in fear, but they shoved loads that fear into my arms and forced me to eventually overcome the burden.
As time slipped by unnoticed, I created routine around the unpredictability of the tides and the cycle of developing alcoholism. One night after a full day of making love to the Tahitian waters, my buddies and I celebrated the big waves by filling our aching bodies with a good bit of Bourbon. By morning time, a good bit of Bourbon had become a fog of drink after drink of not-so-good *****? Gin maybe? I awoke to the sight of the godly sunrise glinting off of the wet beach around me, pitying my trouser-less hungover self. With sand in every orifice, I took a swim to wash me of the night before. I floated on my back in silence while the birds taunted me. I felt the ocean fill every nook and cranny of my body, each pulse of my heartbeat sending ripples through it. My heart was the moon that pressed the waves of my freedom onward and it was sore for different waters. The ache for elsewhere was coming back, and the hole she left in my gut that was once filled with Tahiti was now almost gaping. It had been a beautiful ride in Tahiti but I had not found solace, only distraction. The currents were shifting towards something new.
She had always said that the mountains brought her a solace that she never felt in church. They were her place to pray and they were the gods that fulfilled her. She told me this under the sheets at bedtime as if it were her biggest secret. I had delusional hope that she might be somewhere, she might not be gone. I thought if I would find her anywhere it would be there, up in the clouds on the highest peaks.
The next day, I was on the plane back to the States where I would gather gear. The mountains had called and left a needy voicemail, so I told them I was on my way.

In Bozeman, the home I had run from when I left, every street and friend was a reminder of my childhood and of her. I was only there to trade out my dive mask for my goggles. I had sold most of my stuff and had no house, apartment, or any place of residence to return to except for a small public storage unit where I’d stashed the rest of my goods. Almost everything I owned was kept in a roomy 25 square foot space, the rest was in my duffel. I’d left my pick-up in the hands of my good man, Max, and he returned her to me *****, gleaming, and with the tank full. I took her down to the storage yard and opened my unit to see that everything remained untouched. Beautifully, gracefully, precariously piled just as it was when I left. I transitioned what I carried in my duffel from surf to snow. I made my trades: flip flops for boots, bare chest for base layers, board shorts for snow pants, and of course, board for skis. Ah, my skis… sweet and tender pieces of soulful engineering, how I missed them. They still suffered core-shots and scratches from last season. I embraced them like the old friends they were.
I loaded up the pick-up with all the necessities and hit the road before anyone could give me condolences for a loss I didn’t want to believe. I could not stray from my path to forget her or find her or figure out how to live again. I did not know exactly what I wanted but I could not let myself hear my mother’s name. She was not a constant; that was now true.  

My truck made it half way there and across the Canadian border before I had to set her free. She had been my stallion for some time, but her miles got the best of her. It was only another loss, another betrayal of constancy. I walked with everything on my back until I eventually thumbed my way to the edge of the wild forest beneath the mountains that I had dreamt of. They were looming ahead but I swore I caught a whiff of hope in their cool breeze.
With skis and skins strapped to my feet, I took off into the wilderness. My eyes were peeled looking for something more than myself, and I found some things. There were icy streams and a few fattened birds and hidden rocks and tracks from wolves and barks of their pups off in the distance. But what I found within all of these things was just the constant reminder of my own loneliness.
I spent the days pushing on towards some unknown relief from the pain. On good days there fresh snow to carry me and on most days storms came and pounded me further into my seclusion. The trees bowed heavy to me as I inched forward on my skis, my only loyal companions; I only hoped they would not betray me on this journey. I could not afford to lose any more, I was alone enough. My mother was no where to be found. The snow seemed to miss her too and sometimes I think it sympathized with me.
I spent the nights warmed with a whimpy fire lying on my back in wait hoping that from out of the darkness she would speak to me, give me some guidance or explanation on how I could live happily and wildly without her. Where was this solace she had spoken of? Where was she? She was not with me, yet everything told me about her. The sun sparkled with her laughter, the air was as crisp as her wit, the cold carried her scent. I could feel her embrace around me in her hand-me-downs that I wore. They were family heirlooms that had been passed to her through generations, and then to me. The lives that had been lived in these jackets and sweaters were lived on through me. Though the stories hidden in the seams of these Greats had long been forgotten, died off with their original masters, I could feel the warmth of their memories cradle me whenever I wore them. I cringed to think about what was lost from their lives that did not live on. I was the only one left of my family to tell the world of the things they had done. I was all that was left of my mother. She had left her mark on the world, that was clear. It was a mark that stained my existence.
These forested mountain hills held a tragic beauty that I wish I could have appreciated more, but I felt heavy with heartache. Nature was not always sweet to me. For days storms surged without end and I coughed up crystals, feeling the snowflake’s dendrites tickle at my throat. I had gotten a cold. Snot oozed from my nostrils, my eyes itched, my schnoz glowed pink, my voice was hoarse, and I wanted nothing but to go home to a home that no longer existed. But I chose to go it alone on this quest and I knew the dangers in the freedom of going solo. The winds were strong and the snow was sharp. New ice glazed once powdery fields and the storms of yesterday came again and there was nothing I could do except cower at the magnificence of Nature’s sword: a thing so grand and powerful that it has slayed armies of men with merely a windy slash. I was nature’s *****. I felt no promise in pressing on, but I did so only to keep the snow from burying me alive in my tent.
And I am so glad that I did, because when the great storm finally passed I looked up to see the sky so hopeful and blue bordering the mountains I knew to be the ones I was searching for. I recognized them from the bedtime stories. She had said that when she saw them for the first time that she felt a sudden understanding that all the many hundred miles she’d ever walked were supposed to take her here. She said that the mere sight of them gave her purpose. These were those mountains. I knew because the purpose I had lost sight of came bubbling back out of my aching heart, just as it had for her.

These peaks as barren as plucked pelicans and peacocks, but as beautiful as the feathers taken from them, were beacons in the night for those in search of a world of dreams in which to create a new reality. From them I heard laughter jiggle and echo, hefty and deep in the stomachs of the only people truly living it seemed. When I was scouring the vastness of this wilderness for a sign or a purpose, I followed the scent of their delicious living and I guess my nose led me well.
A glide and a hop further on my skis, there the trees parted and powder deepened and sun shone just a bit brighter. Behind the blinding glare of the snow, faces gleamed from tents and huts and igloos and hammocks. Shrieks of children swinging from branches tickled my ears, which had grown accustomed to the silence of winter. As I approached this camp, I saw they were not kids but grown men and women. It seemed I had stumbled down a rabbit hole while following the tracks of a white jackalope. I had found my world of dreams. I had found them. I had found a home.
I was escaping my lonely, wintery existence into a shared haven perfectly placed beneath the peaks that had plagued my dreams. A place where the only directions that existed were up and down the slopes and forwards to the future. Never Eat Soggy Waffles did not matter anymore. By the end of my time there, I had even forgotten my lefts and rights. The camp had been assembled with the leftovers of the modern world and looked like a puzzle with mismatched pieces from fifty different pictures. At first glance, it could have been a snow covered trash heap, but there was a sentimental glow on each broken appliance that told me otherwise. Everything had a use, though it was not usually what was intended. The homes of these families and friends were made of tarp or blankets or animal hides and had smelly socks or utensils or boots or bones hanging from their openings. There were homemade hot springs made of bathtubs placed above fires with water bubbling. Unplugged ovens buried in snow and ice kept the beer cooled. Trees doubled as diving boards for jumping into the deep pits of powder around them. The masterminds behind this camp were geniuses of invention and creation. Their most impressive creation was their lifestyle; it was one that had been deemed impossible by society. This place promised the solace I had been searching for.
A hefty mass of man and dogs galumphed its way through the snow. Rosy cheeks and big hands came to greet me. This was Angus. His face grew a beard that scratched the skies; it was a doppelganger to the mossy branches above us. But his smile shone through the hairs like the moon. There are people in this world whose presence alone is magic, an anomaly among existence. Angus was one of them. Not an ounce of his being made sense. The gut that hung from his broad-shouldered bodice was its own entity and it swung with rhythms unknown to any man; it was known only to the laughter that shook it. Gently perched atop this, was his shaggy white head that flew backwards and into the clouds each time he laughed, which was often. Angus fathered and fed the folks who’d found their way to this wintery oasis, none of which were of the ordinary. There was a lady with snakes tattooed to her temples, parents who’d birthed their babies here beneath the full moon, couples who went bankrupt and eloped to Canada, men and women who felt the itch just as me and my mother had. The itch for something beyond the mundane that left us unsatisfied with life out in the real world. All of them came out of their lives’ hardships with hilarious belligerence and wit, each with their own story to tell. The common thread sewn between all these dangerous minds was an undeniable lust for life.
The man who represented this lust more than any other was Wiley and wily he was. He’d seen near-death countless times and every time he saw the light at the end of the tunnel, he would run like a fool in the other direction. He lived on borrowed time. You could see that restlessness driving him in each step he took. Each step was a leap from the edges of what you thought possible. Wiley was a man of serious grit, skill, and intelligence and never did he let his mortality shake him from living like the animal he was. He’d surely forgotten where and whence he came from and, until finding his way here, had made homes out of any place that offered him beer and some good eatin’. Within moments of shaking hands, he and I created instant brotherhood.
The next few days turned into months and I eventually lost track of time all together. I could have stayed there forever and no day would have been the same. I played with these people in the mountains and pretended it was childhood again. We lived with the wind and the wildness the way my mother had once shown me how to live. I had forgotten how to live this way without her and I was learning it all over again. We awoke when we pleased and trekked about when weather permitted, and sometimes when it didn’t. Each day the sun rose ripe with opportunities for new lines to ski and new peaks to explore. The backcountry was ours and only ours to explore. We were its residents just like the moose and the wolves. My body grew stinky and hairy with joy and pushed limits. Hair that stank of musk and days of labor was washed only with painful whitewashes courtesy of Wiley. Generally after a nice run, we’d exchange them, shoving each other’s faces deep into the icy layers of snow, which would be followed with some hardy wrestling. By the end of each day, if we didn’t have blood coming out of at least two holes in our faces then it wasn’t a good day.
I never could wait to get my life’s adventures in and here I was having them, recalling the unsatisfied ache I had before I left. Life was lost to me before. I had forgotten how to live it after she had died. Modern monotony had taken control until my life became starved of genuine purity and all that was left then was mimicry. But the hair grown long on these men and smiles grown large on these woman showed no remembrance of such an earth I had come from. They had long ago cast themselves away from such a society to relish in all they knew to be right, all their guts told them to pursue: the truth that nature supplies. Still I worried I would not remember these people and these moments, knowing how they would be ****** into the abyss of loss and time like all the others. But we lived too loud and the sounds of my worries were often drowned in fun.
     We spent the nights beside the fire and listened to Wiley softly plucking strings, that was when I always liked to look at Yona. Her curls endlessly waterfalled down her chest and the fire made her hair shimmer gold in its glow. She was the spark among us, and if we weren’t careful she could light up the whole forest.  She was a drum, beating fast and strong. Never did she lose track of herself in the clashing rhythms of the world. She had ripped herself from the hands of the education system at a young age and had learned from the ways of the changing seasons f
It’s in newspaper ads, and on T.V,
Pasted everywhere for us to see.

A new entertainer in town, they say,
Giving a performance before going away.

Who is it this time, I wonder,
Who is it that people go to with a cheer?

It’s a ventriloquist, a puppet man,
He’s supposedly made everyone his fan.

And so it was to see the show I went,
It was a boring life’s escapade, godsent.

Robby Rob, was his name,
This name so engulfed in fame.

He was spectacular, and really good,
Now everyone’s excitement I understood.

There he was on stage,
About twenty five years of age.

He and his puppet, joking, laughing,
To everyone happiness he did bring.

Then the show was done,
He left with a smile on his face,
We had had our share of fun,
While he and his puppet left in grace.

How happy he looked, how content was he,
He seemed to be satisfied and filled with glee.

But, who knew what was really happening,
In his life from the beginning?

For in his room,
So full of gloom,

The ventriloquist was a different person,
One who looked glum and devoid of fun.

Who knew,  that he was an abandoned orphan,
Who had struggled for obtaining a bun?

Who knew, the problems in his life,
His heart cancer, his huge bank debt, his eloped wife???

The lifeless puppet, his only friend,
The only one who’ll stay till the end.

As he sheds his tears,
One falls near his puppet’s eye,
And as he is filled with his ever growing fears.
Along with him his puppet does cry…

They hug each other, close and tight,
For them, nothing seems to be going right.

And yet, and yet, I walk home with envy
Thinking that the Ventriloquist’s life is happy and carefree…
Valerie Sep 2013
Your cruel crimson lips
Blood dripping from your finger tips
My love a shattered work of art
The result of my broken heart

Splatters of scarlet hope
Mark the sheets where we eloped
My love a discarded virginity
The result of my mistaken affinity

Garnet was the decadent shade
Of the dress that veiled my vestal glade
My love a slippery hemline
The result of my relentless pine

The rusty curls on your head
Delivered me willingly into the bed
My love a handful of tangled hair
The result of my wanton affair

The flowers he sent were red
Reluctantly, I told him you were dead
My love a half-hearted lie
The result of my wandering eye

A ring offered, of ruby and gold
Silver is better, but I was sold
My love a rehearsed song
The result of my doing wrong

A burgundy kiss for a charming knight
A wedding of chastity white
My love a perfected role
The result of my injured soul

An artificial cherry-flavored *******
Sloppy second copulation
My love a feigned first
The result of my unquenched thirst

The sheet is stained with merlot
Out with the trash, then he will never know
My love a memorized line
The result of my spilled debaucherous wine.
I'm still trying to decide if I want the title to just be "Vermillion" or if I want it to be something like "Vermillion Nevermore"... but, that will have to be figured out later.

And, I'm struggling with whether it should be an artificial cherry-flavored *******, sloppy second copulation or ******* and copulation switched to be: an artificial cherry-flavored copulation, sloppy second pentration.  I think I like it how it is, but I will look at it again and probably be able to choose.

I'm also wondering if I can ignore that it is hope--eloped, and not a more fitting rhyme..

Well, I still love it. :)
Sedoo Ashivor May 2016
Close the curtains
On this last act
Call home the trains
Bring me back

Time has eloped
With my dreams
I've learnt to cope
On meagre means

Preach the truth
To he who hears
Dig up the roots
Bury your cares

Hide my letters
In an open box
Untie my fetters
Use all the locks

Life is a paradox
Running to its death
Watching all the clocks
To be the last one on earth.
I like the fact that I can have rhyme and beat even when I'm not exactly sure what I mean :-)
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.

Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.

Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.

Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.

Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.

Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.

This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.

Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.

Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.

On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.

A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone

Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.

I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Not sure how i feel about this one, just because I'm not sure if it effectively communicates what I was trying to express... tried to revisit it several times over the last few years since i wrote it (hoping to maybe revise it a bit) but every time I've come up a little short on ideas how i might do that (to the point where ive been considering just scrapping it entirely and rewriting a Part 2 from scratch lol)... still not sure though, since it *is* a fairly coherent continuation of Part 1 (and I wanted to retain that continuity) so any criticism or feedback is especially appreciated for sure!

Also just some things for context while reading:

Psithurism is the sound wind makes through the trees.

Opal is made by water running through silica and sandstone then evaporating.

Lotus has a double meaning in lotus flowers (floating on lilypads) and also its use in Greek mythology as a plant which bears a fruit that when eaten causes dreamy forgetfulness and an unwillingness to depart.
Poetic T Apr 2017
Little sapling growing between a rock and a hard place.
Weathering what life is surrounding you. No friends of yet
but you are only a sapling give it time. Moments passing
watching scenery elope to shifting seasons beauties.

Sea air invigorating as rain trickled from above dancing on
your now maturing leaves, tickling as each one weaved its
way down, like teardrops they descended on there journey
of life carrying on.

The Cliffside sighs, and teardrops of rocks descend,
woeful of those this motion that swept away, beauty
that clung silently there. The sapling is of branches
and leaves giving needed shelter to tired wings.

Seasons whisper by as the sun and moon dance above
her gaze. Roots delicately weave deeply into the Cliffside
keeping here steady, for if it were to sigh again her fate
steadfast in this place between a rock and a hard place.

Her leaves happened upon a blossom, so delicate in
its serenade of colour against the harsh rock face.
Like a parent when winds were bleak shielding its
frailty with branch and leaves, it only lost a petal this time.

She flowered in the seasons, blossom invigorated the
surroundings of what was bleak, like teardrops of love
for a time they painted vivid etchings on the Cliffside
till they faded nourishing those of lesser stature.

As she yawned on the morning rising above the
horizon, she felt motions upon her leaves.
Never in her time had she felt such gentle touches,
as palms glided over her foliage.

Feeling the breeze from up high, the cliffs edge she
had flourished in growth, now little eyes saw her
in full blossom as the seasons had changed.
Laughter ensued when gusts eloped with blossom.

Pink and light shades of magenta danced between
children, a fence keeping wondering thoughts safe
from the fallen dreams at the bottom of the Cliffside.
Leaves caressed the winds and she was content.
Michael P Smith Apr 2013
As the Nightingale sings...
His sweet song of happiness
Driven by bountiful liberation
Relieved from timeless crappiness
Fluttering, making a joyful noise
Trials to deprive him of craftiness
Surely fails at inflicting such harm
He sings gleefully, free of nastiness.


As the Nightingale sings...
His wrenching song of fear
Realizing his time can easily fall
At any moment danger may appear
Songs of melodic screechy whistles
Alerting of predators lurking clear
He's hurt, used to frequent viewing
His kin die, for each he sheds a tear.


As the Nightingale sings...
His sensual song of passion
Strong vocals of desired courtship
Refusing to share his ration
With many rivals upon his branch
Alluring females with his attraction
Mating rituals commencing in love
His plumage thrives in new fashion.


As the Nightingale sings...
His saddened song of sorrow
Wishing for better times to come
Hoping to make it to the morrow
Living below a abundant food chain
With a short lifespan to borrow
Singing til his last breath is breathed
Eloped to heaven, a angel he follows.

© Michael P. Smith
'Twas in the eventide of June
Whilst he didst lay in a pit of despair
When a lass fair as a silvery moon
Stately sailed his way as a zephyr
Yet majestically as drops of dew
Rollin' upon boughs of emerald fair.

Heaven's ever fair golden eye
Had sprinkled her very last ray
To pave way unto night maidens
That evermore bedight heaven's bay
With luster that in perpetuum gladdens
Naked eyes in a way i canst not say.

Radiant hope in his eyes shone bright
To potter beside a beauty queen
Whose eyes thrice brighter than light
Fair like as sails of diamond hewn,
Opalescent as robes of Sirius in the night
Whilst decamping at the fall of dawn.

Euphonious lullabies into her ear
Mellifluously he didst sing and sing,
For her to know she's all he did revere.
A fair diadem unto her he did bring,
For her to forevermore hold it dear
Queen unto him she's, and him her King.

But yonder stars in lone splendor
Coveted him and the beauty queen,
For her effulgence surpassed their luster
That as passes a fiend with eyes unseen
When the wind is hushed into slumber,
So did spy upon 'em with eyes keen.

Alas! As we all know naught lasts forever,
The looming veils of night began to vade
Whilst stars in a splendiferous cluster
Upon celestial shores coyly didst wend;
And his visage grew pale by dawns luster,
For far off with his queen they'd eloped.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA.
24th/09/2018
#Tales Of Nineva #Swain #Maiden #Fairy whispers #Imaginations
Alexander S Mar 2010
The tomorrows can't come soon enough
And the yesterdays pass too swiftly
Differing between lies and love
Is a gift no longer with me

And still I cannot help
But look ahead until the day
When love's more than just a word
And finally I'm on my way

I still yearn to lay it out
Put my heart on the line again
To leave the places that I've traveled
And find the one I've never been

I'm restricted to running blind
But running nevertheless
Lest the pulse start to slow
And fade into nothingness

At times it seemed I'd never stop
And I was nearly giving in
No longer was I searching out
But content with places I'd already been

And suddenly there she was
Real and no mirage I'd hoped
I tried to reign my emotions in
But my heart already had eloped

To soon, it seems, to think these thoughts
But I confess I can almost see
Something real in her words
And the places that I want to be

Too soon to dream, common sense cries
Maneuver slowly round the bend
But as I open up my heart
I confess she's falling in

Where we'll go, I cannot say
I can only speculate
To continue on my way
And leave tomorrow up to fate
Bluebird Jan 2015
We were standing on the bus station,
and i wouldn't get to see you,
for so long,
you said that you couldn't stay longer,
and i knew why,
but i still hoped.

i expected a man inside you to come out,
to stand out
but that man eloped.
I needed a better way to remember you,
but you couldn't grasp
my hearts scope.

i walked away when you went in the bus,
because with my sadness,
i can never cope.
and eaven after the bus departed,
i turned around,
and i trully hoped,
to see my man running towards me,
but that man eloped...
Egressx Oct 2016
You thought you could spread your legs
to the first stranger who spoke your name,
but even then you were so ashamed of your skin,
the marks and scars of the body you were born in
that you eloped.
You never came back.

You asked what you had to do to be loved.
To be wanted.
It was all you've wanted.

The first boy whom you confessed to smiled, amused,
and asked, so?

It's the question you've been trying to answer all your life.

so?

Your first kiss was at eighteen, ugly and untouched.
He only wanted your body,
but you've forced yourself to think otherwise.

Oh, love.
It is so sad to live in your own body,
to watch him watch her,
watch her link her arm around you and starts
telling you about her problems

Problems.
oh, you had them too.
but you were just a listener,
with ears always, always open.
you felt like a mute. your mouth filled with sand.

Do they know how much you love yourself?
You did.
You had to.
You were trying, but no. You were not enough.

At night he is always there, in your bed.
Your brother, i mean. Whispering how much he loves you.
But in the morning he is gone
and you have not seen him ever since.

This does not make sense.
No, no more questions.
Nothing will ever make sense.

Today, you texted a boy who used to love you,
and when he didn't text,
you nodded to yourself.
it's alright. you expected this. be calm. don't panic.

your friends call you the queen of sarcasm, of loudness.
Some asked why you were always so depressed.

Depressed. Empty. Sad. Vulnerable.
It's all you've ever been since the day
you saw the front door close behind your father.
Since the day you left your own country.

But your days no longer revolve around your mother's sadness, or your father's violence.

And you are too old now. No more lighting candles. No more days of fresh hotel sheets and smells of sunscreen.

In December, a boy confessed he liked you.
You didn't want to choose him because you were lonely.
And when you wanted to choose him
because you were lonely, he was not there.

You thought if he comes, you would give him all your love.
All the yellow light you've been hiding in your heart.

You wanted simplicity. Love and his eyes.
Stop, this is getting too long.
It ran away with Del Shannon.

There is no better time to be or for me to be better in time
don't worry
the Presidential invite to the palace of midnight awaits.

If the whole World's gone mad who has the key to the medicine chest?
a mile further on and the gates of the asylum swing wide
medication?
third room on the right
everyone's drunk in the palace of midnight,

and just before we pass out everything turns white
Ginamarie Engels Feb 2011
p to the a to the p to the e.
r,c, to the l,i,p.
paperclips, lets do the nasty. just kidding.
oh, staples you gave me a container of colorful paperclips.
1,000 and 100% guaranteed.
grassy green, ocean blue, pretty in pink, **** yellow, white noise, period red.
you hold my papers together through any bad weather.
you bend in shapes and ways that no other kind of clip can.
hair clips, banana clips, hair flips, cool whip can't do what you do.
you were born in china before you ended up in staples and eloped with that plastic bag to my room.
oh how you stay connected to my papers like elmer's glue.
oh how you always stay true.
you're not as big as mr.giant clip in norway but you still do to trick.
together forever, you make my papers stay stacked thick.
your loopy body, your metal composition, i can make you twist in any position.
sometimes you're as fake as plastic but that's why i always got metal by my side.
you're thin and can be unfolded with little- little force.
paperclips, you'll always be in my heart and in my room, of course.
rosey Jul 2013
The beautiful hum matching the soft tone of the music.
As the records spins, the world passes on.
Night and day rise to the blossom of life.
Roses sprouting the colors to the world.
Days opens up with rays of light to match the soft stroke of the key of music.
Night's low hazy light glistens the dark air with the low humming a the music.

Tunes creatures mumble tunes but to be only swallowed by the rustling wind that captures their soft spoken tune.
It flows echoing through the pure, sweet air.
Hum the tune of your beat that marches your life.
The grand dance has eloped us in journey of love and life that flows into the  grande white ball room.

Dancing on the endless rotation of the black disk.
Revolving round and round.
We spin n spin hearing that same tune clash with new ones.
Melodies spin with life, the tune we love dances with us.
Embracing us as we spin endlessly on the musically sound.
We bound to listen everyday as nature blossoms and fades away.

Beats of soft strokes of the needle begin to slow the dance.
Give one last mighty twirl.
See the world of beauty and horror one last time.
Hear the tempo of the tone you danced all this way.
As you twirl, taking your last step.
Tears roll down your face with a smile gleaming on your lips as you raise your head at the world fading to a blur of light.

Pure rose petals falling on the records black disk.

Time has come where the musical tone is..

Slowing down..

Growing quieter by the moment..

Slowing fading to nothing...

The needle lifts up.
Emptiness and quietness fills the grand ballroom.
The silence was broken as It's arm with a point glides slowly over a new black plate.
A new tune is played as it lays on top of the old.
Music flows with the new and the old.
Night and day blossom to a new world and journey.
New roses are born.

As goes for the music.The records never stop rolling.
Neither does the dance of the beat of what we call life..
K Balachandran Mar 2016
She eloped with my heart,
I am told to wait until dark.
Let the body wait in patience
allow the spirits merge first.
Tom McCone Mar 2013
Through the glaze of snow falling from ninety-nine cent aluminium, we'd taken the remains of a novel formulation to remove the stars from the sky and plant them in a field. I took crushing endlessness and the heat of leaves growing in moments to make the autumn of a town I hadn't yet seen. This is how I escaped from the sealed-elevator flight plan the first time; talking had failed me, pinned against the face of a fleeing infant. His mother could never find a way to paint him as a forgery, a skeleton, and make it stick, so he coughed rough and eloped from the schematic with his brother as their father remained on the ground, paying out the parking lot tower fees, unaware that he, himself, was only a figment.

and I, just another figment, ventured off into the village, the leaves cascading and trembling, the gold of their hues dissipating as the flight crew shook a lifeless husk, spent lives ago, now, with the clamour of shells dividing, each split or junction or birth yielding arcs of light as my sister tells me how the strings she pulls around her wrists tell metric time whilst I brush my hand against concrete and glass, leaving traces of skin within the grain, sloughing away finally in the small moments as I float through an antique dealership: mahogany gods, carved tall as redwoods, and bathed in mist like the western coast at dawn.

and I, indifferent to the television sets implanted between memories, broadcasting coffee-stain eyes lost midsummer years ago, still indifferent.

as I finally reach the elevator, the last level, the depth below, struck me. I am the test subject, my irrealities are just trying to get out, to survive this feigned life, to be born into the world I frequent. They are abstractions and know it. I have not said a word as I step out onto that plane, amidst the rising roar of engines and the row of the crowds and the swell of my emptiness.

I breathe in and become the field, at last.
THE
Check Please frustrated one man yells in a dinner
he's wound up/

Over there one guy stands in the entrance seems eccentric/

A quick flash of brightness followed by thunder
closes and shakes the umbrella A young fella/

We did it looking for correct change he dismissed it/

I've seen through the fabric when others would have missed it/

Been looking for you all day to review the linguistics/

My dear we've eloped the veil has been lifted/

My apprentice no more when I start you finish my sentence/

My life's work when I begin who knew you would end it/

Tremendous young fellas on the terrace feeling esoteric/

This is life altering he cautioned him/

As they contemplate their next move/

I'm just waiting for everything we know to not be true!

— The End —