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Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
On the very edge the living earth
dared to replicate Queen Fathima
The Queen of Heaven’s footstep.
That way is the destination de jour
graced by thousands of prophets of God!

In the name of Allah she descended
on the Night of the Ascension.
From the Night of Measures unlike the rest
none can enumerate it yet an unnumbered zone
in the perfect geometrised transcended location.  

The earth steps in the gap making way for her:
The only asymmetric golden ratio.
Slips out to the symmetric prophet flock!
Sequenced in symmetric phi she moves on
in the veil, reveals her unique divine relation,
the front burner for sure is ever closer to God!

So pretty she is the paragon work of art
the sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty in her shadow is burning fire.
She is 'Zahra' pure light the luminary dynamo
the only one woman had no shadow!

The great women flocked and mirrored the earth.
Treading across every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Until those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode, on approaching the behemoth,
the vibration beneath Fathima’s foot!

The ocean billows up
feels life on the high
floating on the clouds.
Choreographed like a little dew
hanging low on the rose.
Just to drop down on that hot spot
like a cool honey drop.

Even the Moon on the horizon
fancies to sip from this drop.
Ah, the lunar punter is rowing down.
The sleeping beauty wakes up
eyes are on the silver dance.
Eying on every star in the night
the Moon is floating down.
The seven seas sing out in the dark
bubbling with exuberant fireflies
that would gleefully rock the moonlight boat
over to the cup of this pretty little drop.  

Poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
the same is known as the Moon in the sky!
The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title song.  

Never was a woman prophet of God
to the one primitive woman, the leading lady
'Sayeedatun Nessa' Queen Fathima
heaven is no secret, it is an open mirror!
For her heaven is made an open book
the first batch of houris came to be
tuning into the sounds of her toes.
The earth in its primitive water first moved on
bang, Big Bang, soon she drops in it her hair lock.
She's the hidden gem in the secret end of God!

For the planetary ebb and flow on the way heaven
the planet earth is the only stepping stone.
No matter how many times more it tries on
there will still be an unturned stone.
Until the very one woman, the original
the Queen Fathima steps on.

Her presence connects the dots
the nadir and zenith perfectly line up
intersect into one grand perfect circle.
She will close it with the pi once for all
without a gap spilling new decimal.
Putting it all on the map ‘as above, so below’,
all in all, like it's in pure scientia scenario.

Heaven will open its grand door
where the queen will stand on.
No more reverse engineering physically
the original, Fathima will step on,
on the last turned stone.
From the one great woman
paradise starts from here on
from beneath the mother’s foot!
Terry O'Leary Dec 2016
My chamber teems with tensions, taut, that logic can’t withstand,
fragmenting mental masonry with memories unplanned,
as bitter tears from hazel eyes reduce the stone to sand.

Dim shadows cast by candles flit across the haunted room,
beleaguer apparitions, pale, that stalk me through the gloom,
usurping purloined purple forms forgotten ghosts assume.

The tick-tock clock of time rewinds within the mirrored hall
and pendula suspended, pause, while creatures creep and crawl
on images of effigies, through memories that maul.

The madness of the midnight mass! Perchance it interferes
with spiders spinning spiral threads which bridge the chandeliers
when weaving minds' discarded coils to silken souvenirs.

Reflections graced the vacant gaze of idols as they fled!
Their futile, feigned, far-flung farewells now hammer in my head,
marooned like frozen silhouettes in footprints of the dead.

My lovers smile through marbled masks before they turn their backs
(like furnace flames deserting ash or phantoms fleeing cracks)
with faded, painted, wrinkled faces nightmares carve in wax.

Sometimes a gust disturbs the dust and secrets reappear,
which dance in silver slippers through the dusk of yesteryear -
it's not the screams that drown my dreams, but whispers which I fear.

The hangman posts a letter home, his message indiscreet
about the vestal ****** in the café (where we meet
to savour tea and crumpets) down a one-way dead-end street.

The rapping and the tapping at my tattered, time-worn door
repeat reports of migrant myths, of tales of nevermore,
strung far across a sullen sea, most shipwrecked near the shore.

Forget-me-nots, enwrapped in rain the while a wan wind blows,
recall the faintly fickle fates this drifter undergoes –
alone, unknown with tracks interred in teardrop undertows.

My feet, no longer tied or tethered, traipse within a squall
pursuing profiles long forsaken, buried in the sprawl
of spectres spread amongst the dead, some tattooed to the wall.

At times, the belfry towers toll of anarchy and gin,
of smoke and mirrors, rolling dice and other things akin,
impaled on forks down byway roads, and things that might-have-been.

The skies outside, beyond the night with shutters shut and drawn,
begin to glow on shattered shapes escaping ’fore the dawn
as clouds undone beneath the sun release this captive pawn.
I wish you lower your Glasses a bit
Then try to witness what you have Ignored
For Praises Sundry are much apt to meet
Though such Configuration keeps you bored
That you, a Technocrat I'm not surprised
Such Mages and Bards you kindly eschew
For whatever Purpose which you advise
I'll take as the Brother I always knew
And I'll LOVE you still; No Set Values bake
Since your Blessed Genesis I do voice
This is not a Tomb; Nor white-painted make
But another Graced Name I will rejoice.
Now it's up to you, which you interpret
On Pop's Face-Memos the Meaning you get.
Amanda Noel Jul 4
How do you do it?
You leave me inspired.
Frozen in my tracks,
Your presence admired.

Lovely little hummingbird,
So fragile and small,
project feelings of comfort,
that stretch, oh so tall.

Confidence overwhelms me,
When graced with your time.
You whisper knowledge,
Everything will be just fine.
My lovelies
ryn Dec 2014
It is believed that we came from you
I am no exception; I've been made the same
I'd like to come home now
I'd like to leave behind just my name

This/there is no place for me
Yet there is only one
A place within you
A venue graced with no sun

Time has come for us to merge
So Mother Earth
Won't you open yourself up
Swallow me whole and make it my last berth
Don't you sometimes wish the ground would just open up under your feet and swallow you whole...
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2016
A sonnet is a dandy thing all dressed  
In pomp and form and run-on lines and things—  
Enough to make the weary take up wings.
Though this is but my third, I must confess,  
Lifetimes ago I wrote with zing and zest  
And sonnets then were little songs to sing  
To fluttering ******* and nightingales— or slings  
Against misfortune, kings, and other pests.

No poet’s court has ever sat assize
Sans sonnets quick and cleverly contrived.  
Fair queen or country maid, though each its prize—
The sonnet’s virtue rests in parted thighs.
Finer roe has never graced a sturgeon
Nor caveat much mattered to a ******.
.
Caveat is a warning or caution. Assize is a court or can be a judgement. Used here as "sat in judgement." Sans is an English word stolen from the French about 700 years ago. Means "without."
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Arby Aug 2018
Stone columns lined the nave,
graced by a stained warmth.
Yet, as I stood in the crossing
the silence was coarse.
Izzy May 2017
My soul longs for all the lives I've lived
Lifetimes ago I was someone different

Maybe once long ago, riches draped from the curves of my being
Maybe whiskey graced my lips far to often
Maybe smoke stained my lungs
Maybe my feet touched mountains
Maybe in a life long ago, my figure was shrouded in darkness
Maybe it was helpless
            or not, maybe it was a warrior, hard and sharp and deadly
Maybe my back was once adorned with wings
Maybe satin dripped from my lips
Maybe symbols littered by skin
Maybe my name was death,
                                       chaos,
                                       mercy,
                                       life
Maybe I died for love
                        for war
                        for a cause

I have lived many lives
                      and I long for them all
My soul longs for its place, its home
            a home that I have no memory of

I am filled with an unyielding ache for things I know nothing of

My ears long for words from worlds long ago
My skin craves the ink that once ran from my fingers so freely
My hands ache to dig into the earth to which they have been a stranger to for so long
My skin aches for the long forgotten bite of steel that was once so familiar  

I am homesick for places that have never been my home,
My soul is cursed to spend its eternity searching for its place.
(But I have found solace in your arm)
Nico Julleza Dec 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Sitting at the balcony, a sunset to her face
a scent of chamomile, an elated memory rephrases
frolicking aster's in autumn color graced
the imbue of old feelings, her craft of curtain lace

Spinning a rustic harmony, the rustle of leaves
dips a chocolate pudding, her smile swept by me
a dessert like sky, the billow swirls in place
our grandkids tag-along to the hounds that chase

An old love song, a diary of stories we made
halcyon, even her face freckles and her hair is gray
she gave me fields that kisses spring and fall
our magic remains forever, even our time is called
#Love #Relatioship #Song

It Took me many months to finish this poem, to get the inspiration. I'm Glad its finally done.. Enjoy my love story poets.

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
tabitha Mar 2016
i will have it all some day,
as my "it all"  has nothing
to do with gilded halls &
shiny floors & iron doors
(anymore)
i am now concerned with
Better Things -- like
Love. and Order.

but oh, when i say i will have it,
& that i will have it all, i believe
myself!
more than i've believed
anything or anyone, ever at all.

when i say that; when i say
i  will  have it, &  that i will have it
all,    he   looks  at me  strange...
his eyes light up in bright green flames
like  a  pretty man  would
look  at a  silly,  deranged
little doll.  skeptical.  
annoyed.
as if the world has already graced
my porcelain skin with enough lace for it to be a sin
he has no idea what it's like  
to  be a  doll, at all; our pockets
are much too small and we are expected
to sit on shelves all day long .
he thinks that my all,
the "it all" of a doll,
is the "it all" of all....
a life of beauty and
wallpaper art,
of letting people dress you up
just to tear you apart.
he is.... jaded
by interrupted dreams,
and faded
by Jäger.
i have posed in his hands, to see his smile
i let him know
i want to know how he could move me
finesse me, brush my hair, confess to me.
not to then to lay me down, and forget me.
i am very familiar with the shelves of his soul.

he buttons his sleeves,
and goes on to his lunch affair;
his heart falls out when he jests/deflects.
he lets it lay there.

we are different kinds of hollow
karin naude Apr 2013
once i dream t of living a quarter mile at a time
conquering land after land
nothing to hold me back just endless fields of dreams
each night i worked the field
my wings knew flight and soared ever higher above trees
when something went wrong the undo button fixed it
life would be continues perfect moments
staring at the white roof colored by my own world
always the same
tragic love poem written in eternity
two people meet over hot coffee
empty cafe, rainy night
casually chatting and laughing
instantly connecting
she sells herself for a moment
desperate to feel love
he buys her moment to hide his own need to lick his wounds
wounded people searching for love struck a deal
she never knew it was her smile that convinced him
no women has ever graced him with that honor
what follows is some time for adjustment, the drama
brutal fighting with his father, the action
she is not spoken for, the ******
eventually he realizes his deep seeded love for her
defend her honor
make babies and raise cattle

a perfect ending
Alan Maguire Mar 2013
The bleeding hearts were on the street again begging on behalf of some man in Vietnam who sits in his hut day in and day out staring at the four walls, while his wife and child draw water from a well five miles away and I ask these ladies, is yet man a christian?, why yes they reply and is your God all knowing, all seeing and graced with omnipotence, why yes mister they cackle.

Then I says  he can look after this man in Vietnam, his wife and **** child, but mister they said  their voices laden with shock, you too are a child of god and it is your duty to help these poor people.Sorry ladies I said , I so ain't naive, so I left them and their pleas. I don't feel guilty nor do I sympathize for  this man in Vietnam who sits in his hut starting at the four walks day in and dayout, while his wife and child draw water from a well five miles away.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
.
Hello    archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.


    Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
    cascading like salt on
an empty


    wound.


With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;



“Leave me,

    lowly poet,

Your pity is unbecoming.

I am the 13th fallen sister,

    so linger here

no longer.”


“Death is an old friend,

    I fear not his company,

nor his demise.”


I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.



“I’ll **** you.”


“Darling, I’m already dead.”



Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.


I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and
  rhapsodic  presence.


“Are you my friend,

poet?”



“No,

I am much more.”


And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.



“Poet,

why must the most beautiful

people die?”

She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:


“When you’re in a garden,

which flowers do you pick?”


“...The most beautiful ones.”


I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,

from the house of god.


I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,

    I ignored their tempertantrums

& discord.


That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.



“What are these?”


“Wings.”
This was a commission, for an old friend.
I'd already used one of my popular sayings
in my other poems.

© Copywrited
Marya123 Nov 2018
At the very beginning of time
The Sky and Sea were bound together
In a sweet embrace that graced their prime
Days were peaceful, with pleasant weather.
But they were wrenched apart, as Earth grew
Asserting his might in the trinity
With a chasm he split them clean in two
Dividing them for eternity.
So the Sky weeps storms in her sorrow
Weaving her anguish within the rain
In the winter, her tears turn to snow
Punishing land as they mask her pain.
It's the only way she remains brave
The one way that she can reach her love
So he stretches up with surf and wave
Telling her he knows what she feels above.
Joey fonseca Nov 2018
I don’t know why
These feelings I feel
Are so strong
Stronger than raging seas
During the thunderstorm that
Is my attraction to her
I wish I could look at her
As just another pretty girl
But I don’t think she can ever be
Anything less than the ray of sun
Shining through the darkest clouds
Making my days better
Every time I am graced by her Presence
But why does she do this
Steals my breath with a glance
Leaving me gasping
And begging for another look
Mind making a mess of itself
And a fool of me
As words attempt to leave my mouth
Hoping for even the smallest conversation  
But those conversations will be few
And I know it
this girl would never fall
For this world so different from her own
Tattooed
Pierced
Hopeless romantic Skater boy
Is no match for
This pure hearted flower
But sometimes I hang on
To the thought that maybe
Just maybe
That this opposit can attract
But I know
the graceful beauty
Won’t be mine
And I’ll be ok with that
As long as I can call her
A friend
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift,
ignore the hum,
ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters).
ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state

I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber:::

eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy (**** I’m dreaming of you)

Synaptic friction
she is a pleasant fiction  
flash/sparks segue a dormant memory ,
the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips:::

There is no end to (your) energy
It even finds me here::: in my dystopian  dream (eternal)
now
an inescapable, myopic curse
(nocturnal)
:::
the nightmare of not having you near

Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight)
I find only a fragrance,
i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short
isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats

(the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent)



cdh
bellow my window ****** drunks seem to taunt me with feigned intellect and a bullshiter’s banter, a nest of vipers in the heat of the dialectic, serenading one night stands  (**i guess this is what passes for love**)
It was a day of brilliant sunshine,
one that rarely lasts;
And with a sky of deepest blue,
a wonderment was cast.

Just beside the woodshed,
a garden glowed of Spring;
An awesome sight of color,
urging the birds to sing.

Open air and fields of gold,
that graced our tiny town;
Daisies, lilies, and tulips reigned,
as queens of great renown.

Our eyes would delight in early light,
of sheer delicacy and sustenance;
Fanciful thoughts swirled in our heads,
of pixie dust and angels' dance.

And in a childlike vision formed,
a bright clearing upon the land;
Of cherished moments still calling us,
like the sea always meets the sand.
OpenWorldView Jun 12
she graced our lives
sowing joyful memories
we never forget

now she's an angel
soothing our saddened hearts
with little fond tales
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