"glamor" poems
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past
7.2k
You
I waited
for a long time.
Speak,
My hope will
End.
An SMS
changes clime,
Weak.
When you will
Send?
Nothing
I asked for.
Offer
Some bliss
To me.
I desired
Not a life nor
Glamor.
You, just miss
Me.
Once,
You, become
Plaintive
And express
Heart.
Tell
Felt some
Sensitive
And confess
Part.
Let
My heart leap,
Knowing
Your aptitude,
Stance.
Let
The heart keep
Singing,
And in solitude
Dance.
S. Bharat
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 3:57 AM UTC
Somewhere along the line
it feels like I lost my poetry.
But I've always had a deep affinity of childhood curious-gaze with the light of a passing car slicing through a slumped drapery in the dead of a powerless October night
like a fumbling mouse with night-vision, glassy eyed, walk, walk, walk
run, run, run
scurry-rubber like an imperial humvee of red-carpet glamor.
Somewhere along the line
the freeze of a less-than-bourgeoise temperature never felt close to Antarctic
until the ring of a cell-phone became my national anthem
and the complacent all-eternity-and-everything-we-are-and-more reflective one-eye of a laptop became my national flag
I waived it with surrender calling to all nation states that 'I don't give a sweet ****
entertain me.'
watching politics like sports and sports like politics I couldn't help but hear the old Native inside of me scream in suffocated final breaths so I turned up the volume to drown him out
and when I wished to return to his comforting embrace, I found he had drown to death
so all I could do was stand over his wading body in the river of my mind and lax my shoulders in defeat.
I rang the midnight church bell of 'send new message' to tell the world that didn't care
the shaman is dead.
all they said was
'finally, the shaman is dead.'
I nodded, laughed, locked the bathroom door
and cried until the river ran dry
the shamans body so far down creek I could pretend to forget he had ever existed
the ache inside became a masked anonymity with the glare of Dorian Gray
I shrugged and said, 'I could never make time anyways'
and fell right back into my sleepy routine with another cup of coffee.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
The darkened street was muffled with the snow,
The falling flakes had made your shoulders white,
And when we found a shelter from the night
Its glamor fell upon us like a blow.
The clash of dishes and the viol and bow
Mingled beneath the fever of the light.
The heat was full of savors, and the bright
Laughter of women lured the wine to flow.
A little child ate nothing while she sat
Watching a woman at a table there
Learn to kiss beneath a drooping hat.
The hour went by, we rose and turned to go,
The somber street received us from the glare,
And once more on your shoulders fell the snow.
3.3k
My Dearest Black Dahlia
Stumbling in these neon streets
Waiting to be torn in two
Be my carrion pin up model
Adorned in imprinted diamonds
With porcelain skin icy stale
Murderous glamor
Gleaming and serene
Posing like a minx
Half here and half there
A hauntingly mesmerizing woman
Should I be fearful
Or should I be in love
I suppose this is maddening
But I am smiling all the while
Bright and all Irish
Welcome to Hollywood
My Dearest Black Dahlia
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
***nothing can surpass
the beauty and the glamor
of* pure confidence**
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
watery eyes squinting against
the pink glamor of the setting sun,
casting marvelous streaks
of cherry cream soda foam
radiating from the heartfelt
warmth
dusk settling, a quiet raven
swinging in the swaying trees
and a fence line lining
the edge of evergreen forests
a white picket fence
cluttered with the ghosts
of memories
a pair of binoculars
held by a silent girl
olive and freckled
of the shower of tear drops
which cascaded from those nights
of aching compassion
facing the other side
solitude presence of one
walked of a thousand steps
back splayed by the salty foams
spat by the restlessness of the sea
an umbrella clasped in his grip
the rain drizzled, throwing
the pink sunsets into arrays
of sweet, sweet melodies
the girl of binocular
and boy of umbrella
a picket fence in between
a relief from destiny,
a rain check into reality
figures of speech echoing
slurring syllables
recounting marbles
that used to roll off
from their laughters
on lovely nights
a girl of binoculars
and boy of umbrellas
dreamt of once a meeting
of one such like this
the raven cries
fear not, deal not
what has there
to be done
when the pink
ceases to refill
your sweet dreams
and the girl smiled
the boy climbed over
the white picket fence
and held her hand,
holding the umbrella
to keep their warmth
sheltered deep within
the girl picked her binoculars
held it close to her pretty cheeks
above her lips,
navigating sights
knowing their memories
will far exceed than that
of the white picket fence
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
The dream came into my life like a hot summer day-
the sand I had my feet in held me in place
beach volleyball and hot **** skin
makes me feel like I ought to go for a swim
The dream came into my heart like a red hot silver dart-
the pistol cocked it's hammer
after the shot I started to stammer
so much for beauty and all that glamor
The dream came into my mind like a buried treasure-
golden birds gathered like birds of the feather
the giant blue hand held fast to the tether
sounds came crashing in and for this I never felt better
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
It was always a dream of mine
to capture the tincture that embodies
your sound; the voice that
wakes me from myself.
Words empower, words enslave; your
words gave succinctness to the
days. Periphrastic for show and
glamor, otherwise, it was always one to another.
"I" is for me, as you see fit.
"Love" is for us, as we dream it.
"You" is a sound that reverberates
off caged testimonies.
Sweet to me for sure; good to
you you claim. Please
pour forth that music. Love,
the chords of my harp-heart.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Acquiesce here my love
Ameliorate my heart
The assemblage of circumstance provides dulcet ebullience
An efflorescent dalliance conflated into cathartic becoming
My bucolic bungalow made upon your callipygous
A young Life’s denouement
Your evocative elixir fetching
An erstwhile emollient embrocation
Your eloquent fingers find their way to frisson
My felicitous chatoyant gambols in glamor like a halcyon incipient made ineffable by the look of the ingénue
The labyrinthine inglenook lagoon leisurely lithe
The murmurous daffodils wink at the insouciance of your beauty
A panoply panacea, the half shadow complete as an epiphany
Quintessential to feminine riparian resplendence
Your mellifluous voice, an opulent offing, the sumptuous summery soliloquy of an angel
Cools my soul like the smell of earth after rain
Your propinquity ripples the scintilla of my spirit
Your surreptitious smile like a zephyr quietly whispers
Its redolent seraglio sempiternal in my thoughts
As skyward gazes like saccharine gossamer lilt with the knowledge of our raveling juxtaposition
a masterful pastiche, the cynosure of divine revelation
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
I shake like a drooling fool,
exhale a snore
am spent as my drizzle creeps towards her ******
The loose flesh of me weighed down upon her,
but she wasn't there
She was running through fields of fresh emerald spears,
chases the wild horses of Patagonia
never catches them as she is overrun
carried away by the stallions from behind,
blooms a water lily opens and closes over and over,
Cereus opens with the touch of the Moon over and over,
feel the dust hear the waves of trampling hooves
as her face, a tense string,
shatters into an open mouthed smile and shout of,
"I am life, and you are the most blessed of creatures, here.
I am the glamor of everything.
I am Mother Earth in this moment,
screaming, fitting, wailing, quaking, coming.
Your diminishment has made this possible.
Bathe in the spinning cradle of life,
and stay still before you retreat from it."
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
Baby-dolled eyes,
and glamor velvet
encircles
with a cruel femininity;
the darkest pin-up
of your
diamond-dazzled
dreams always takes
it up a notch!
It’s all burlesque
and whispers
when you come into her
world of mirrored
desire that
plays just behind
her lips;
that dances just behind
her rhinestone mask.
The vampiress of
merlot, cigarettes,
and lace
always remembers
her prey;
a black-widow’s
striptease, cold
and calculated.
Again, she delights
in the fact
that she has broken
another man
she invited
in to her ruthless
masquerade.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
miles away.
well I was plagued
and pale and panicky,
ripped up torn pages of a
glamor **** magazine,
coco lips pressed to
the cool floor
beneath the hoard
- lovely.
lowly lows loathing
show boats & warships.
flicked a spittle
writer ribbon atop
white middle fingertips
& said,
'praise the passive lord, pretty.'
'yes of course, of course.'
'you are forever, ever golden.'
(oh & then some.)
such a fearless feeling
breathing like new
free fare blaring lights thru
iron clad glass and
such as life, the knifey night
comes to pass, short & sweet;
shock treatment, therapy.
shot right thru me.
weak need.
stripped bare and bored
I stare and mourn
& I laugh.
bliss
wrapped in magic,
you poor perfect *******
I would just
hate
to be you right now.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
She's all lies with lies with her pretty little smile,
her petite waist and waspish figure.
She's got the whole world fooled, including you.
You think she's perfect, a flawless, fallen angel.
When really she's the Devil in disguise,
with her all seeing, jaded eyes.
Behind the glitz and glamor,
is a girl burning with rage .
The black widow has come to play
She tells you all the things you want to hear.
She uses and leaves you, without any tears.
She'll break your heart just so she can smile.
Loving is something she can't do.
You think you are the exception,
boy you are the fool.
The black widow has come to play
You've become caught in the web of her deceit
The black widow always needs something to eat.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
The poet sang of a battle-field
Where doughty deeds were done,
Where stout blows rang on helm and shield
And a kingdom's fate was spun
With the scarlet thread of victory,
And honor from death's grim revelry
Like a flame-red flower was won!
So bravely he sang that all who heard
With the sting of the fight and the triumph were stirred,
And they cried, "Let us blazon his name on high,
He has sung a song that will never die!"
Again, full throated, he sang of fame
And ambition's honeyed lure,
Of the chaplet that garlands a mighty name,
Till his listeners fired with the god-like flame
To do, to dare, to endure!
The thirsty lips of the world were fain
The cup of glamor he vaunted to drain,
And the people murmured as he went by,
"He has sung a song that will never die !"
And once more he sang, all low and apart,
A song of the love that was born in his heart:
Thinking to voice in unfettered strain
Its sweet delight and its sweeter pain;
Nothing he cared what the throngs might say
Who passed him unheeding from day to day,
For he only longed with his melodies
The soul of the one beloved to please.
The song of war that he sang is as naught,
For the field and its heroes are long forgot,
And the song he sang of fame and power
Was never remembered beyond its hour!
Only to-day his name is known
By the song he sang apart and alone,
And the great world pauses with joy to hear
The notes that were strung for a lover's ear.
1.9k
*pretty women around the world
when they see me, they smirk
and some shake their head
and say, **"who is that girl,
who is that beautiful girl?"**
some even roll their eyes
and say my ego is huge
and i need to be brought
down to size
i laugh at them and say
"I don't wear any rouge"
whenever i sashay into a room
I flip my hair, give a big smile
and strike a pose
And all the sweet honeybees,
every last one
fall down on their knees
and offer me a red rose
some even beg and plead
"marry me please"
and some give a loud whistle
just to capture my attention
and all of them in unison
exclaim with an excited smile
"wow! you rock!"
yes, glamor girl, that's me
for every last honeybee
many kisses I blow
and I give them a special wink
and whisper, "yes, I know"
xoxo*
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
A price that’s in the men shoes
He’s unclaimed and well schooled
Act his rhymes n’ mimic his friend too
Make him understand our sweeter shoo
Blend to been online with his touchy tools
Then play him around n' bring him to us too
Wherein he'll crave more for our added duties
A pleasure to bend n' subdue his struggling pities
And so you try to get me for all the monies n' fame
Hoping that my heart do cringe to the gains and aims
For in most man’s heart lies some greed n' impurities
But that testimony was short-sighted n’ less accurate
Dunamis and poverty - a borrower, the lender's slave
An experience to fail my rapture; a shameful swing
Which my hands cannot say – an immoral beauty
Whom my lips can not welcome; the school
The teacher - the minister
A princess n’ a bling
A frog as a king
He’s handsome
By gender
She's beautiful
in slander
A prince
An offender
A princess
The slanderer
The princess and a king
A soldier n’ a fling - a queen who’s ashamed
The offer that topped the shelf of supreme
That's us, both upside down and unclaimed
A soldier n’ a queen - a coward, a shame
The prince and a fling
A miss
A glamor
A mister
An amour
Unashamed
With clamor
Unmoved
By hammers
A miss in a glamour
A mister in an amour
The minister and a king
The majestic of single shoes
Who's keen to sense a moral beauty
Who sees the world as an interesting chaff
Dominate n' commoners; a sense of duty that
All must claimed from their individual combat
For in most men heart, here lies love n’ cruelty
To flamed the hearts n’ dance to pains n’ strife
So I sought to seize the life of love and Faith
To pursuit a walk of dreams n’ less blemish
Where little is important than odd duties
Like turn me around and teach me you
Teach me to see another man’s shoot
Make me enjoy that creepiness too
Shade my mind and my drink too
Cause I’m unclaimed n’ uncool
A vice that's in a male shoes
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
Kozarev, you are like a summer's day:
Bright and brilliant; exotic and vibrant.
Smart and gallant; generous and elegant.
Our story is flickering like these smooth bushes
of May; ah, but why I saw thee not today,
I knew not why.
How could I dream of thee not?
Ah, my dreams are bad.
Nature hath probably cursed whom;
whenever they enter into my mind at night.
I hate their promises, and their tongues-
they are forever and ever slandering
my faith-by chanting about thy presence,
their mouths are fraught with lies;
leaning to me like those filthy, ungodly,
savagery; if I was to catch thee not-
why should have they insisted so?
I am jealous of those hidden faces, unknown
Behind thy walls, impatient to grasp thee
with a bite of lustful words, swearing at
thy benevolence, for I canst be more so,
and more generous than thou hath thought.
My blood boileth with sickly temperaments-
whenever I am bound to one thinking
Of thy prudence, and tactfulness
Towards the glamor of insipid dames.
My soul becomes problematic, and forested
in severed distraction and dismay
by averted lips of choking and gasping all day!
Ah, yes, suffrage shall be beneath my eyes,
until no more breath is perhaps to remain,
and only wreaths of crossness
Frantically treading about the paths
of my gouty lungs; wreaking away bit by bit
their brevity, washing off every virulent trace
of devotional identity, and gravity.
This is harassing me-the knowledge of
being unable to see thee once more,
this evening, perhaps-
and I am twisting and glaring at
these painful thoughts like a dream.
And you, you are-as the butterflies start to file
Out of their realms and into our world
You are just like their epic poems;
fruitful and delicious indeed-
but humble as those thorns,
smiling at the sun though wounded;
and laughing by the smallest of whose delight.
Kozarev, you are my man; and as you dance along
the gravel paths by handsome moonlight,
you are even more glittering than which;
and with thy stateliness
You will but own my heart once more,
lifting it up from every dim deprecation
and fruitless laudation it hath hitherto ventured into.
And I love thee and might just love thee more every day;
more than every promise my poems can say,
I adore thee and cannot live without thee
Swift and marvelous is my love,
blessed and ingenious as it shall ever be.
I love thee, Kozarev.
Obicham te.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
i never bought the whole dark academia thing.
sure, ****** and drugs and *** are torrid and dark when you're from a rich family,
when you've never woken up to the news of your childhood best friend being shot to death,
when you haven't seen your family and friends fall into the seductive cesspool of opioid addiction,
when half of your class was pregnant by the time senior year rolled around.
the academic upper class thinks what working class kids go through is sexier when the backdrop of the overdose is chandeliers and silk,
instead of a small town parking lot at 3am.
my aesthetic reality of academia is scholarships, it's leather jackets and nicotine addictions
it's having the only fifteen-year-old car in the campus parking lot and hoping to find a plug before the first week of classes.
it's not sleeping between work and class and partying. it's being the only one whose dad isn't buddies with the guy giving me an internship.
it's lonely. it's the crippling loneliness of not understanding upper class social cues,
it's reading crime and punishment in the slivers of time between work and work and class and more work
and emphasizing with raskalnikov so much it makes your teeth ache.
it's coughing up blood.
it's having health insurance for the first time in college and still not using it.
it's drowning, it's fighting, it's violent and heroic and painful and
never knowing
if you'll actually
make it.
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 8:33 PM UTC
You're trying to build
on something that's breaking down.
There's cracks in the foundations
of what was once a magnificent palace.
Our love once the glue holding us together.
Now it's dried up, musty and *****
leaving our feelings blowing in the wind.
What was once a beautiful feeling
now lay dead and cold on the ground.
Our bliss evaporated,
replaced by jealousy and hate.
Where did we go wrong?
When did it become normal to feel so
alone?
The tears and the screaming,
your eyes dull and lackluster.
You cracked through my walls
left a storm in my home,
then left, fixing the wall you broke.
But even things mended will never
return to the same glamor they once held.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:17 AM UTC
Oh sister,
growing fiercely from between the cracks of those
big city sidewalks
I know you love the new-found
sparkle on your pointed shoulder,
your shoulder now chiseled by a place
rough and dripping glamor,
you have been gobbled up by
a culture booming and
ravenous for new blood
you have been swept away and intoxicated
by the strangeness and the newness and the heartlessness
of that place.
but don't forget us girl,
we
your family of
patient prairie dwellers
don't forget this humble, ***** city,
this heartsoil
these winters are what
made you so strong
big city baby
don't forget our cold season
the way the winter hems us in
and
forces us to
make art and get real
the way that
our faces grow white,
eyes grow dark and humble,
hands curl and stiffen
clenching at nothing for months
the way these hearts and souls,
nestled in ghost orchid flesh,
nestled in snow,
grow fat and red blooming carelessly
like the open mouths
of winter flowers
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 6:22 PM UTC
**fem·i·nist [fem-uh-nist]
adjective
1. advocating social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men.**
I used to be afraid I'd be stuck in a training bra forever.
For awhile I didn't wear one.
My grandmother would yell at me.
I told her I was a feminist.
I didn't know what it meant.
A part of me wishes I could go back
to that time of AA's instead of DD's.
One less thing to define me.
Maybe then I could be free of the restraints.
Eyeliner seemed ridiculous.
Poking yourself in the eye with an 8 dollar glamor crayon.
Crayola sells them for 15 cents.
Always was cheap - Not the makeup - Not the crayon.
I don't leave the house without it.
I used to be afraid of tampons.
They grossed me out.
They confused me.
I didn't understand how you could stick something "up there"
and walk straight.
I'd be surprised how much it can handle.
Strength. Numbers. Endurance.
But, I still can't walk straight.
I used to be afraid of the boogeyman.
The darkness in the closet.
The monster under my bed.
I was a smart kid.
I knew they were there all along
under the comforter
beneath the sheets
next to my fragile body
stealing my sliced heart
and ******* the rest.
The monsters wear a disguise.
Rubber.
If you're lucky.
Without the water balloon and crossed fingers your stomach fills nine months times its size.
So they say.
I still like to believe it's an old wive's tale.
And I refuse to be an old wife.
I never considered thongs underwear.
I considered them floss.
Why wear one when you could just go bare *** and achieve the same result?
Now I floss regularly.
Hygiene is important.
Clean my mouth.
Well, might as well brush my teeth while I'm at it.
I used to be afraid I'd grow up and couldn't eat Popsicles anymore.
As if chasing after the icecream truck was something prescribed to a little girl in spaghetti straps
******* only her thumb.
Innocence lost.
I don't like Popsicles anymore.
Unless they're cherry flavor.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
We live In an era,
Where our peers are our oppressors
And your judged as a person
By the contents of your dresser
We need to make a change now
Let's see if we can make it better
Walking through a school hall getting spat on
Cause you don't have the right jeans or ******* shirt on
These superficial glamor nazis don't know me
Looking down from there towers living on golden streets
Kids cry at night when they lay between the sheets
All they can think is "why? You don't even know me
All these kids obsessed with jays and they thread count
Looking at the outside and not what I'm about
It's sickening, they got a fashion addiction.
Living off of daddies money and mommies perscriptions
Yet they don't look in the mirror and see the cynical villain
That they turned out to be
Can't see the hypocrisy
And I'm honestly fed up
I grew up on cheap clothes but the best love
Maybe it's love those kids need a little more of
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Don’t have the riches of kings or even high priced CEOs
Nor the prestige that comes along with such titles
Just blessed with the wealth of wisdom so vital
Don’t have the physique of Hercules or a chiseled athlete
Nor the pack of six that embodies the adored waist
Just blessed with the muscle of fiber so ace
Don’t have the sleekness of Benz or even a speedy Porsche
Nor the glamor featured in the technology apparent
Just blessed with the motor of drive so inherent
Don’t have the smoothness of tongue or even a gabby gift
Nor the trance of words to influence the willful soul
Just blessed with the arrow of intent so bold
Don’t have the weapons of stars or even enhanced surgeries
Nor the practice that transforms them into *** beings
Just blessed with the device of a mind so keen
Don’t have the face of models or even fabled knights
Nor the ability to rescue the day with super might
Just blessed with the courage to do what’s right.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
I spend most of my days
on the top level of a double decker bus
Going from one direction in the morning
to another in the afternoon.
The glamor lacks
but the freedom is incredible.
Where will I go?
What will I do?
Will I ever come back to you?
Waking and working
cooking and cleaning
marrying and conceiving
What a dull sad life
most are destined to live
While I enjoy my time
living the lie
of someone who travels
on a double decker bus
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC