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With shiny curls flowing over the two ears,
In a stunning color her lovely image appears,
Her splendor ensnares with every tender rays,
She shines with glamour in incredible ways
Just like a frame, most valued and blessed fine,
Her unerring grandeur shall forever remain divine.
A ravishing shade the cheeks flawlessly displays,
Many splendors by her smiles elegantly arrays.
While a mellowed shade her brow gracefully shows,
The glossy color from the lips fashionably flows
With every beam a glory to the realm spreads
That changes its colors whenever she treads.
Her loveliness is not at all lies in the ****** mole,
but the factual beauty is  reflected  in her soul.
*


By Williamsji Maveli
Email:williamsji@yahoo.com
From the Anthology of lyrics, both in English & Malayalam ( bilingual, translated by the author) and titled as
"Forever, lovingly yours.......", (Pranayapoorm, Ennennum Nintee...) written
by Williams George Maveli. ( Williamsji Maveli )
Email: williamsji@yahoo.com
Web site:www.moonmakers.com
Luce Jan 2014
do you know
i fall asleep
with my hands
touching
together

but I notice the difference
as yours Are tougher
bigger
rougher
but i've never had the pleasure

of falling asleep with
your hands
though ive slept
cocooned
in your scent

do you know
i've never been very good
at confessions

i confess
i could draw
freehand
the shape of your lips
from Memory

(i could show you
      where they curve
       and bend
       and they look like
       the perfect destinatIon
       for my life to end
  killing myself,
        to die upon a kiss
       
        to die upon 
        your kiss
        i'm killing myself
       by even thinking this)

i confess
i could shade
the exact ways
your hair falls
dowN
by your face

(i could explain
    the smelL of your hair
    after a long day at work
    it feels thicker
    as it resists against
my hands
      
     you dO that too
     do you know)

i confess
i could describe
the wonders
in
your eyes
of
your eyes
so accurately
they would be seen
by the blind

(i'd rather not tell you
       how i feel
       when you catch me
staring
       but i just
                       can't
         help myself
i neVer want to miss
       a single blink
a wink
       no time to think)

i confess
words,
the words,
keEp
running
sprinting
dancing
prancing
in my mind
but i cannot find
an acceptable order
to confess them in



love in you i am with



one two three four five six


and, oh father,
there is no need to confess
for We have not sinned

he would not look
upon me
if i was the last to exIst
he merely
glances over to me
now and then

and, oh father,
you know
how i desire
These
tormenting
words
to go

he could barely tell you
the colour of my Hair
i could tell you
the colour of his
when he was five

milky way kid

do You know
me
am i
just a girl
who falls asleep
alone
in the backseat
Of the car

that old red polo
is not so appealing
anymore

and, love,
i confess
or
these words will die
on the lips
yoU leave
unkissed

i am in...

*i cant
four five two one six three
Kiernan Norman Nov 2012
swim until you can’t see land

until names etched deep in cardiac tissue blur

and fade, scored over with seasalt and creases of a million maps,

a secret stash of maps. absurd and hoarded and crumpled under carseats and

rolled neat

and boastful in umbrella holders or worse, framed and hung

Maps jotted freehand on napkins stained with tea and mustard and left

to be bused with the crusts and pocketful of change.

swim until you can’t read the maps.

the lines to here from there are arteries

on your fresh, clean heart.
Bows N' Arrows Nov 2015
This silly shrill putting
Clothes on hangers in my
Head
Judging me, myself by
Conceptions I should have long
Since shot dead
Either way the formalities
Leave you wasting time on
Trivialities
And my needs I cannot touch
I cannot grasp what sustains me much
It's like living up to someone's
Voice and the
Echoes linger still
That get mistranslated as the
Noise reverberates from the
Wall's of a well.
Such sounds I hear
And all this hot air
I'm just going to leave them there
To burn the floor down.
Freud has the I.d, the ego and the superego. Some food for thought.
Onoma Feb 2021
the art

of

a

point

not

remote

from its

circle.

can draw

a flawless

circle.

freehand.
Aaron LaLux Aug 2016
Escapist Pt. 1 ( The Plan)

When I feel trapped,
I escape out of the stress when,
I write these words,
I scribe my confessions,
whether fact or fiction,
I blend into these pages,
whether a real act or just a premonition,
enlightenment comes in phases of stages,
I snap the trap and still escape unscathed with no scathing,
I always find a way to get away I am an Escapist who's always escaping.

A combination of a Genie in a bikini and a suited up Houdini,
a widely believed Whodunit mystery conspiracy theory,
I take it all in with a grain of salt nothing’s too serious no not at all,
lifes’ a fckn joke for real no for real seriously,

that’s the truth,
no rules no ruler,
just two tools to use,
my mind and my computer,

here there are no rules,
as we escape into these pages,
no rules no cages,
no minimum wages when maximum faded….

Feeling the dreams crashing into me,
I’m jaded,
no jade though ‘cause I’m not Chinese,
but yes I made it,

to these pages where these lines be,
these lines these,
lines in here are outrageous,
no slave labor,
no life savers or light sabers,
just these thoughts on these pages,
and I guess that’s the feeling,
I find between these lines,
written in freehand,
in a free land from the free mind of a free man,
though no one is free man,
not even me man,
because no ground is free land,
it all comes at a cost,
no boss,
no contract I’m freelance,

an emotional journalist,
reporting live from the front lines,
still alive even in these dying trying times,
though I don’t really know why,
might take my life after the lime,
light I gave you my all for right and wrong right?

Still alive,
no suicide,
though Lord knows I’ve tried and tried,

because if at first you don’t succeed,
try again pop the pills then wait and see,
still after all this time I’m still alive and kicking,
which means God must have a plan for me…

But that plan is top secret,
so secret I don’t even know it,
and we fear what we don’t know so I fear it,
but like most of us when scared we don’t really show it,

no fear with my dearest,
our Soul is one with the Spirit I’m serious and delirious,

no Eddie Murphy no tricks up my sleeve,
go ahead and search me you’ll find that all that’s on me,
is all that you need which is love and no mercy,
so don’t believe everything you read between the lines or see,

see?

I found that I’m lost,
after I lost what I found,
so I guess this is the end,
or maybe it’s the other way around,
key the deja vu key the deja vu,
I’ll see you at the sacred burial grounds,
it’ll be a party a carnival,
as the Merry-Go-Round makes merry go rounds,

and Mary and Jehova hunt the Red October in the Puget Sound.

No sounds,

it’s like a silent movie,
no Charlie Chaplin just a sorry Chaplain,
man fck all these pathetic *******,
they all seem outdated strung out and stagnate,
sedated ***** all soft and mushy,
most guys tell lies then turn those lies into movies,
and I watch them all in silence still preaching stop the violence,
and they’re still screamin’ sue me!

See I see that everything’s not so black and white,
so I don't take a stand I stay silent sit down and write,
when I feel trapped I escape out the stress when I write these words,
scribing my confessions whether fact or fiction praying these prayers will be heard.

– ∆  Aaron LA Lux ∆ –

author of The Poetry Trilogy
author of The H Trilogy
I've got a plan...
Mark Lecuona Nov 2016
I have never been able to straight line a draw
Nor my name,
a letter missing always when I sign
Nothing so grand that would a painting make a camera sad
Beyond these perfections,
I fell short yet to speak was still mine
I have nothing to stare at for so long except the rain
So different, yet the same
Today I watched it’s fabric,
like wind across fields of wheat
or corduroy pants
But I do not have any to wear;
still,
I am dry as the balcony only feels the water like light
The rain does not care what I think
Nor of my sight
And though I am moved forward in my chair
Nature is not one to meet
Not anyone or anything
No language
Or memory
That is for me only
Like something I said to you long ago
Something that was true
I wonder if you remember
Or if only it was like the rain upon you
Not a place to live
A smile
Or a frown
A face to the sky
Or to run because your dress was new
But you know
As do I
The park will be there for you in the spring
There is nothing vain about rain upon your heart
Like the words I once spoke
Uneven as they were
Without every letter I wished upon you
A crooked line
An unrecognized signature
My life
Not perfect
Instead, discovering what an accident blessed;
still,
I will remember what love broke
Will you remember what love spoke?
LONDIN Oct 2013
Today Leonardo drew a perfect circle freehand,
it was pretty rad.
kellie scranton Aug 2017
You wound me up like a spiral staircase
Predictable like my weekdays
Fluent in enticing my reactions
I forgave you of toxic infractions
You could draw my body freehand
I sunk into you like quicksand
lila Apr 2021
I wish people could understand
That sometimes things don't go as planned
And that I'll always try to hide
The things I feel deep down inside

I wish people could understand
That's sometimes being true is hard
That sticking to the rules is bland
So let this all become freehand

I wish they know
That it's possible to
Like boys and girls
And still be you

To be bi in a world
Where straight is the norm
To be wild and untamed
When people conform

That it's possible to
Be 'smart' and suicidal
That comfort doesn't make one
Want to keep their vitals

That just because I smile
Doesn't mean it's all fine
That I can hate my life
And still act in line

So please understand
Don't judge, don't sigh
I want you to know
That I really try
To be normal and stuff
To not scream and cry
To act like I'm still
A really good child

But before you judge
Keep this in mind
I'll keep killing myself
Until everyone thinks I'm fine
Helen Feb 2014
I used to have a book, books,
that I scribbled in furiously
at work, at traffic lights
in the morning and at night
after I went to bed, I'd get up again
and bled upon a page
I'd be halfway through a shower
and I'd rush through top and toe
just to drip upon the page
so the feelings would not go away

now

I write mine freehand, in the dark
after my world has gone to sleep
I take another drink
and become part of all of me
I used to think carefully
about each syllable,
each carefully constructed line
but there is no time, no time left
for me to care what falls from my brain

I read everyday, every word said
I collect emotions of others wounds
and store them as prizes in my head
I love everyone you do, or, did
and I hate them for how they treated you
or, I did, until you forgave them
or, killed them in memory or,
flogged yourself stupid for their mistakes
I get it, you write what I've lived

I draw on memories that aren't mine
Emotions I've never allowed to cut deep
Promises that were left unspoken
and crossroads where we would never meet

Hence the darkness needed to write
because I'm afraid of the shadows
that seem to hide in the light
In the dark I can pretend to be alone
Just my drink, and my dog
which occasionally likes to sit on me
and I can pretend I mean something
to just anyone, kissing emotional lips
with a passion of memories
I don't seem to own
Sean Murray Mar 2019
Only the passive, those who despise passion
To which pain needs a pillow, not an old school-yard bashing
Just feed them—with self-serving, comfort food prose
(mouths filled up, with luck, they choke or explode)
If life begs no questions, no longing—not any
You’re happy with safety? Stop reading already!

Holy hell, the stuff you chumps bring to the table
A thought
thought out loud
from someone else
you thought
you’d talk
about--

Please.

Keep your thoughts in your skull,
I hate you and your stupid quotes!
Full to the top, with no pressure to release
I can see you are struggling to even know what you need

Take You... the late—night, snuggled tight, clown of the culture
Ya’ got a whole lot of no freehand thoughts in your holster

They want to keep flaccid, your words and your soul
Every whoa that need tending to, an ace in their hole
Sht-preaching slaves, preaching sht to their slaves
They want nothing more than for you to obey

If that kind of life—if that comfort, it suits
you should stop reading this now
My sarcasm might bruise you


But if you want some dissenting words let’s let ‘em out!

Hell to the white man! Your power, your privilege is corrupt
Hell to the black lady! Loud & rude, we’ve had enough
Hell to Jew! Shrewd, cruel as you are
Hell to the hijab! Your religion is evil for sure
Hell to the rich lady! You spit on the poor
Hell to the homeless man! You’re rotten to the core
Hell to the conservative! Stupid and racist
Hell to the democrat! Naive, never complacent
Hell to the meanies!
Hell to the weak!
...hell with it…

HELL TO ALL WHO DON’T THINK LIKE I THINK!



Now if I’ve hurt your feelings, if you’re just that shook up
Don’t tattle—tell me personally
We can talk about it
Seriously, if you are offended, don't hesitate to message me.
I'm actually quite reasonable.
But first note that none of this is to be taken literally. I hold no hate for any group of people. I believe everyone has the right to speak their mind.
Liv Jun 2015
My heart
Cracked at the corners
Freehand stitches attempting to hold it together
Whispering your name through the beats
Your heart*
Rich shades of crimson
Never broken and never needing to be fixed
Each strong pounding keeps you alive
Our hearts
Complete opposites
Weak leaning against strength
Dark looking to light
Our veins are ******* in each other like two ships
Leading back to us
*Two hearts in one
Melanie Melon Mar 2014
@@@
I would read an essay on How to Draw A Straight Line if someone wrote it, I would like to know how to freehand perfection, how draw a flawless connection.

2. I would buy a lifetime supply if there was a perfume that smelled like CDs after I eject them from the player in my car, like fundip sticks, faintly sweet, completely bizarre.

3. I’ll scour every article on the science of smiles if it meant yours might leave me less lost, so I could interpret the exact angle of your lips and not feel like I have become one of your sunken ships.
Delta Swingline Apr 2017
~April 12th, 2017~

Some time between 8:00pm and 9:00pm in the street of Paris...

Imagine walking down the street with the best strawberry yogurt ice cream in the world. Seeing the street of starving artists in all different forms, like that one scene from a movie you saw years ago.

Seeing freehand artists drawing the faces of complete strangers, and the suddenly hearing music.

Hearing a complete strangers singing over classical guitar and not knowing if they were singing in english of french.

But I don't really care. Music has been and always will be a universal language.

So what more can you do about a starving artist?

Well there's  only so much you can do for a guy playing classical guitar in the middle of Paris.

So about 3 songs and €10 later, this artist's voice rings through the empty street. And somehow I become the starving artist, playing this guitar that doesn't belong to me.

And yet I play out like nobody is listening in.

Applause comes... and it goes...

I played one song to look up, and one song from here. All the while feeling the air pass through this street. The only thing left to do was pick up a name and a sappy french poem.

I shake his hand and come away from the street with a major music high. (Pun intended)

And I wasn't the only one on Cloud 9, the feeling shared by yet another music nerd.

And as we roam the streets of Paris singing the same lyrics from "La La Land", we feel complete for now.

And in  that moment...

I lived.

And there's nothing more I can really say other than...

How did we get here?
The starving artist's name was Cyprès. And he was kind enough to let me play a song or two for the world.
mark john junor Nov 2014
she sat in the beautiful sunlight
with deeper wishes in her eyes but
her young heart dances to the sweeter song
so she asked me to hold her hand
till the darkness had passed
now shes hot on the trail of true creation
down to earth with all natural heartfelt ways
bends me round her legendary smile
and while writing a freehand verse of sunshines laughter
she paints a lifesize version of
tomorrow's beautiful sunrise into the eyes of her self portrait
she is knee deep in the mud of inspiration
the persistent sunshine of the soul lights her way
the enduring hope of a hand held guides her path
its beauty can be seen in her self portrait
TS Ray Jan 2020
A breakfast on a train,
packed one as you normally find during a rain,
I had company with me of the kind that entertain,
it was an orchestra that will play again and again.

As I was preparing for my next stop,
noticed a new menace that was taking its hop,
landed on businessman’s nose at a hat’s drop,
his face was on fire as he hurt his nose with a plop.

It had whale of a time and a freehand,
not knowing where this demon would go to land,
unsure what the storm outside had planned,
storm in my teacup became the next landing target for it to stand.

With ears like a giraffe,
It gave everyone a good morning laugh,
I had to empty my water carafe,
to catch this strange yodeler flea on everyone’s behalf.
TS. 2020. Humor entry. Hope you like it.
Carl Velasco Jul 2019
To be shaped by love, know first
How it destroys.

To know how it destroys,
Recognize love as a physical act.

To recognize love as a physical act,
Consider the body's limits and transgressions.

To consider the body's limits and transgressions,
Probe it for signs of anomaly. Of creatureness.

To probe, start by using your fingers to poke
Regions where illusions are cooked, like the groin.

To locate the groin, slither your hand from mouth
all the way down until you feel dirt.

Once there, dig. The mush will feel soft and wet and grisly
And delicious. Like exile. Feel around for a thin chord.

Once you get your hand on this chord, pull. Pull very hard.
Like you're born to unstitch. Or turn off a light. Or flush.

Your body will split open like a thick *** of paper bills
fresh off a rubber band hug. And your remains

Will flutter like a flag. Notice the bone marrow in bloodspeck
jangling in wind chime language to announce an arrival.

Your arrival, maybe. But what is left other than your body splayed
open? Notice your meatshop bargain delicacy. Limbs as vivid

As a freehand sketch artist's depiction of alive. It sounds so beautiful,
Love. Especially in Springtime.
cheryl love Dec 2014
I lift my head
My heavy head
Full of worry for my future
Will my petals still be there
Or will they have blown to the wind
Will I still be in bloom
That is the question
There is a chance they will be
Or floating in my room
somewhere.
Will the stems to my brain
be detached never to return
In the atmosphere for all to catch
Latching on to this and that
but not me.
We will see.
Will the seeds of my soul be roaming
in cyberspace
Here in this place
I would like them to be
We will see.
I am a flower
An attractive one at that
Colours in my mind
are painted freehand
I try to understand
The winter comes
then the frost
freezing the mind with dust
clogging chambers
Just like a vaccum cleaner
Shake to the wind
freeing my soul
of grime and dust
which paint my world
for I am a flower.
sundial iris Jun 2020
what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?


                                                ­  ~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then

the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now  lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him

we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of  the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins

the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting

this great differences
                                                  ~­~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”
Third Eye Candy Mar 2019
a butterfly was asking for pennies on a bookshelf
as dusty as a mummy.  i was absentmindedly
threading tea leaves
with sharp snowflakes and
milkweed silk.  freehand…
with a Needle made
of Eyes.
Our journey thru life is a tight rope.... Those that make it to the mountain on the other side mostly employ the aide of a long balance pole

Very few navigate the walk freehand free of constraints filled with elation
these are gifted old souls on the last leg of the path to illumination.

The trick for the rest if us is to lengthen our crutch equally, both ways.  Too much of anything is detrimental to the spirit, it causes delays.

So good luck on your journey, I wish you well....when will I see you, who knows only time will tell
Universe Poems Nov 2022
Days
Broadleaf woodlands,
but they didn't come from lairs
Neither dangerous or fierce
Still part of nature,
by a creator
Roused by wild boar
They consume,
nature's health and more
Broccoli door,
pitted apricots score
Cucumbers amour
Dark green lettuce,
farmland freehand
Zucchini, beets,
vines with grapes retreat
Snow peas spinach please
Yams, kale hale
Carrots, pears, apples, berries,
lots of merry's
Definitely pitted cherries
Oranges grapefruit,
and many more,
for the wild boar

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
Antony Glaser Apr 2022
My Mother was an Accountants wife,
who sometimes spoke Afrikanesse,
on the telephone
when the children were naughty.
Growing hydrangeas in the cellar,
took up CAB in Camden.
The domestic disputes she could tell

Later took up crosswords
after finding a Left Sun Crossword
then became a master.
There was nothing she couldn't do,
draw freehand domestic animals.
Had the prestige of planning healthy diets,
Aubergine  to appear as chopped herrings,
deft with an Afrikanner chop.

Kindness  follows closely behind
the day is done
Nighttimes dreams flourish

— The End —