"loin" poems
From the warmth of her womb
to a wooden coffin
the cloth of her **** laid lifeless
Gone to soon, gone too soon
The pain was more than she could bare
after losing her only son
to the rough street of Chicago
where the kingpin rules
and the prosecutes parade
the dark corridors in dark suits
It's a mother worse nightmare,
when the law enforcements,
is train to **** and asked question after.
In fear of their lives,
however, two wrongs,
cannot equal to right.
Our judicial system defenses team toss
them back to the mean street
with only criminals intents on their minds
another careless proceeding gone wrong.
so, here I am
back to the crime scene
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
A chaque fois que tu rentres de bonne heure,
Mon coeur se remplit de Bonheur.
Tu illumines nos soirées monotones,
Tu nous fais rire avec tes blagues, même si elles redondonnent.
Avec toi on ne s'ennuie jamais,
On parle, on crie, on s'échange des secrets.
Tu n'hésites pas à nous faire des câlins,
Même quand tu t'en vas de bon matin.
On n'aime pas te voir partir si ****
On préfère quand tu restes dans le coin.
La Russie, c'est comme le bout du monde,
Heureusement que tu n'es pas James Bond!
On aime te voir à la maison,
Avec tes pyjamas troués et ta barbe de bison.
Même pas peur quand tu vas chez le coiffeur,
On connaît ta tête de pomme par cœur!
On a beau se plaindre de ton penchant pour les sucreries,
Il faut avouer qu'un peu de graisse, c'est aussi confortable qu'un lit.
Même si tu trempes ton pain au fromage dans ton café,
Nous, on a même pas peur de t'embrasser.
On a toujours hâte que tu reviennes,
Même si ca ne fait pas une heure que tu es parti.
Ne t'inquiètes pas on restera les mêmes,
On sera toujours là pour te faire des guilis.
T'es le roi des bisous, t'es le roi des Papas,
On t'aimera toujours, même si tu manges du chocolat!
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC
Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man?
He scammed fig leafs in the garden,
And **** cloth in Ottoman.
outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up
The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss.
He offers snake oil, spins a tale,
So you feel smart, healthy and hale.
from top to bottom, bottom to top
The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop.
He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.
right is left, left is wrong
That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song.
Consultation for now is free,
No hidden added extra fees:
You buy two, you get three.
north to south, east to west
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest.
I've heard his feet are cloven;
The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen;
He has two fingers, wears silk- woven.
He sweats like water to the lowest level;
He's quicker than the slyest devil,
Selling hell, but we hear heaven;
Doing so twenty-four seven.
He photo-shops secret desires,
Twists truth-tellers into liars;
Artful, wily, scheming, subtle,
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.
*today is the day, yesterday's late,
tomorrow's a place that just won't wait*
I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man,
Peddling apples from my jardain.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
#
A lively debate
that inside I create
A seemingly
simple state
But this state
of affairs
Is like a ****** affair*
The details
I wish not to share
Please,
don’t stare
For inside
I’m scared
Am I prepared?
Do I have
the ***** to do
what I really care?
Or am I going
to stay on this ship
of self-despair
Where
I can scream
my lungs ******
into the air
But does anyone care?
Do I even f@cking care??
Maybe a life spared
but ***spare me the
retched bullsh@t***
of self-pity
I’m self-giving
It wreaks up the air
It’s noxious scent
is not one I care
to ever encounter
or fair
Let’s “clear the air”
and take on
what I want
from now on
No longer a pawn
who is living the tired
joke
of some *pathetic
love song*
No, THIS
is my “Swan Song”
Where I belong
This sh@t is ON!
Climbing the mountain strong
Bellowing a chant
a song
That’s been so deep within
for so long
It can only come out
Right
Because “wrong”
does not belong
**This virus
is airborne**
No longer forlorn
All the darkness
is gone
You have been
forewarned
Are you ready?
Because it’s coming
Sounding the horn
Sacrificed
the firstborn
The “storm”
Once icy and cold
Now simmering warm
Going to bubble into
volcanic ash scorned
This Oath
hath been sworn
Tattered and torn
**** cloth
all that is worn
But forward my path
What’s behind me
**My ***
The past
*Worn out,
decayed,
and shriveling trash*
All that
is gone
as I head
towards the dawn
Through the darkness
I’ve trekked
The Sun rises ahead
And with it
My song
My Swan Song
I am reborn
withered and worn
But still strong
I belong
***I am one
with the Universe***
The path before me
is brightly lit
with happiness and joy
No more patheticness
All the grit
and the spit
Broken teeth
All that sh@t
It all meant something
It was THIS
*Every bruise
Every break
All the “wrongs”
and “mistakes”*
Are what it takes
You can call it fate
or simply short of fatal
but since
neonatal
through this day till
Every day
I thankfully say
“Thank you”
for showing me the way
Because now I have
A love that stays
A true love
One that can’t
get away
Because I value Me
One ‘hopes’ or ‘prays’
But like a house
Each brick is laid
Onto the next
Foundation made
A sturdy house
Can’t blow away
Hard work put in
Made it this way
The same for me
The price I paid
But end result
A saving grace
#
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Mahatma Gandhi
Young visitors in a gallery,
Stood before a portrait of Gandhiji,
Charmed by his toothless smile,
Eyes sparkling through glasses round
And an old watch dangling from his waist,
With his chest bare and a **** cloth
Covering his lean , frail frame.
While they wondered how the good old man
Could shake the mighty British empire
And fight without weapons of destruction,
They were thrilled to behold a vision rare -
The smiling Gandhi emerged from the frame,
Saying that his weapons were invisible,
Yet, they could vanquish the most powerful
Without hatred and shedding no blood!
His loving voice and childlike smile
Combined with an unbending will,
Wielding the power of truth and nonviolence
Could conquer his mighty ruthless foes
And turn them into everloving friends!.
Feeling amazed, the visitors stared
At the Mahatma moving back into the frame;
Begged him to remain and lead them again.
"My countrymen," he said "seem to have forgotten,
" The bloodshed and horror of partition.
"Terrorists and fanatics **** and burn
" And innocent victims feel miserable and forlorn.
"Twice a year, on my 'samaadhi', flowers are strewn,
" While helpless millions struggle and groan.
"In these days of endless greed and senseless crime, "
"Guided missiles and misguided men,
" My words seem to have no relevance,
"Yet, if they listen to their own conscience,
" Give up greed and serve with compassion,
"The India of my dreams will arrive soon."
Sad and surprised, the visitors stared:
Though the figure vanished, his words inspired
And they resolved to follow his noble ways
And strive for the welfare of all mankind.
********* M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India. [email protected]
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
I see a clover in my heart,
two trefoil shamrocks do adorn my breast,
these spider's webs on my elbows, -covered,
with moving foot never do I rest.
Upon me soul and in my mind,
resides a brotherhood to wit I'm joined,
from home of Prometheus a story born,
seed of Gomer passes through my ****
I have a clover in my heart,
a turning foot makes this world mine.
The Caucasus seem so far from me,
with six-thousand years in brotherhood; time.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
1
*Gongs and drums sound rambunctious,
a wild rhythm tears the silence of the night,
a slow number first, then in quick time
racing fast,everything ends in a blast.
his self control lost, he dances like one possessed,
in the moon lit places and shadows alike.
This angst is not his alone, he feels,
as if mad at the way the world these days is.
Freedom of a special kind, it was, catharsis,
drums sounding mysterious, made life different.
2
Once when he and his girl were making love
deep in his veins drums rumbled,
and he couldn't but stop and listen,
she was curious,"What is this, what do you listen?"
smiling, he resumed his dance
thorough the valley and plains, like wind,
to the tune of temple drums,
his hair flying and sweat pouring like rain,
she could catch the change of rhythm
intense love was there, in the depth of fury.
Then, they ended up panting,then lying quiet.
holding each other tight,she said;
"you are like one possessed, fantastic,"
but he had felt the presence of a third,
he felt in his bones,
a benign female presence, who is she?
3
The oracle holding a sword with a shining blade,
wearing a red silk turban and a white **** cloth, told:
"It's the possession of a woman, a wild spirit,
her songs and dance were snuffed out
at a young age, when it slowly emerged,
it happened at a time we don't know when,
a kindred spirit, your tumult suits her soul."
the oracle was in a trance when he opened his eyes,
"Not a curse, a blessing, symbiotic it is"
the oracle threw a bit of holy ash on him and said:
"Well son, in you Devi, the mother goddess
is pleased, this spirit will survive,
her speakings will come out from you,
all will be just fine, being kind you received her,
so pleased and contented she is, wouldn't disturb"
They walked together, the woman without a body
to fulfill her dreams or sing her songs,
at times of loneliness the drums sound,
she comes in to his tumultuous soul, he makes her alight,
in their entwined destiney, he sings her songs, they dance.*
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
we hear the dancing men giggle,
**** cloth comedians
two Tarzans twittering
like nightingales singing in berkley square
their female wrestling partners
as bereft as any whale
longing for ruby rings
to signpost the hell out of there.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Le garçon délabré qui n’a rien à faire
Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
‘Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
C’est ce qu’on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux.’
(Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie,
Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
‘Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces—
C’est là, dans une averse, qu’on s’abrite.
J’avais sept ans, elle était plus petite.
Elle était toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primevères.’
Les taches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trentehuit.
‘Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
J’éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire.’
Mais alors, vieux lubrique, à cet âge …
‘Monsieur, le fait est dur.
Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien;
Moi j’avais peur, je l’ai quittée à mi-chemin.
C’est dommage.’
Mais alors, tu as ton vautour!
Va t’en te décrotter les rides du visage;
Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi?
Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé,
Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d’étain:
Un courant de sous-mer l’emporta très ****
Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
Figurez-vous donc, c’était un sort pénible;
Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
3.5k
The steak tartare had painted toenails
And manicured hands of polished silk;
Mouth with apple, daintily wedged,
Floating in a bath of milk.
I helped myself to a silky ****
Sliced across it's still-pink grain,
Seasoned with a squirt of lemon
And coarse ground pepper, for a tang.
The seasoned broth was the finest gravy
To moisten the neat cuts of meat,
And sweetened fat, in a frothy pie
Ended the repast, with a treat.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
Mon papa, c'est le plus fort des papas.
Mon papa, c'est le plus beau des papas.
Mon papa, même quand il est fatigué, on dirait Richard Gere.
Mon papa, même si il est carnivore, moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand il mange, on dirait qu'il a 5 ans, mais moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, il a des voitures super cool qui font vroom.
Mon papa, quand il conduit, on dirait Michel Vaillant, même pas peur.
Mon papa, quand il me dit bonne nuit, j'ai même plus peur.
Les monstres sous mon lit, eux, ils se désintègrent avec la force des bisous de mon papa.
Mon papa, parfois, il ronfle et je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand on est dans la piscine, il joue au crocrodile avec nous.
Mon papa, quand il porte des choses, les manches de sa chemise se déchire sous les muscles.
Mon papa, avec une barbe, on dirait un homme des caverne, c'est trop cool.
Mon papa, quand il fait des câlins, on disparait sous ses couches d'amour.
Mon papa, quand il nous emmène faire du shopping, il supporte des heures et il sourit.
Mon papa, il nous laisse faire des trucs qui lui font peur, mais il veut nous faire plaisir, alors il dit oui.
Mon papa, il m'a laissé faire du saut en parachute, et je suis même pas morte.
Mon papa, il râle parfois mais on sait qu'en fait, c'est parce qu'il nous aime.
Mon papa, même quand il voyage, il pense à nous.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage avec des photos tout le temps quand il travail.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage tout le temps quand il est en vacances.
Mon papa, il fait des trucs de papa trop génial.
Par exemple, il connait nos restaurants préférés, et il sait ce qui nous fait plaisir.
Alors il nous y emmène.
Mon papa, même quand il est en colère, il est beau.
Mon papa, quand il sourit il est comme Thor, le dieu du tonnerre, il est puissant.
Du coup, parfois, ma maman elle fait un nervous break down.
Parce que mon papa il est trop beau c'est même pas normal.
Mon papa, il a un double menton pour que si un jour Game Of Thrones arrive dans la vraie vie, on pourra pas lui trancher la gorge.
Mon papa, il fait du vélo plus vite que le Tour de France. La preuve, ca fait des années qu'ils sont en France, mon papa, lui, il est déjà à Dubai.
Mon papa, parfois il oublie notre anniversaire quand on lui demande au pif, mais il oublie jamais de le souhaiter, donc on lui pardonne.
Mon papa, il voyage en first class.
Mon papa, il connait les aéroports mieux que James Bond.
Mon papa, il regarde des series TV de jeunes.
Mon papa, il porte des costards.
Mon papa, il nous emmène manger des dans endroits incroyables.
Mon papa, il nous emmène dans des hôtels de luxe.
Mon papa, il devrait être président du monde.
Mon papa, il est mieux que les autres papa parce que c'est le mien.
Mon papa, il est irremplaçable.
Mon papa, si on m'en donnait un autre, j'en voudrais pas.
Mon papa, je veux que celui la.
Mon papa il est pas toujours là, mais c'est pas grave, parce qu'il est jamais ****
Mon papa, il traverse le monde mais après il nous raconte, alors c'est cool.
Mon papa, il fait une super vinaigrette. Dommage que j'aime pas la vinaigrette.
Mon papa, quand il fait un barbeque, ca fait beaucoup de fumée et pas beaucoup de feu, mais c'est pour mieux nous impressioner quand il fait rôtir la viande.
Mon papa, il parle Anglais.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur papa du monde.
Mon papa, je l'aime, même si maintenant, il a presque un demi siècle.
Mon papa, c'est comme un druide.
Ca meurt jamais.
C'est trop cool.
Mon papa, c'est comme une mode indémodable, tu veux jamais le remplacer, il est toujours tendance.
Mon papa, on peut pas le comparer a une mode fashion, parce que c'est un humain.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur humain que je connaisse.
Avec ma maman et ma soeur et mon chat, mais chuuuuut.
C'est un secret.
Mais ce que je préfère à propos de mon papa, c'est que dès que je le vois, je peux lui dire:
"mon papa, je l'aime."
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
There are more and more misfortunes in the world
Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions,
But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons
Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus
Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya,
I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage,
As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence,
**** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me
Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men,
I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease
But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies
My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them,
I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility
Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm!
Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom,
They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels,
I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity
Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love,
But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind,
They they nonchalantly pass on my **** *****
Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands
Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food,
Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat
The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity,
Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers
Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women,
Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow,
I thought my education will attract them to me,
To love me with those romantic University kisses,
But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion
They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil,
Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies
Of the forsaken African daughters,
Take me out of this ****** desert
Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar,
Take me to the equator line and give me a husband,
My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children
Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God,
Take me out of this ****** desert,
Where no man treats a modern woman,
Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream.
Because I have known from today;
It is accurse to be a woman in Africa
It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts
It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert
It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert,
O! Help me God.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Deep in the creek
where speckled light kisses the saline shore
and mud hole bubbles leave crab trails
I knock upon her door.
She opens with a whisper on her skin
licks my **** with her southern tongue
winds rise the dusts within
the mangrove falls quiet to her moaning song.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
My hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,
Leans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.
And these poor nerves so wired to the skull
Ache on the lovelorn paper
I hug to love with my unruly scrawl
That utters all love hunger
And tells the page the empty ill.
My hero bares my side and sees his heart
Tread; like a naked Venus,
The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;
Stripping my **** of promise,
He promises a secret heat.
He holds the wire from this box of nerves
Praising the mortal error
Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
And the hunger's emperor;
He pulls that chain, the cistern moves.
2.9k
Phrase Courte d'amour
Si tu veux une fleur il faudra la cueillir mais si tu veux mon cœur il faudra me séduire.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Je suis un arbre, mes fleurs c'est toi. Je suis un ciel, mes étoiles c'est toi. Je suis une rivière, mon bateau c'est toi. Je suis un corps mon cœur c'est toi.
Avec une larme d'émotion merci de tout cœur. Je me sens la plus heureuse sur terre grâce à toi mon cher je t'aime.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Toi qui illumines ma vie et m'inspires la joie. Tu habites mes nuits, tu habites mes jours, non ça ne change pas et tant mieux pour moi. Phrase Courte d'amour
Tu te souviens pourquoi on est tombés amoureux? Tu te souviens pourquoi c'était si fort entre nous? Parce que j'étais capable de voir en toi des choses que les autres ignoraient. Et c'était la même chose pour toi mon amour.
Phrase Courte d'amour
**** de vous je vois flou et j'ai mal partout car je ne pense qu'à vous, je sais que c'est fou, mais j'aime que vous.
La lune est comme un aimant, elle attire les amants regarde la souvent, tu trouvera celui que tu attend la main il te prendra pour la vie il te chérira.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Phrase Courte d'amour Pour vivre cette vie j'ai besoin d'un battement de cœur, avoir un battement de cœur j'ai besoin d'un cœur, avoir un cœur J'ai besoin de bonheur et avoir le bonheur j'ai besoin de toi!
Un baiser peut être une virgule, un point d'interrogation, ou un point d'exclamation. C'est une épellation de base que chaque femme devrait savoir.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Il ne faut jamais dire c'est trop **** puisqu'on peut toujours devenir ce que nous souhaitons être et aussi avoir ce que nous avons toujours désiré.
Le soleil ne s'arrête jamais de briller tout comme mon cœur ne s'arrête jamais de t'aimer.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'éternité c'est de passer qu'une seule seconde de ma vie sans toi, mais qu'importe cette seconde si à mon retour tu es toujours là.
Aimer est un sentiment d'appartenance à une personne de confiance.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour n'a pas besoin de carte, Phrase Courte d'amour car elle peut trouver son chemin les yeux bandés.
Dans ce monde l'amour n'a pas de couleur,pourtant le tien a profondément détint sur mon corps.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Le cœur est comme une fleur quand elle manque d'eau elle meurt.
L'amour que j'ai envers toi est incompréhensible aux yeux de tous ... Même de toi.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour est un mot que j'écris pour qu'il soit encore plus beau.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour se vit dans la richesse comme dans la détresse, dans la pauvreté ou la beauté.
Phrase Courte d'amour
L'amour commence par donner de l'importance et finit par l'ignorance.
Les plus belles choses dans la vie ne peuvent pas être vu, ni touchés, mais se font sentir que par cœur.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Qu'importe un océan ou un désert, l'amour n'a pas de frontières.
Il Parait que quand on aime, on ne compte pas, mais moi je compte chaque secondes passée sans toi.
Phrase Courte d'amour
Toi mon cœur, mon amour, ma joie, je te dis ces quelques mots en pensent à toi, je t'aime et je ne peux pas vivre sans toi, à chaque moment, à chaque instant, je pense à toi une minute sans toi et tu me manques déjà, alors toi mon cœur, accepte moi, prends moi dans tes bras, embrasse-moi une dernière fois.
Poeme courte d'amour
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
My Strongest, My Weakest
My strength where it be my weakness
My weakness, it seems to be my strength
Alone on a bench of thoughts
Pulling out memories as straws
******* out the moments so I don't feel numb again
Waiting for the sun to shine
At night I look for the brighest star
At home I wait for the hour of glory
I write futuristic promising romantic stories
Searching and digging into the pit of opportunity
Grinding and drilling so I can find what the world has for me
Is the rock a diamond uncovered?
Is the diamond a rock long discovered?
What good am I in a hopeless world?
How strong am I to be still standing?
I have been blinded by pride and reputation
The chances flew right past me
This was my weakness
An illusion which seemed to appear as my power
Only to allude me and send me to the depths of hunger
How do I survive in this incessant famine
My strongest, my weakest
Is my prowess both a strength and a weakness
Is my power a fist that concentrates my potential,
filters all doubts and confusion,
then send me back to a writer's rhythm?
For the muscle of me, what is love?
For the scars on my back, do tears set a heart free?
On my back are scars which smymbolize the pain
The pain caused by those who have turned their backs on me
The muscle of me a solidified lump of heated chemistry
Chemistry broke for the vision was divided
For one side a poetic love affair
Another a fling of **** and ego boost
Lies lie hidden in a black book of truce
The tears shower and the pain overshadows,
and the lies fly out and the book burns
Nothing left but hurt, resentment, hunger and thirst
A chance of love comes again and again I am underrated
Shots that succeed lack poise and weight
I levitate onto the pillars of loneliness
The trial gives me cold but also clarity
A fool never unless my heart learns to jump again and I,
I will set it free.
Is this a mere cry due to weakness?
Is it a last strike so I can find my strength again?
All is revealed and I slip into a stream
I am on the prowl once more and I will never be the same.
But soon I will find, the lines that divide
Strength and Weakness
And the balance therein
I am in it and I search for the limit... The limit within the dimensions of existence's summit.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:23 AM UTC
Je ne sais pas où je viendrai
demain
Je ne sais pas où tu seras
demain
Mais je sais que ce sera
****
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Un vieux renard cassé, goutteux, apoplectique,
Mais instruit, éloquent, disert,
Et sachant très bien sa logique,
Se mit à prêcher au désert.
Son style était fleuri, sa morale excellente.
Il prouvait en trois points que la simplicité,
Les bonnes moeurs, la probité,
Donnent à peu de frais cette félicité
Qu'un monde imposteur nous présente
Et nous fait payer cher sans la donner jamais.
Notre prédicateur n'avait aucun succès ;
Personne ne venait, hors cinq ou six marmottes,
Ou bien quelques biches dévotes
Qui vivaient **** du bruit, sans entour, sans faveur,
Et ne pouvaient pas mettre en crédit l'orateur.
Il prit le bon parti de changer de matière,
Prêcha contre les ours, les tigres, les lions,
Contre leurs appétits gloutons,
Leur soif, leur rage sanguinaire.
Tout le monde accourut alors à ses sermons :
Cerfs, gazelles, chevreuils, y trouvaient mille charmes ;
L'auditoire sortait toujours baigné de larmes ;
Et le nom du renard devint bientôt fameux.
Un **** roi de la contrée,
Bon homme au demeurant, et vieillard fort pieux,
De l'entendre fut curieux.
Le renard fut charmé de faire son entrée
A la cour : il arrive, il prêche, et, cette fois,
Se surpassant lui-même, il tonne, il épouvante
Les féroces tyrans des bois,
Peint la faible innocence à leur aspect tremblante,
Implorant chaque jour la justice trop lente
Du maître et du juge des rois.
Les courtisans, surpris de tant de hardiesse,
Se regardaient sans dire rien ;
Car le roi trouvait cela bien.
La nouveauté parfois fait aimer la rudesse.
Au sortir du sermon, le monarque enchanté
Fit venir le renard : vous avez su me plaire,
Lui dit-il, vous m'avez montré la vérité ;
Je vous dois un juste salaire :
Que me demandez-vous pour prix de vos leçons ?
Le renard répondit : sire, quelques dindons.
2.6k
I live in Moshi,Tanzania,
As a child,one day I got lost,
A maasai took me to his home.
He lived at the foothills of the majestic Mt.Kilimanjaro,
His home was a kraal (hut)
made of stone,sticks and cow dung.
I cried for my parents,
So he fed me milk and blood from a cow,
He pierced a hole in the cow's neck,
He put a bamboo and told me to drink the blood,
It was warm but I vomited,
Gradually, I got used to it.
The maasai's way of life is communilism,
Hunting,gathering and raiding neighbours cattle.
Theirs is an age set system for men,
The children look after the herd,
I joined them having fun,
No school, no lessons or homework.
Then,there were the Morans,the youths,
They wore black **** cloths,
Carried a spear in one hand,
Their faces were painted with white ochre.
They protected the clan and the cattle,
From predators and other tribes.
They lived in a circle of huts called manyatta.
After being circumcised the Morans were taught the art of warfare
The bravest warrior got to wear the feathers of an ostrich.
The senior morans could marry and settle down,
The Moran who jumped the highest got the best girl.
The Laigewenanis trained the morans to be warriors,
My maasai was a laigwenani,
Like all maasais, he was tall and lean,
He wore a bright red shuka cloth with black stripes,
A red tartan blanket was slung on his shoulder,
He always held a long bladed stabbing spear,
His long hair was tightly braided,
He had ochre painted on his body,
He had no children and treated me like his son,
He would take me to teach the morans about warfare.
But,he had to take the permission of the chief, the Laibon.
The Laibons were the chief religious leaders,
They settled disputes,
They decided when and on whom to attack.
Luckily,after two months my maasai and I had gone to a game reserve for hunting,
A game warden found me.
He alerted the police and I was taken home safely.
But,I missed my maasai and their pastoral way of life.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her **** and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.
2.2k
Chanson.
Mimi Pinson est une blonde,
Une blonde que l'on connaît.
Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde,
Landerirette !
Et qu'un bonnet.
Le Grand Turc en a davantage.
Dieu voulut de cette façon
La rendre sage.
On ne peut pas la mettre en gage,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi Pinson porte une rose,
Une rose blanche au côté.
Cette fleur dans son coeur éclose,
Landerirette !
C'est la gaieté.
Quand un bon souper la réveille,
Elle fait sortir la chanson
De la bouteille.
Parfois il penche sur l'oreille,
Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson.
Elle a les yeux et la main prestes.
Les carabins, matin et soir,
Usent les manches de leurs vestes,
Landerirette !
A son comptoir.
Quoique sans maltraiter personne,
Mimi leur fait mieux la leçon
Qu'à la Sorbonne.
Il ne faut pas qu'on la chiffonne,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi Pinson peut rester fille,
Si Dieu le veut, c'est dans son droit.
Elle aura toujours son aiguille,
Landerirette !
Au bout du doigt.
Pour entreprendre sa conquête,
Ce n'est pas tout qu'un beau garçon :
Faut être honnête ;
Car il n'est pas **** de sa tête,
Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson.
D'un gros bouquet de fleurs d'orange
Si l'amour veut la couronner,
Elle a quelque chose en échange,
Landerirette !
A lui donner.
Ce n'est pas, on se l'imagine,
Un manteau sur un écusson
Fourré d'hermine ;
C'est l'étui d'une perle fine,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi n'a pas l'âme vulgaire,
Mais son coeur est républicain :
Aux trois jours elle a fait la guerre,
Landerirette !
En casaquin.
A défaut d'une hallebarde,
On l'a vue avec son poinçon
Monter la garde.
Heureux qui mettra sa cocarde
Au bonnet de Mimi Pinson !
2.3k
If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the ****
Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the ***** and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his ***
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.
2.2k
*I scrub my armpits
I scratch the dirt off my back
I wash my nose and ears
And I’ll be honest -
I think I just ******
** Hey ah, po!
Jump in like fish and enjoy this water
It’s as cool as the touch of a woman
in mid-summer
Jump in and the water
is as generous as a woman in love
Who cares about the gods or Heaven
it’s water, water, that’s the beginning and the end
** Hey ah, po!
*I scrub my armpits
I scratch the dirt off my back
I wash my nose and ears
And I’ll be honest -
I think I just ******
** hay hay toh!
All clothes are gone
God can go jump into a pool
for all I care
All the power is in the fall of water
This is delight
This is joy, this waterfall and gathered water
I’m as naked as when I was born
well, except for the **** cloth
that covers the toys
that pleasure my woman
** hay hay toh!
*I scrub my armpits
I scratch the dirt off my back
I wash my nose and ears
And I’ll be honest -
I think I just ******
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC