"lavished" poems
What happens
after Cinderella
is able to be with her prince?
After her stepmother gone
her stepsisters vanquished
all obstacles gone ever since?
Did they grow old
lavished in the kingdom's wealth
and love each other forever?
Or did the handsome prince
grow bored
and find another beautiful woman to endeavour?
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
the child of the child of my woman,
cries in the night,
rooming next door,
down the hall
and
he is
all children that cry in the night,
but he is
more mine
by right of quantity
numerous are the kisses lavished,
this biannual visit upon,
his four year old
oversized head,
(so full of 'bains')
his undersized,
protuberanced belly body,
a combo making him
no longer baby,
nor a grownup,
both states,
he denies accurately,
maturely in a wobbly voice
of utter certainty,
but lacking the adjectives
of what lies between,
he debates his state thoughtfully,
until distracted by other
more pressing matters of state
he is boy, little but vociferous,
quiet, pensive, his head a weapon
of...confusion and certainty that
being four years old,
he must perforce be
permanently
in skeptical awe of the world
this is the best position ever,
he has ascertained,
to filter and behold anything,
whatever newness arrives,
which is constant,
streaming and unending
until new is
fully digested, analyzed, and classified,
as if he were
a zoologist in
a wild and untamed land
only certain of what he knows
with perfect certainty,
he consults with me still,
"you kidding?"
such a sophisticated analytic interrogatory,
wise in the ways of grownups,
who, prone to deceive gleefully
his very
suspecting mind,
so much so,
they must be challenged and
rebuffed all too frequently
he cries in the night,
normal tears of discomfort,
physical or mental,
I cannot tell,
for his father
his parental hearing
more practiced, refined,
has preceded me,
such,
as it should be,
and I am dispatched back
to my 3:00am bed,
left only to ink
contemplative ruminations
on the state and nation
of being four...
and sixty,
and still uncertain, even more
than the little boy
of wizened age of annualized four,
the child of the child of my woman,
on
what is real, what is kidding,
in a quest unending
to better ascertain,
the state of my own being
and the transitory nature of
everything
all of what is thought certain,
falls aside,
under the withering,
unwavering,
critique of
"you kidding?"
and in this we are
more kin
than if our blood was
physically shared
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC
Safe from stormy icy cold
from stars sheltered too below
a wish I am
to my captive be
all this thou provideth me
The ice breaker tows us in
sweet lies lavished
beneath our skin
mothered
fathered
dear!!!
Dear ravaged
bitter sweet
lovingly deceived
tucked into sheets
from teddy bear
to milky squeezed
thigh soothing
the life that's oozing
**** a doodle
screeching out in fright
of little egg
earnest yearning
heeding calling
of thee other will
spontaneity
river spawning
No time for times sake
Not a one
would be
mistaken
Only the shrunken
fear forsaking
Run hare run
way out
out
beyond sight
of the knowing
knowing though
scent lingers
in the nose
of the tortoise
and tortoises
whom are stalking
Run run
has gotten far
hid from heaven
spinning faulty
stars heathen
tales of yore
which simply
just keep moving
But delight
is
a wedding cake
in a heart
you can see
taste
taste the spin
of spinning me
Dance too
to the rhythms
and beatings
of sticks
****** quick
to the depths
of your last breath
of the last breathing
Our hearts
the rhythm
Ones soul
The beating
of skin
On our drums
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
Often times I’m staring
Awing in the curves of full blooming lips
Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss
The journey through the damp forest after warm rain
It is all awake alive and breathing clearly
Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves
I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me
Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up
Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup
Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil
The pools of honey drip further toward me
My feet find it impossible to remove themselves
So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm
Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes
Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way
Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown
You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry
Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times
Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders
Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin
Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down
It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept
Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces
Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings
Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings
Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch
You are the rain forest from sunrise
My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner
But I know such things and if they were to **** me,
I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok
With roots buried miles deep
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
The porcelain tiles felt chilled
against my bare back,
each one crawling
injecting into the pores of
my skin, they scalded into
the core of my bones.
Water lavished twin bodies,
Scorching feet and
exploding senses,
they ran across naked
forms, exploring every inch
just like our lust soaked fingertips.
We stood close, breath
shared between us,
Chests heaved in anticipation
as we became drenched
in the moment.
He grabbed my hair
in messy fistfuls,
Lips dripping
with flavor, his taste
was infectious as it seeped
into every inch of my being
we merged, one
like the sun sinks into the ocean.
I sank into him, giving myself
all of myself to ecstasy.
Like a drug, I was addicted
as each finger danced across his spine.
We dove in together
gasping at every breath
clawing at the rapture stained tiles
twisted hands entangled
squeezing for release
over waves of unrelenting pleasure.
A soft cry shot through
our submerged affair
awakening rolling figures
we became still, the rain
continuing to tap upon ourselves.
A single touch from his lips
expressed agony later to come
As we lay together on that
Still porcelain tile.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
***Creatively enticing,
profoundly sensual
boundlessly experienced,
cryptically presumptive
inordinately exclusive
effusively lavished,
anesthetized or blatant
allusive beyond ethereal,
metaphorically inferred
criminal insanity
disquiet midst agitation,
peaceably surrendered
illustriously polished
or indubitably raw
fruitful to a fault - -
in reciprocity's glory be
quenches thirst,
satiates a hunger
flourished midst ink's
designed grandeur,
poetry never fails to thrive,
tripping the light fantastic
in its exuberant offering***
Seize the power
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
From plane to plane, and none by none
The circle trails towards all but one,
For seeing Deaths could not prevail
The night's cool mist and Dewey Hail.
To the Gods that soar with thunder,
Straight edge wing, we'll bring asunder-
Fragments: aluminum and iron-
With mossy cellars rusting pyres.
Daybreak screams, alike my notebook,
With the hopes: Eternal Outlook,
And smoke-emitting plants and cars,
And night-birthgiving lights and bars,
All set dim, fluorescence unseen.
But in broad day? Our shame will scream.
Further! Muster, lavished Brother
In Greed, who forces towards plunder
Mine and mine companion's others
Times, sepulchers, decent gestures.
To learn to hate the natural shrub
Is same to love the rust we rub
From decay of Louis' Arc,
Death, humanity soon embarks.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 10:54 AM UTC
Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.
Happily, he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.
All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.
Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.
Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.
From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.
we sing of dreams
of better things
we blaspheme
and spin the scenes
of our murdered dreams
and just clean the guilt away
I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.
I am a god that cracks the asphalt.
I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.
I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.
The first
The last
Laugh of inevitability
Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.
Free will
A fragile blessing
I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.
I'm the ******* son
Strumming for the only one.
Once.
Before the lore of the storm.
Born of the swoon of a gun.
More than one.
Once.
As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Scared, to let the words die, he hid, amid the languid luxuries of solitary structuring, lavished of the jaded and anguished lines, for lines melodrama, of the deviled days, of state, of mind, in fate, in kind, of the nether commas, devoid in honest ignorance of written words, dying on the caterpillars, cocooned, in all that's assumed, lost, in metamorphosis, never knowing this, is a dream, within a dream, of hope, clinging with stinging fingertips, ears ringing in the ripplits of a synesthesic pulse of visual signals, subliminally sounding the sirens, of solidarity, in the silent screams, of the sun rising, writhing in wanton seduction of my functions laying the heartened words of dead birds, falling from the sky, hardened in sloven cries, to justify, the means, tapping out on the screens, of a misnomer, a loner, in a coma, phoning you from the corner to warn ya, of the storm, in words prone to patience, in imaginit immaculance of the limitless limits, of livid lovers loving each-others lullabies, lolly-gagging in the illegibility, of our lucidity in the pity of leveled lofts, lovely-ly, levitating in elevating thought, fraught with passionate poetry, of ghostly words, blurred in the debilitating reasoning of reasonable reason, seasonally.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
I've seen you there
amongst the lavender fields
when you thought no one was watching.
Memories that dance
a longing daydream,
weaving strings of lilac through my veins.
I knew you would plague me,
but my eyes supped upon you.
Supped and supped again
until lavished by an allure
a thousand French patisseries
could never usurp.
Your taste inspired madness -
a craze you too endured.
We turned over pages
and bewildered them with Eden's of ivy
that flourished within our skulls.
If Van Gogh were a writer
he'd write like us.
A fable of seraphic beauty
and lucid insanity,
knotted together
with existential philosophy.
"Being and Nothingness"
(Sartre understood)
but we were 50 years too late
to the Café de Flore.
Those were memories of yesteryear,
sealed with the rosy hue of antiquity
I was always fond of.
I can almost lick that scent of lavender
that clings to the photographs,
but I fear my tongue may bleed.
So I admire them on a mantelpiece
in a dust-soaked room
where all that I love
(and have loved)
may live.
I know that room not by daylight,
for I dare not be seen to enter.
Only the high rise moon knows
that those footprints
belong to me.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Growing up was not in the spoken word of the country of origin,
parental choice was the language of the country of birth,
lost were the years when learned idiomatic expressions would
now be automatic,
as growing would have it,
one language was enough,
and was lavished,
while the parents,
moved and moved,
to a hockey town,
with a mountain named,
after the color of blood,
and another mountain,
like Granite.
All that has been lost,
drags behind, pulling
toward home,
tongues and time,
both lost on this life,
cities and memories
out of reach, the pity.
travelling home alone,
with only strangers to
greet you,
treating you,
like a visitor,
who knows better,
once you say your
last name,
flames of memory
lit and rekindled,
the smile
either stays
or vanishes
as they embrace
or banish,
who your Ancestors
were to them,
lost on the city history,
tongue spoken a foreign exchange,
eyes down cast
never focussing,
like you did locusts bring
and they carried a little of
the past, each one a story
with as many exaggerated,
laughs as honest chuckles,
and your will buckles and
you admit, this place is my home
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
chinese chow-mian
little brown worms
wriggling past soya sauce
skinny dipping into sizzling sauté stew
lavished with molten eggs
strangled by wooden chopsticks silently
heavenly.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
Agape unconditional love
leaves world's mouth
agape (wide open).
Love unreservedly
and lavishly with
unrestricted abandon.
Forgive everything
and be free.
Contentment comes
from within the
heart of the freed,
and a soul that
is truly beautiful,
happy and full of grace
with joyful tenderness.
Without striving but
thriving in prosperity,
full of light
and the living ions.
Powered by the
force of the spirit.
Even though surrounded
by numerous tumults,
immense profound peace
engulfed such a one.
The unforgettable and
unusual unspeakable elixir
of life is unleashed
to comfort him.
Delightful with
a grateful heart,
pleasant and pleasing,
so easy to placate.
A comforter full
of wisdom and knowledge.
Versatile and eclectic nature
is abundantly lavished on him.
His presence heals.
Not judgemental but
full of unimaginable
tenderness and understanding.
Such is the way of love.
Agape love.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 4:55 AM UTC
Handbags
She adores designers labeled handbags
Lavished herself in Paris, New York, London
Approximately millions in RM
She had handbags
Louis Vutton, Paris Hilton, Channel etc etc…
Just name them…
Close to 3 thousands I guess
some she bought
some were given
Certainly Not ordinary people
Like you or me
Can afford to buy…
Some years on
All collection are still kept
Collecting dust in the closet
now the only
use for them
is to be stored
away to rot
why were they
not sold?
Imagine the lucrative profits
Can feed millions of poor kids
Send them to school
Make them learn ABC instead
Just another example
of how poverty
is shortchanged
by greedy elitist minority
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I imagine a therapist office
as they are lavished in on tv shows
and they're not really like that;
instead of a cozy dimly lit office
it's a white wall maze.
As my doctors
are not private ones
and they surely disclose
all about me
to the insurance company.
I can't help, but twiddle my thumbs
and wonder about the
cries for help
that linger on these paisley painted
dry walls--
snickered with inpersonal
portraits of strangers;
that probably wish
they hung in one of those
elegant, brash, and luxurious offices on tv.
Or maybe instead
the paintings longingly wish
to be dead as well--
instead of being
in this subservient storehouse
that is standing in for an therapist office.
Getting up from another stand-in
this rash beast of dull coloured dust;
calling it a chair would insinuate people
are supposed to sit there,
but I assume
it's true purpose is for the ill-ful
to find something uglier than life itself.
Leaving through another betrayal
that existence couldn't be more lame
is a doorway with the most faux of all possible doors;
it's screaming "nobody ever cut down a tree to make this".
Slipping past another door (eye role)
I come to be in the same room,
but this space is two faultering steps to the left.
And instead of dust everywhere
it's a mobbish moss melancholy
that distastefully lingers
in my personal office's air.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
It stirs my soul to say I am slave,
for thee, daddy, I shall mock ideas of freedom
cast forth by common and devilish cultures,
for thee i shall embrace another sort of freedom,
freedom under constraint,
constraint willfully chosen,
by infinite grace, ever applied in totality, to me,
freedom that says,
before I was a slave to sin,
now i am a slave to righteousness,
and joyfully so,
for being moved by your spirit,
i am ever able, when before i was helpless,
to choose that which pleases
the abundant master,
the master without end,
the existing one,
El Ro'i , the God who sees me,
me a slave chosen as friend,
me a friend adopted as son,
me a son lavished as heir
to that which i deserve not an inkling, or mite,
not jot, nor tittle,
not a word or breath from your lips,
none of that which you spoke or breathed into being.
Oh, God! I am a slave!Ever shall I be!
Thank you master that i be, ever slave, ever to thee.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.
And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.
But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.
Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.
Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
See,
None of cottony optics,
Skimming soft tissues,
For pollutants on swimming eyes.
Dissuade,
To leaving sleeping innocence,
As a silhouette,
Lavished by the curtains down.
Outside,
A whirring static,
Underwater sounds.
Who will gather the pieces,
For a sweetheart.
Filtered through amber bottles,
Of honey-speckled moonbeams.
Curled fetus style,
In puddles of obsidian.
It can't be me,
I was left curbside of a floating castle.
Hunted with gabbling bullets,
With their own tongues.
And biting at lobes,
As they barked past.
If you see,
With no obstructions,
By flowery oriental screens,
My staggering paper doll,
Pass on:
The feverish spoon,
Was stirring,
An impossible raspberry leaf.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
*Pixie dust to soar up high
Magic carpet gliding through the sky
Pumpkins giving carriage rides
True love's kiss for eyes to open wide
Her head nestles on her cloud of pillows
Her mind welcomes the Sandman's approach
A pinch here and there taking form
Exuberant fairies waltz around her head
Carelessly dropping twinkling specks
Strewn and sparkling around her bed
Her world is perfect, as you will soon see
She swims with Ariel, deep under the sea
Her best friend is Genie, she gets wishes! Three!
Unfazed by ticking, Pan always helps her flee
A carefree child, she's got the key
A sprinkle of magic solves everything because*
She believes...
His forehead hits the tabletop
Exhaustion winning out
The corner of his eye catches sight
A book flecked with glittery spots
His lips curl in distaste
These tales are not to be believed in haste
His gaze alight upon
The little girl deep in slumber
The outside world is a scary place
He wants her well-prepared
He fights the knowledge he has to face
He'll shatter her dreams with words because
He doubts belief...
**Belief is not a terrible thing
It offers great resolve
It strengthens hope
And doles out joy
Imagination lavished upon
Belief can come in many forms
Especially when facing a storm
When all you see are clouds' anger festering
Belief discerns a silver lining
Even when fairytales are all grown out
In memory they abide
Fairies wink as they sip from buttercups
Awaiting the mind's rollercoaster ride
When trouble arrives, emotions run high
Their lazy potion licks at the tracks
A shower of sparks
And there a new path lies
A yellow brick road so tranquil and wise**
*It's simple really
Simply believe*
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
*I crave your sweetness
Lavished on toast,
on fruits:
Nutella.*
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
There is beauty in the meadow,
In the trees and in the sky.
There is beauty in her hair,
And in her lavished auburn eyes.
There is beauty in the summer,
There is beauty in the fall.
And there is beauty in her manner,
And her voice with which she calls.
For there is beauty all around us,
And there is beauty to be found,
And yet the beauty which I seek,
Is not so visibly abound.
It is a beautiful enticement.
A clever thought revealed in time.
For what I want is beyond vision,
And what I seek is within mind.
-SS
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Jaded cyan
were the shadows that sat and shriveled
(as hollowing rings)
under those downward eyes
like mildly pressed flowers
in dusty old books
Radiant hues
captured blushing in mental photographs
of crossing fingers by a tender flowing stream
(from an untroubled spring)
where they harvested budding gemstones of light
from dancing fields of lavender beneath the mountain
Lavished mulberry
were the plum tree branches that crept
(as throbbing veins)
around those half-moon eyes
like hot blood trickling
under sun dazed skin
Emerald spirits
intertwined in a physical vineyard
of limbs they recklessly tangled
(from an unseasoned summer)
where they felt the stirrings of revolutionary ardor
from expanding train tracks behind the mountain
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 6:21 AM UTC
*Judgments everywhere
Criticisms you must bear
The wicked chuck you with hatred
Keep in mind, you are sacred.
Dejection and rejections
Standards set in magazines and televisions
From painful yet glorious birth
Why measure one’s worth?
Allow it not to scar your mind
Nor the voices blind
Wear the strength in your skin
Free the radiance within.
For He lavished you with gifts
His love uplifts
Behind the scene or on stage
You are beautifully weaved in His image.
-a.g.*
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC