"finely" poems
To you, the ground beneath my feet
Every step I take,
you support me.
You stand with me,
in my times of trouble
I am warmed by your embrace,
as I become entranced in your outfit of lace.
Nothing could be more finely crafted,
than my connection with you.
The ages may wear on you,
yet you remain the only one
my sole longs for.
For you truly are...
My favorite pair of shoes.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Flirting with dreams
and myths
a fling with Aphrodite
so **** in a bikini
lying on the sand
with ivory skin
finely formed arms
swelling *******
slender waist
navel
sumptuous buttocks
flaring hips
and convex belly
comely thighs on either side
with calves and feet
perfectly poised
the purity of ******
for all eternity.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Have you ever stumbled upon someone life-shatteringly special?
You lose your breath and can't think straight.
But somehow they've stuck around.
Feeling like a stunned vegetable to your innocent charisma.
Like divine intervention we met in the most unlikely of ways.
We hit it off and spent hours together, confined and stressed.
How did we get along so well?
How did we manage to learn more together than alone?
How did we manage to find each other in this big world?
I'll always wonder if there is more to this story.
Answers to my plaguing questions that rule my emotional state.
I don't know how to describe what it is I feel in a rational way.
It doesn't serve rationale.
Writing it all down or saying it only compounds how crazy I must sound.
But I'm not a loony bin. On the contrary, you are just infinitely more special than you realise!
But I'll not skip a note nor bump a chord.
Because I see you so finely in all your elegance.
A beauty which radiates in an innocent manifestation.
I can't tell if everyone else can see it also.
They must?!
I must have no chance here.
I know I should cut my losses and move on.
Right..?
Hope to find this feeling once more.
But something from beyond the blackened ether of midnight skies and space dust tells me to keep trying.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.
Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.
Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.
Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****
Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a pot-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.
Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.
Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.
Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.
Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.
Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.
Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.
Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.
Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
Only when efforts are taken
Defeats can be easily broken
When mind suffers from fear
It opens the gate for tear
By indulging in self-pity
We may blunder in duty
When we are too much afraid
We lose even from God aid
God wants us to be brave
Then only He can save
Boldly enter into the bout
Let hope finely sprout out
Just by making up mind
A way one can surely find
Honest efforts fetch glory
Hard-work brings victory
Never think pessimistically
Ponder over practically
It is very easy to soon retreat
But, success refuses its treat
Courageous steps achieve
So a bold plan, try to weave
mvvenkataraman
SEARCH mvvenkataraman IN GOOGLE OR YAHOO
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 12:10 PM UTC
there’s a network of vigilance
around the guarded causeway
of walla walla
the stacked cinders
and smoking rails
leave nothing
but black hooded fate
gray halls
and razor scrawls
mark the hellion crust
abandoned overtures
and dead fill
cloud the horror
and retribution
of this hell hole
bloaters and skin heads
(with wretched memoirs)
shout incessantly
from the second floor
adolphus greely
reading over the
rights of nantucket
and banging his head
on the bent steel bars
with pockets pinched
and tumblers dangling
the stone walls soften...
a seminal moment
crosses the roo house
as mother mary
and the good painted warrior
loosen a finely tuned grip
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
But can you love me in the deep? In the dark? In the thick of it?
Can you love me when I drink from the wrong bottle and slip through the crack in the floorboard?
Can you love me when I’m bigger than you, when my presence blazes like the sun does, when it hurts to look directly at me?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?
Can you love me when I am howling and furry, standing on my haunches, my lower lip stained with the blood of my last ****
When I call down the lightning, when the sidewalks are singed by the soles of my feet, can you still love me then?
What happens when I freeze the land, and cause the dirt to harden over all the pomegranate seeds we’ve planted?
Will you trust that Spring will return?
Will you still believe me when I tell you I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your dreams and call them to the surface of your life?
Can you trust me, even though you cannot tame me?
Can you love me, even though I am all that you fear and admire?
Will you fear my shifting shape?
Does it frighten you, when my eyes flash like your camera does?
Do you fear they will capture your soul?
Are you afraid to step into me?
The meat-eating plants and flowers armed with poisonous darts are not in my jungle to stop you from coming. Not you.
So do not worry. They belong to me, and I have invited you here.
Stay to the path revealed in the moonlight and arrive safely to the hut of Baba Yaga: the wild old wise one… she will not lead you astray if you are pure of heart.
You cannot be with the wild one if you fear the rumbling of the ground, the roar of a cascading river, the startling clap of thunder in the sky.
If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny room — the night sky is not for you.
If you want to be torn apart, come in. Be broken open and devoured. Be set ablaze in my fire.
I will not leave you as you have come: well dressed, in finely-threaded sweaters that keep out the cold.
I will leave you naked and biting. Leave you clawing at the sheets. Leave you surrounded by owls and hawks and flowers that only bloom when no one is watching.
So, come to me, and be healed in the unbearable lightness and darkness of all that you are.
There is nothing in you that can scare me. Nothing in you I will not use to make you great.
A wild woman is not a girlfriend. She is a relationship with nature. She is the source of all your primal desires, and she is the wild whipping wind that uproots the poisonous corn stalks on your neatly tilled farm.
She will plant pear trees in the wake of your disaster.
She will see to it that you shall rise again.
She is the lover who restores you to your own wild nature.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Mrs Sharma is looking busy
Walking back from her yoga class
In Her right hand a bag full of potatoes
In her left hand, 2 kilos of onions
Its a freaking hot day in Delhi,
She stopped a taxi and hurried home
Aloo paratha her family's menu for today.
At home she went straight to her kitchen
Peeled and boiled the Potatoes
finely chopped Onion, coriander, ginger and chillies
Now where is the garam masala?
Here you are Mrs Sharma,
Salt Red Chili powder, Garam masala and some butter
Aloo Paratha with lots of butter,YUM YUM
Lunching at Sharma's home is Splendid
better than Mahesh Lunch Home in Juhu, Andheri.
Let's get started says Mrs Sharma
Let's make the dough
Make two chapati
add the filling to one chapati
and cover it with the second one.
Now Mrs Sharma rolls it slightly and heats it in the oven...
Let's ask Mrs Sharma,
Is food the elixir of life?
Yes very much she said
She feels like she is living for it.
As she spreads butter over the paratha
She says her mantra twice,
Eat healthy but don’t over eat.
She serves aloo paratha hot to her smiling kids
adds yoghurt to Mr Sharma's plate
she is so proud when she says to her family
Eat in moderation and eat healthy..
Smile and let's eat Aloo paratha Mrs Sharma's way...
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving*
*In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
From the black recesses of the earth
She rose from her long slumber
Icy death smile on her crimson lips
Face gleaming with wicked knowledge
Slanted eyes of emerald green
Glazed and mad
Her crown jewels of the dead
Bleached human bones
Encircled her head
Fine glass complexion of shimmering gold
She spoke the words of The Sleeping Three
Hair falling in rich waves down to the floor of snakes
The color of the crows breast
A rich purple ebony
Snake scale gown of finely woven human skins
Gathered from her poor victims sin
Wrapped round her lithe body
A thousand souls it took to weave
Awakened from its dark sleep
Spells cast in hell's deep
By a powerful witch
Who stirred the cauldron
Tainted with revenge
The demon was now visible to sight
The apparition appeared in smoke and orange red light
To bow down and submit to the witches bidding
The command never waived from intent
One of chaos and death
Slaughtered, cold in rows they lay
Pity for the one this creature seeks
Of a terrible perfume her heart reeks
That of blood and brimstone
Perfumed smoke and fire
The devil is her line and sire
So by demons touch
Plotting cold hands
She claims the souls of mortal man
More thread for her clothing
The beautiful demon
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
There are conversations in which my mental frame leaves the
parameters of my body.
No longer can I fathom the concept of ‘being in love’
I witness dates
and
feel as an apprentice of such a trade might
an inadequacy to replicate the models of those before me
Gone are my indefinite moments of sanity
Childhood is laced in linens of silk
Soft-spoken words
and
Finely crafted spontaneity lacking responsibility
Ceaseless are the times in which I must conceal the thoughts I abhor
Depravity seems to chain my soul
which leads to
a Resolution in pixelation
due to
a visual handicap which has left my eye blind to choosing right
My friends make me happy
but as a glass transforms back-&-forth between half-empty &
half-full
one glance across our wooden dinner is all it takes
for
My thoughts to liquidate into bars of gold
Telling myself I must exchange their conversation for my motivation
heavy on the mind
light keystrokes
Once i reawaken at 1 A.M. from my conscious-coma
i ask myself
What good is it?
To be thoughtful
Yet have no action
What good is it?
To fantasize
Yet refuse your own inclination for renovation
What good is it?
To be dramatic
Yet have no one at your performance
I do understand what it means to ‘be’
Watching Tuesday suns burn in loops of ongoing weeks
- lacking peaks -
As I continue to lay under clothes line
Wrapped in a melody of melancholy
But I do not understand what it means to be ‘me’
My mind feels as a lemon candy might,
sour at first bite -
hollow on the inside, then gone
Without ever truly knowing what it tastes like.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
the sweetest perfection
to call my own
the slightest correction
couldn't finely hone
the sweetest infection
of body and mind
sweetest injection
of any kind
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
She stupefy truth
with her finely crafted lies
that stand head held high
without even
the slightest sign
of embarrassment.
She waters the seeds
with acid, deliberately
even manage to get kudos
for her 'kind intervention'
Her 'collected venom'
in real, is a counterfeit concoction
more deadly than the real,
that attracts unlimited attention
and the loudest rounds of applause,
for it's new shade of blue
when displayed with special effects
for all to view.
In her presence, fairness loses its meaning
foulness like her, usurps it, makes its own,
becomes the reigning queen!
Whatever she does
has a dark beauty,
even the true angel of evil
would greatly envy her.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Hypnotic music, joyous sounds surround
The fans, all entranced by the performers.
The drummer happily bashes and pounds
Everything he sees shaped like cylinders.
The hi-hat steadily keeps the rhythm,
The bass drum makes a thud, quite powerful.
The crowd can't help but nod along with him
As he makes these beats so insatiable.
The cymbals create such fearful crashes,
And his finely tuned snare shoots roaring pops
Hurtling towards the off-guard masses,
This manic madness just can't seem to stop!
What exactly does he have left to prove?
*He simply wants to see everyone groove!*
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
Dull lips give way to a finely sharpened tongue.
Soft skin slides underhand like roughly hidden scales.
*You asked of me to bare my blood.
Both times I cut my veins for you.
Both times you asked for more
And I bled once again,
for you, my Prince.*
A hand touches my soul; held within the demons greedy paws.
All the while, I wonder why, I let you continue to rein over me.
An insufferable plague you have bestowed over my brow.
Nay...
My heart.
My heart quakes from Lust's tightening grip.
My veins bleeding for you...
A card dealt from the sleight of a devils right hands.
A dagger in the left, aimed for the back.
- Hark -
The call of darkness beckons me on-wards.
Calling me home through the red fog and the vile pit of hatred.
*When you asked for me; I was yours.
Then, when you asked for another,
I withdrew...*
You are an enigma, in your entirety.
Oh, sweet angel
burden with a devils twisted soul.
You shall burn forlorn in a delightful blue flame.
*Alas, ask once more my Nephilim Prince.
Ask;
and I shall bleed my veins for you.*
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
You worry that you wouldn't be able to give me the world,
when in reality there's not much to give me but your all;
giving me all of you is giving me the world.
I'm not saying you've nothing to offer.
I'm just saying that you don't have to try to give me anything;
breathing your air is privilege enough.
You've not stopped being my world since the day you left.
It worries me, because the only reason I'm certain, is I don't doubt us.
I only pray I can become your world again.
I'm homesick, I feel as though I've been lost in the stars.
Maybe that's why you said you see them in my eyes.
It's the filter that so finely differentiated you and I.
I've always had my head in the clouds, and I worry that the weights on your shoulders prevent you from seeing things from my perspective.
I told you from day one;
you make my heart feel like it's floating.
I just haven't come down yet.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Ainhara is standing in her Queen's room,
staring at the door that leads to
her chamber
'My Lady...' she thinks worried before
looking at her reflection. Her mistress had
surprised her a gift of a finely made dress
of rose-silk, making her a flowing vision
in blue.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The dress is suitable for the bright and
hot morning, light, airy and delicate
with one shoulder that is heavily beaded
with peacock feathers; the slit reveals
her slender legs, the hip appliqued with
the white lilies of her Queen's Kingdom,
and simple flat shoes.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Her fiery locks are pinned into her usual
bun. It is then that she hears a gentle
knock on the door which she approaches
and opens.
"Did you not hear the command of the
Queen Mother?" Ainhara gently hisses,
"Queen Lyn is not to be disturbe-"
"I know, Lady Ainhara, I apologise,"
a guard whispers as Ainhara stands in
the hallway.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"How is Queen Lyn?"
*'Drained and exhausted. She has not slept
well in three days...* "The Queen is very busy.
She is determined to complete the tasks set to
her." Ainhara sighs. "Esshi is overseeing her
meals currently. Did her mother not say all
matters of state should be brought to her?"
"Yes she did, but the shipments are set
to arrive today. And she said that once
they arrive, I am to notify you.
They have made way to the Western
Entrance."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"I see. Well, let us see to it."
"Yes," The guard bows and leads the
way with Ainhara at his heels.
As she passes the open stain-glassed
windows, the cool breeze hit her,
making her dress flutter behind her
and the beadery shine and glitter.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Being lazy digs a huge grave
For our peace and won't save
A lazy fellow is never brave
He is to fate a submissive slave
Taking action he will shun
Success shows him no affection
God gives him no protection
He belongs to the losing section
A lazy man gets no sweats
Tears become his constant assets
He uses buts and loses guts
He is depressed for lack of outlets
He lies lethargically in his bed
To be passive, thinks his head
Mentally he is almost dead
His is a very negative blood
Great chances he regularly misses
He is deprived of victory's kisses
A working mind, he does not possess
He never gets success as a bonus
His brain is so lazy *** idle
Everything is to him a riddle
He is afraid of every hurdle
His life, fate will finely meddle
Work makes him fear and faint
Gloom only his thoughts paint
Against him accumulates complaint
His mind, laziness will strongly taint
Progress tells him good-bye
He is an unattractive guy
His life-river is ever dry
Only laziness, he can supply
Idleness may be initially jolly
But it is not at all holy
Angels like it not wholly
Unless he starts a venture newly
If laziness is away kicked
Losses can be wisely licked
If laziness is wrongly picked
By fate, lazy man is tricked.
M V VENKATARAMAN
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
Distant island shapes beguiling
Floating ghosts of far off land
Appear sentinel as we lay
Hot and sunbathed on the sand.
Scorching beach has tricked our minds
Ever beckoning cool seas flow
Finely placed as time stands still
Myths of people long ago
Heat above the deep caldera
Yet at water’s edge a breeze
Every wave a stroke of calmness
Drags the black sand out with ease
Pushing, combing lava rock
Once a liquid burning hot
Hearts massaged by the tender noise
Deep sighs as the day burns on
Windy gusts caress unclad torsos
Smiling we hold hands out to catch
Throwing our heads back with the pleasure
Letting our warm brown frames collapse
Lazy resting towels on bodies
Sunbed dreaming, time for lunch
Decisions on the midday menu
A carafe of red or white, too much!
Later when the sun’s behind us
Deserted beaches for the night
Couples then prepare for evening
Soon tavernas come alight
Poolside dwelling welcomes back
Two weary souls from day outside
Scorching sun takes all about us
Thanks for love where we abide
Since we came and soaked our souls
In this perfect atmosphere
Love has blossomed even further
All is wonderful never fear
Patio evenings lying out
Herb aroma fills the nose
Drifting in and out of sleepy
Eyes feel heavy in repose
Cool wet noses brush our legs
Warm fur strokes a silken pass
Feline friends have come to visit
Glad that we are home at last
Nervous ******* lying still
Mewing loudly all surpassed
Two so gentle but true survivors
Bright eyes hiding traumas past
How lovely to have given respite
As more and more attached we grew
Warm and tender stroking softly
Alongside us as if they knew
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds
See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
And ermines white:
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
Bay leaves betweene,
And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete Violet.
Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face
Like Phoebe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:
Her modest eye,
Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like but there?
I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my Goddesse shines;
And after her the other Muses trace
With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
To the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.
She shal be a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
With Gelliflowres;
Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine
Worne of Paramoures:
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies:
The pretie Pawnce,
And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art
In royall aray;
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
Eche one her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:
And if you come hether
When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.
4.4k
for a writer to be lovesick
is my only required ethic
in creating a work of heart
so when i skimmed your
saint kissed mouth
and moonlight eyes
indeed my first thoughts were— ah! art!
there it was
cupid’s finely-poised dart!
draw, aim, fire!
o, so sweet, a sinful desire
lovesick! lovesick! lovesick!
i wish to write you a work of art, angelus dulce!
you smiled
you whispered with ferocity
“love is an illusion, chèri.
but illusion is the first of all pleasures”
and at that moment
i dipped my body in your delusional paradise
and praised the saints for giving me the ****** wine to drink
illusion is the first of all pleasures.
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 7:51 PM UTC