"hind" poems
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
Hum us desh ke vashi hain.....
Jaha sabhi ka samman kiya jata hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain....
Jaha sabhi logo me ekta hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain....
Jaha atithi ko bhagwan ka darja diya jata hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain....
Jaha aurato ko devi kaha jata hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain....
Jaha hindu muslim sikh esai sabhi bhai bhai hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain.....
Jaha mata pita ko dharti ke bhagwan mana jata hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain.....
Jaha sabhi log desh ke liye marte hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain....
Jaha mahatma gandhi, Bhagat singh, Subash chandra bose jaise beero ne janam liya tha,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain.....
Jaha par sanchai aur ekta mishal hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain....
Jaha ki nadiya sudha jal deti hain,
Hum us desh ke vashi hain.....
Jise log bharat ya india kahte hain...
JAY HIND
JAY BHARAT
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes.
A liar goes in rags.
A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
And the stonecutters earn a living-with lies-on the tombs of liars.
Aliar looks 'em in the eye
And lies to a woman,
Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool.
And he is an old liar; we know him many years back.
A liar lies to nations.
A liar lies to the people.
A liar takes the blood of the people
And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie,
A laugh in his neck,
A lie in his mouth.
And this liar is an old one; we know him many years.
He is straight as a dog's hind leg.
He is straight as a corkscrew.
He is white as a black cat's foot at midnight.
The tongue of a man is tied on this,
On the liar who lies to nations,
The liar who lies to the people.
The tongue of a man is tied on this
And ends: To hell with 'em all.
To hell with 'em all.
It's a song hard as a riveter's hammer,
Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo,
Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy,
Twisted as a shell-shock idiot's gibber.
The liars met where the doors were locked.
They said to each other: Now for war.
The liars fixed it and told 'em: Go.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
Behind their doors away from the mob.
And the guns did a job that nicked off millions.
The guns blew seven million off the map,
The guns sent seven million west.
Seven million shoving up the daisies.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
The liars who lie to nations.
And now
Out of the butcher's job
And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned,
Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts,
Out of this they are calling now: Let's go back where we were.
Let us run the world again, us, us.
Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we'll cash in again.
So I hear The People talk.
I hear them tell each other:
Let the strong men be ready.
Let the strong men watch.
Let your wrists be cool and your head clear.
Let the liars get their finish,
The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again
To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again.
So I hear The People tell each other:
Look at to-day and to-morrow.
Fix this clock that nicks off millions
When The Liars say it's time.
Take things in your own hands.
To hell with 'em all,
The liars who lie to nations,
The liars who lie to The People.
10.5k
What reason do we have to be angry.
What reason do we have to curse the stars
and all the threads that bind them.
Who's fault apart from ours is it,
that this is the hell that we have placed ourselves amidst.
Every point in our lives,
lying like a checkpoint,
glowing like a streetlamp in the dead of night.
At the feet of these golden warm, welcoming lights there lay a crossroad.
And we foolish children feeble in heart and mind fumble without a further thought.
We follow our hearts and we follow them into deep into the disguising dark.
-
Adventure was the death of us, antagonizing.
Adventure was heartache,
agony as evil wizards warped our worlds until we were weaning.
It wasn't too late before the brazen beasts had burdened our lives with ever more brutality.
Wolves hungry for the hearts of men, walking on hind legs to better hinder us with horrors.
This world is beautiful with wonder,
but it's wonders are like lights
upon the Lophiiformes head.
Bright, beautiful and inviting
But lead with haste into the jaws of oblivion,
well hidden amongst the dark.
N.H.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:15 AM UTC
Having hope, I await your call
looking to my phone.
Hoping you'd change your mind
and without me you feel all alone.
It's foolish to have hope, I know.
It will never happen.
I told you to give me time.
My heart you had flattened.
We've been through four weeks of pain.
And now we've finally ended things.
I'm still shocked, it came out of nowhere,
and to think I was going to give you a ring.
I miss you every night, Annie.
And that's the honest truth.
How long will this pain go on?
Who knows. Just know I'm feeling blue.
You've hurt me terribly,
more than any woman before.
I hope you made the right choice,
But I can't wait for you anymore.
Some days are better than others.
At a slow pace I will find my way.
Someone who deserves me will come
Someone, somewhere, someday.
We were entwined in bewilderment
to put it at the very least.
But I talk to myself every day
to convince myself that we have ceased.
The other half of me is my voice of reason.
Encouragement, love, and hind sight.
He talks to me constantly,
to remind me to hold with might.
That's what I push to now:
My voice of moving on.
To forget and forgive
make you and I forgone.
I'll leave you with this sentiment, my dear:
We parted ways and it *****
Someday we might change but until then,
Goodnight, Goodbye, and Goodluck.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Visiting a friend on his Quarter
Horse farm, the day sunny and warm.
We walked out to his brood mare
pasture, the ladies were running,
awaiting and sunning, anticipation
in the air and their nervous behavior.
Noble his name, consistency his game,
a reliable aging stallion, sire to many
fine sons and daughters, years of proven
pairings, came halter led and prancing.
He had their scent and his spirit awakened,
the three ladies believed to be in season began
to snigger and whinny, their excitement growing
as the stallion entered their grassy domain,
the dance was about to commence.
The handler led the big fella' forward,
both sides began their quizzical inspections.
one young filly more aggressively willing
than the others. Noble excitedly returned
her heightened interest.
Within a few minutes Noble began to rear up,
he knew his job, his august appendage extended,
trying several times to mount his mate intended,
adrenaline pumping his back legs began to shake,
on his fourth failed attempt the eager proven
suitor fell to the ground, rolled over, paused for
a moment and struggled to stand on unsteady legs.
Appearing even somewhat embarrassed.
The mare moved aside, kicked her hind legs in
the stallion's direction, whinnied loudly and
ran away. Rejected the old stallion stood looking
perplexed, failure was something unknown to him.
His spirit was willing but his aging body was weak.
The old stud slowly returned to the barn, his head
hung low, no longer prancing.
For every time and being there is a season, aging
is part of the cycle, like this stallion, we all reach
this moment of understanding. Sometimes gracefully,
most times with stunned disbelief.
From Noble to nothing in one afternoon.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
surrender hind-legs
targets yellow spines
yellow stems
flowers blend into frogs
tree frogs tree apples
tree fruit heart numinous
nervousness next level
levitation into vibration
watermelon seeds
stars, steam, sand and shadows
i allow
keep talking spinning
weaving the stars
love is a happy motorcycle
bathtubs zoological
sisters straight eyed sailors
cumber-buns saviors
yawning in the wind
at the hint of a spark
gravity embarks on sacred journeys
desert walks soul visions
quest into westerly winds
pools of tough romance tough love
chances are that now and then
we will pretend
that we are more compassionate
then we are
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 11:43 PM UTC
The autumn sun slides low
against the hours,
peaking over the day
as if barely begun
and almost finished.
There is something familiar
here in the half light,
not quite vertical yet
bright enough to see
the path I ride is not as rough,
the wind is not as strong
and my heart is not as hard
nor encumbered
as days since passed
where in hind-sight
I peddled for sanctuary;
sanctuary from
a morbid kind of half-sight
held tight by a half-life of
loneliness and lies
now long lost
and finally made right.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Long ago, on my
unpatriotic ways,
with anger patriots
turned ablaze.
They ill-treated me
with words of abuse,
even classes on patriotism
was of no use.
One day patriotic
tonic I drank.
It made all the difference,
to be frank.
Now professor of patriotism
I've become.
To hear my lectures
many patriots come.
And before my patriotism inspires
enemies of North and West
and before my nationalism
they easily bear and digest
and before Chinese
people of the North
have understood my
patriotic lecture's worth
and before their Olympians
represent Nation of mine
and before we get medals
in abundance this time
and before Pakistanis
decide to turn traitors at once,
inspired by my patriotic views
and my eloquence
and before Indians use golden
words for me to describe
and before my name
in history they inscribe
and before people start
giving me much respect
and before my big and
large statues they *****
and before my replicas
and dolls are put on sale
and before I start competing with
likes of Gandhi and Patel
and before this poetry
becomes too patriotic to comprehend
with slogan 'Jai Hind ' this patriotic
poetry must come to an end.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.
Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.
In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.
Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
Owl slept in the tree’s hollow
but the silly Grasshopper
on the branch outside
made incessant noise
‘Kind Sir,’ said Owl,
‘would you stop singing
and allow me to sleep?
I’m nocturnal
and sleep by day
and so I need some quiet now.’
Grasshopper
looked proud
and rubbed its hind femurs
against its fore-wings
and it said:
‘Ah, Sir Owl -
Eminent Naturalists have come
to record me make my most melodious songs
and they kept away, if you must know,
from your uncouth hooting!
So I will continue singing
and you may live in envy if you like.’
‘Oh it is most true,’
said Owl.
‘You sing most wonderfully
and I but screech.
But come in and I have
a potion
that the Goddess of Song
has just given me
that will soften my hooting
and bring your song to perfection.
You already sing like a sensation,
O Highly Sought-After Grasshopper –
you’ll be even more appreciated after….’
And straight Grasshopper
with a magnificent leap
jumped to Owl’s home;
and straight Owl ate the singing insect
and indeed Grasshopper
was even more appreciated after….
And it is whispered in the forests
Owl’s hooting improved
due to a certain potion
Owl had acquired
from the Goddess of Song
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
P is for pony F is for friends, but M is for magic where fun never ends.
why is this pony wearing a dress, why is she singing that friendship is best?
Just watch them dance and sing and fly, some ponies have wings and some are quite shy.
why I once saw a pony so colorful and cool, she beat up a dragon with hind hoofs and a stool.
but in all of Equestria there stands one above the rest, her name is Twilight Sparkle and she's simply the best.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
On its back,
The cockroach,
In a jacket of red wings,
Slender legs,
And bulging abdomen,
Like the tummy of African statesman,
Its legs wallowing in despair,
In the air,
Stamping the spread eagled,
Hind and forelimbs,
Of the poor anthropod,
Kicking and waving,
A cry for the succor,
To be freed from ebola,
Or breaking the *** tether,
Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty,
Three districts under leprosy,
In the domain of the bull’s eye,
Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate,
Its salient manifestation,
Then the cockroach kicks silently,
Anticipating for salvage,
But when the domain owner comes,
He steps with full weight,
His foot dressed in military boots,
From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara,
On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall,
Bursting its stomach but hopscotch,
Spilling the white stuff out,
Of poverty and mental dilemma,
Amid hopelessness in future and history,
As terrorism mires tomorrow,
When China reigns today,
At mercy of contemporary panjandrums,
Moving from white to black
And from black to face book,
Killing those who fall in commercial love,
As if money is the ***** for nuptial night,
But only to go forth ignobled,
Without making momentous affinity,
In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom,
Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table,
Without scorn and regard for true African blood,
Where will I apologize?
If the ****** bug
Enters my head and heart,
To blind my logical eyes,
Only to open wide
The senses that see and feel
Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
Kapag yung ex mo nakipagbalikan sayo
tatangggapin mo pa ba?
Ako?
oo.
tanga lang eh noh?
oh tapos tatawa tawa ka?
Kung sabagay…
Hindi kita masisissi.
Hindi naman ikaw ang minsang lumigaya
Sa ibabaw ng alapaap
Sa yakap na mahigpit
Sa kamay na minsang nakatagpo ng
Palad
Palad na handang dumamay
Palad na handang umakay sa matarik na bundok
Binuo ng mga daliring handang takpan
Ang minsang mga matang walang humpay na lumuha sa pait na
Dulot ng mapanghusgag tingin ng mundo
hindi.. hindi kita masisisi
dahil hindi naman ikaw nag nakadama
ng matamis na lasa sa pagbigkas ng mga katagang
ikaw.. ikaw lang.. ang mahal ko.
Hindi. Hindi mo narinig ang bawat ngiting
Ipininta ng bawat tawang ibingay
Sa mga simpleng kantang inialay.
hindi.. hindi mo nasaksihan nung araw na ipinaglaban
nya ang pagmamahalang tanging mahalagang bagay na meron ako at sya noon.
Hindi.. hindi mo naramdaman ang lambot ng kasiguraduhang
Matutulog kang nakangiti dahil sya ang katabi mo
At gigising kang may ngiti pa rin dahil panatag ka
Panatag kang sa bisig nya parin nakahimlay.
Hindi.. hind kita masisisi
Dahil hindi mo ramdam
Ang kirot na humiwa dito..
Nung araw na sinabi nyang
“Ayokona”
Ayokona?
Walang eksplenasyon ni walang pasubali
Nabura lahat! Natabunan ng mga tanong hanggang sa naging panghihinayang at poot at
Sinabi kong tama na
Tama ka nga siguro
Ayaw mo na..
Lahat yan tinanggap ko, pilit ipinilit sa isipang
Wala na. tapos na. ending na.
Tapos
Isang araw
Bigla syang kumatok, sabi
“sorry”
Tanginamo. Para san pa?
Ako pa rin daw..
ako parin daw.
Kapag yung ex mo nakipagbalikan sayo
tatanggapin mo pa ba?
Ako?
oo.
pero di gaya ng dati
hindi
na
ako
tanga.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
It isn't a game.
But one can definitely lose.
There are no competitors.
Yet self comparisons fog hind sight.
Leading to more dreary backroads that the world forgot about.
It was fun for a little while.
Telling yourself that you threw away the world and not vise versa.
Was truly the greatest lie.
One that grew into actual belief for a time.
But found that the greatest hell.
Is watching your paradise burn.
Bound only by disbelief.
Dumbfounded.
It's a shame that when you lose everything.
Somehow your mind is the only thing that stays intact.
As if those aspects were programmed into humans in preparation for it..
And happiness got the short end of the stick.
Then to further rub dirt into the wound we create hope.
By means of pursuit.
Shakespeare knew the questions.
And left it up to everyone else to answer.
Only as generations pass.
We couldnt be further from any resemblance of an answer.
Let alone know the question has already been proposed.
Writers play with this notion and yield no two pairs alike.
Lifes most important knowledge sadly can only come from experiencing it.
But with the world in such a desensitized state.
The fear of stagnation is becoming the only real possibility.
Preposterous?
No
Predetermined the moment we chose to let others choose for us.
There is no freedom.
Only sacrifice.
Right.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 4:22 AM UTC
A land with love, peace & admiration
To you I salute with all my devotion
A land where live people of all kind
Various languages where we find
A land beleaguered by Himalaya
And perennial rivers running via
A land signed by a flag of tri colour
With courage, peace & faith depicting her
A land called as India or Hind
Where I'm privileged to born in
A land to which I call my country
With all my devotion I salute thee...
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
And what have ye there i' the basket?
Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
I love your meads, and I love your flowers,
And I love your junkets mainly,
But 'hind the door, I love kissing more,
O look not so disdainly!
I love your hills, and I love your dales,
And I love your flocks a-bleating;
But O, on the heather to lie together,
With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook,
Your shawl I'll hang up on this willow,
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
3.4k
.
Lovers entered a forbidden forest bower,
And as they stalked that range, with eyes glazed,
She offered up her hind. Now, with doe eyes,
Deep as his, deep in arousal's sleep, heels fell,
As he knocked and pulled her dark honey hair
And whispered, surrender, into wanting ears,
Softly he drove his hunting command, homing
To his huntress.
Her body braced, yet bade, with heat and vibrance.
Ruthlessly, he ****** his arrow deeper and then
Once more and then again. She bucked fiercely
And defiant, goading his prodding lance ever more
Ever longer, and parting the pink lines of her white
Rose, he was, and once again, Prince to the dark
Dominion of her quarters.
In the middle of this carnal match they paused.
And looking into the forest beyond they saw
A yearling fawn, a feral Goddess, grazing still,
Bathing in a vale, virginal, wholly unmoved
By their act of venery, lustfully playing, in the innocent
Leaves. It was as if they were among her kin, a gentle
Doe and a noble stag. From that moment on
The human hunters did not speak.
Falling, again, rolling eyes were deep in arousal's sleep.
Her back was a crescent moon pocked and wet with dew.
He could feel her heart beating in time with his piercing
Prong, her arching back glistened in the suns spittle
As it broke through the dark and vernal ceiling wood.
In the final shot her quivering buck lowered and broke
And a sound not heard, made a scene, a sweet murmuring
Shuddered and sank onto the floor of the forest leaves
With her tale, taken and told, her breathless breath,
Her nostrils cold and her heated and lanced openings
Dripping, draining; here was a New World’s beginning.
Sated, solemn and softly quaking, his woman sweetly laid,
And now, doomed with her doe eyes, two lovers, fated, made;
She glowed, divine, like the rolling brook that mellowed
Slow, in the vine-dark and golden forest stable,
In Artemis’s wood.
.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
We live in a country,
where people are respected.
We live in a country,
where people 's unity.
We live in a country,
Where the hotel is supposed to be god.
We live in a country,
Where women are like goddess worship.
We live in a country,
Where hindu muslim sikh and christians are all brothers.
We live in a country,
where parents are considered to be the god of the earth.
We live in a country,
where all people have to die for the country.
We live in a country,
Where subash chandra, Azad and Bhagat singh was born as braves.
We live in a country,
Where truth and honesty is a precedent.
We live in a country,
Where the rivers are provide pure water.
We live in a country,
where the flag is always undulate.
we live in a country,
Those who call india.
JAY HIND JAY BHARAT
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
*song shadows
soul and mirrors
will we ever see clearer
sweet life
oh the fragrance
the righteous mind
un-sees the danger
so many soldiers
so many women
are all of our fathers
really little children
move swiftly
into the windy recesses
the mind regresses
all the time
damp and wet
the owl cries
so long tomorrow
farewell goodbye
dunk your head
in liquid splendor
i am tender as the snow
pouring down from heaven’s fiefdom
morning's hunger is dissipated
by moonlight kisses and salty lovers
salves of calendula upon our skin
swim in juicy wonder
listen and dance with thunder
the fireflies swim through burning skies
making arcs and triumphant cries
what a silly blunder
all the noise and all the cover
hiding your heart in violet garments
streams of satin in your slumber
stroke the liberated arrow
weave the gardenia’s shadow
streams of consciousness and beauty
looking into eyes of human strategy
human shadows
start to suffocate us
instruct the timber
plundered
strumming humid arias
looms of butter start to melt
svelte and spelt
slews of wealth
heaven's belt is loosely tied
striated like the mind
grinding hind legs
selves neglect entry fees
sleeves of grass
embrace strands of ice
with a lover or two
on the side*
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
if things have to stay unknown
why can't I hind out
mysteries are out there
wait to be found out
waiting to shine in the spotlight
I want to study the mysteries of it past
get to know it
be friends
then?
unknown
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 6, 2011 at 9:37 AM UTC
The Mirror of Life
looking into the mirror who do I see
Some one looking back, and it was me.
Once such a beauty and always on stage
Years later she looking back and how she has aged.
Aging is a beautiful and full of wisdom
It does pay a price and them some.
Some times what appears we lost,
it was time to leave be hind.
Midlife is not a crisis;
it's a time of rebirth to find
it's a time not to accept your death;
you have a lot of wonderful years left
It's a time to accept your life.
live it as there no to morrow
and never a day with any sorrow
The mirror of Life
You are beautiful and that so right
aging is a miracle of process
and it just don't happen over night.
But look in the mirror and who do you see
Some one beautiful looking back at me.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
Thylacinus Cynocephalus.
Tasmanian Tiger, Tasmanian Wolf,
A crepuscular hunting nocturnal beast,
Carnivore by nature, feasted upon wallaby,wombats and roos,
Caught by female of the species,
Was he a feline or a lupine beast, hyena perhaps,
No, this strange creature now probably extinct was marsupial with pouch,
Female with pouch to grow her young, male had pouch of his own,
Protected his crown jewels within a scrotal pouch,
Appearance of a stripy dog,
Looked rather like a tiger,
Had amber eyes filled with fire,
This diamorphic beast, (Means the chap was larger)
Had four toes on hind feet and rigid tail of kangaroo,
It's gait was rather odd,
Could move like kangaroo, if it so desired,
Strange call, a guttural sound, alerted his family when he was abound,
Shy secretive little creature,
Kept himself locked out of sight,
For in the late 188os, early 1900s these creatures had a bounty on their heads,
The bounty hunters had such fun, left our world with nearly none,
Last beast in the wild as noted,shot by gun by Mr Batty,
1936 the last captive creature died in Hobart Zoo,
Reported name was Benjamin,
Book called The Djin-jum Man, said man, Batty man maybe, was cursed for killing the last of their kin,
Poor things,
Living legacy remains,
On Tasmania's coat of arms, two of these fine beasts support the islands emblem,
Probably gone but never overlooked,
Still being sought but never found!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
This was really difficult, hope its quite accurate!
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC