"lovelier" poems
The cloudless day is richer at its close;
A golden glory settles on the lea;
Soft, stealing shadows hint of cool repose
To mellowing landscape, and to calming sea.
And in that nobler, gentler, lovelier light,
The soul to sweeter, loftier bliss inclines;
Freed form the noonday glare, the favour'd sight
Increasing grace in earth and sky divines.
But ere the purest radiance crowns the green,
Or fairest lustre fills th' expectant grove,
The twilight thickens, and the fleeting scene
Leaves but a hallow'd memory of love!
15.1k
Even the most beautiful flower
Needs to be daily showered with water
For it to grow lovelier
Or else it will wither.
Just like our dreams and aspirations,
We need daily inspirations
For us to keep going
Or else our hearts will stop hoping.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
My porcelain skin is no match
For the velvety brown of yours
Your soft chocolate eyes are lovelier
While my greens are merely cold
And I should know better than to refuse
To wipe my face on the floor
I should be more of a lady (or a nun)
If I'm to be all you're asking for
You reference the way I was raised
A single mother and an only daughter
And you're sure that I will lead astray
Your potential grandsons and granddaughters
Know that your son is all
The good you exclaim him to be
But he sees the light in these witch's eyes
Where you see death and greed
I now understand that I will never
Be righteous enough in your sight
And it is because of your background
That you accuse and criticize
You will always be his mother
Who cares for him nonetheless
But I will stay his lover
Even while I don't pass your test
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Who will play the river and who will play ocean?
That is to be determined, although I can stretch farther than you.
Where freshwater and saltwater meet;
that will be our special place
where love can flourish.
Biodiversity has never been lovelier.
Let's hope that no dams keep you from coming in to me
and destroy our sanctuary-
our estuary.
But you know how it is these days.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Love came to Flora asking for a flower
That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the rose, long, long had been
Rivals for that high honor. Bards of power
Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower
Like the pale lily with her Juno mien" —
"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between
Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower.
"Give me a flower delicious as the rose
And stately as the lily in her pride" —
But of what color?" — "Rose-red," Love first chose,
Then prayed — "No, lily-white — or, both provide;"
And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed,
And "lily-white" — the queenliest flower that blows.
6.2k
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
5.9k
My mobile screams
Its Taylor Swift " I wished it was me"
Wake up folks its 6 am
Let's face another hectic day
Another day of terror and challenge
Unlike the good old days
when life was even simpler
when mobiles were not a necessity
but communication still exists
in close knit families
Life was even greater
When smartphones and computers
were gadgets of the future
Still relationships went on smooth and happier
Life was even lovelier
when Apples and Blackberries
were merely fruits
for juices and desserts.
but still we need to strive
to face another day
in this concrete jungle
and adapt our life....
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Since beauty is honoured all over the Empire,
How could Xi Shi remain humbly at home? --
Washing clothes at dawn by a southern lake --
And that evening a great lady in a palace of the north:
Lowly one day, no different from the others,
The next day exalted, everyone praising her.
No more would her own hands powder her face
Or arrange on her shoulders a silken robe.
And the more the King loved her, the lovelier she looked,
Blinding him away from wisdom.
...Girls who had once washed silk beside her
Were kept at a distance from her chariot.
And none of the girls in her neighbours' houses
By pursing their brows could copy her beauty.
3.6k
Even though it isn't Mother's Day,
I hope this poem is perfect in everyway,
I always love you so;
As the days come then quickly go.
I wish I could do something grand for you,
To show you that my love for you is true,
And I am not ashamed to say;
Happy Belated Mother's Day!
Your delicious cooking fills the air,
Made by your gentle hands with love and care,
Those beautiful hands lovingly kneading bread;
Or pointing me to bed.
Or lovingly stroking those furry darlings,
But you are my brown-eyed starling,
Sweeter then them, lovelier than them all;
You succeed and do not fall!
Loving hands dancing across piano keys,
It's tinkling melody floating on the breeze,
Holding a journal on your lap;
Listening to the rain on the roof tap.
Pretty brown eyes and light brown hair,
A long face of gentle care,
O, mother dear you are better than them all;
You succeed and never fall!
Happy Belated Mother's Day, Mom!
~Marian~
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Silky smooth,
Tender veins,
Numerous petals
Smell sweet.
Beautiful.
Admired.
A spectators gaze,
Floral physique.
Made for my
Enjoyment.
Just as pretty
As He views me.
The flowers -
Alluring
Yet, I'm lovelier
Than peonies.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
*Always there to comfort me
Always there to whisper,"I love you"
Always there to be my Mom sweet and happy
Always there to cheer me up when I feel blue
Always there to be my twin sister
Always there to be my sweetheart
Never could there be a Mom lovelier. . . no never!
Always there to be my sweet sweetheart
Always there to be my pretty pink china rose
A heart of red love so pure....And she's my rose
She is always my Mom and sister that I dearly love
And God gave her to me from above
I love you so much, Mom dear
And you're always there to wipe away my tears
You are so very, very sweet
Thousands of times sweeter than the birds that tweet!*
~Marian~
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
the life I lived was like a fairytale
than you came around with your mysterious charms
and decided to make a mess out of things
that weren't even there to begin with
you came in my life and everything changed
colorfull flowers turned into ashes
stars didn't shine like they used to
and suddenly my world revolved around you
I couldn't think about anything else but you
I couldn't dream about anything else but you
I couldn't even breathe
your white blonde hair and black eyes
you always had this kind of speaking that impressed me
he was elegant, he was smart, he was bold, a leader
and all these little things made me fall for him even more
you were evil and everyone could see it
this boy was the king of not showing emotions
he was kinda heartless sometimes, but I didn't mind
he always made feel loved, special
like nobody else excisted for him, it was only me
but sometimes even I didnt know how to handle his demons
everytime the darkness took him over I was afraid of him
and I could see in his eyes that he enjoyed me being scared
he liked having this control over people, it was wrong
this boy was the best yet worst thing that ever happend to me
I found comfort in the way he saw things different
everyday I needed him a little bit more
he was like my personal drug and he knew it
without him he knew I wouldn't survive
he made me need him
and everytime I looked at him I saw a demon
but this kid was so so beautiful, it made me blind
and I still don't know if I should walk away or not
the childeren of lucifer,
the most beautiful of all God's angels
we are so much lovelier when we fall.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Nothing...had enchanted me more,
than that big yellow rose...
bright, stunning at the tip of its tall stem,
soft petals.....yet to fully unfurl,
its inner part...a soothing light shaded swirl...
i sniffed a bit of its fragrance,
and felt its softness...but,
i got pricked by a hidden thorn,
---
just a tiny puncture...yet,
my finger bled so much...
---
i walked on through the garden,
...with my pricked finger inside my mouth,
i was amazed by other flowers, more colorful ones,
but, the yellow, pink, red roses outshone them all...
with care this time, i touched a big pink,
slowly.........and, again, i didn't see,
another thorn was in the way
---
it was more painful
it bled even more...
---
i stood thinking, while bleeding...
its beauty, its silky feel...its
fragrance that lingers in the mind
would all be difficult to resist,
the pain from the thorns...harder to forget,
but, i'd still want to walk through this vast
garden....live this life...and seek those roses
feel them...be inspired...over and over
---
never mind the spikes!
never mind the pain!
---
love is beautiful like a rose
a rose is beautiful like genuine love,
there are thorns...hindrances and
hurdles, that come with its beauty....yet,
that wonderful feeling of loving,
and being loved, in return,
the wanting, the longing for it,
never dies...the fear of bleeding,
is ignored,
---
for, what is life without love?
and what is love without pain?
---
isn't love lovelier...more hopeful
the next time around?
---
a rose could never be a rose
without its many thorns...
---
Sally
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 11, 2018
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
My poem may be yours indeed
In melody and tone,
If in its rhythm you can read
A music of your own;
If in its pale woof you can weave
Your lovelier design,
'Twill make my lyric, I believe,
More yours than mine.
I'm but a prompter at the best;
Crude cues are all I give.
In simple stanzas I suggest -
'Tis you who make them live.
My bit of rhyme is but a frame,
And if my lines you quote,
I think, although they bear my name,
'Tis you who wrote.
Yours is the beauty that you see
In any words I sing;
The magic and the melody
'Tis you, dear friend, who bring.
Yea, by the glory and the gleam,
The loveliness that lures
Your thought to starry heights of dream,
The poem's yours.
2.6k
Contents of the lockers lay in a pile
A flask, a Marlboro box, a thousand
textbooks, pills in an orange see-through bottle
One item, unique to the others,
is a notebook
Full of confessions and Sexton and Plath
Sad yearnings and accounts of complete moments
This notebook
Surrounded by the cigarettes and concealed ***** and mathematical equations
Shows the other world
within this world
That spins in time with this world
But gives and takes
for lovelier sakes
-cj
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
How do I describe my Texas girl.
Piercing brown eyes that touches my soul.
Ruby red lips that I long to kiss
Lovely tanned skin and a smile bigger than San Antonio.
As I feel the soft Texas breezes blowing across my face.
It reminds me of her love touching my heart in the deepest place.
The Texas stars come out at night
Oh look, there are two, shining like her eyes.
Beautiful place, beautiful love, beautiful girl, beautiful sight.
My love for her is bigger than the Texas sky.
She is more mysterious than the Texas desert and Lovelier than the cactus flower that grows by the roadside.
This is my Texas girl.
This girl of mine.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Alone but together
over the Christmas days
time was not running out
for once the kitchen clock
had stopped looking at him
meaningfully and she
today a thing of beauty
of gathered curves
flowing in and from
that special frock
bought for an opening
(and perhaps worn once?)
she was lovelier then
than any woman
he had known or seen.
Earlier that morning in place of falling
ever falling towards passion’s state
he had lain peacefully beside her
and from his pillowed space in bed
had gazed . . . instead
They did the usual things
but with an unusual care
taking time with presents’ paper
savouring wine between sips of water
cutting into that well-iced cake
and sensing from a distant room
the scent of candles glimmering
On St Stephen’s Day
they’d upped and offed
into the glen that rose above the town
that held her world of work
of children house and home
walking up through bare winter trees
where far below a stream rushed valley-ward
undrowned for once by the traffic’s noise
and the sudden rush of the railway's train.
About to turn for home
he saw her stoop
to look to gather to pocket
Some sixth sense told him then
an idea had formed itself
when as between her fingers
she held five acorns from the path
not squirreled-perfect shiny ones
but damaged and in need of care
these cups and fruit garnered about
with slivers of broken oaken bark
Later she left them lying
on a sheet of card
their winter colours
true but hard
in the kitchen’s light
objects suddenly
removed from all disorder
of a woodland way.
An hour or so perhaps later
still with her small fingers
she had stitched until . .
no not stitched she said
darned with blue and red
and silk-golden thread
in between and then around
these fractured acorn shells
picked from the path with
the cracked and shattered
broken bark now made
good as new and mended well
Her smile expressed a triumph
and a joy of a doing done
and from laughing eyes
and heightened voice
he sensed something
stretch into time’s distance
something wholly private
she would guard
and hold and own
to be only hers
and only hers alone.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.
2.2k
A love like pomegranate seeds — I am condemned to a mortal marriage with Death, waiting for his hands to touch me in the winter; I am stuck inside an autumnal equinox, waiting for the spring. My mind is a brothel — filthy and thoughts floating in and out but not looking for any sort of commitment. But you say that my brain is efflorescent and something lovelier than I would believe. There are cities in the palms of my hands, once teeming with life like the Great Barrier Reef, but now moan the silent sounds of desolation within a Chernobyl wasteland; but you are roaming the ashes atop my fingertips like a lost child trying to unearth the memories of her mother beneath the rubble of a shaken faith, despite knowing she was lost forever in the wake of brutal destruction, kicking me left and right as though I were the collapsed mountain of infrastructure in the wake of early September, 2001. I say all this to confirm that I do miss your voice and its fluidity on the phone — I miss your voice even though I know you'll hang up, and I wish I felt that way about living. I only want you to hold my sticky heart like melted candy. I want you to stop sighing and slumping in your chair like the names of every Holocaust victim is engraved on your eyelids. I want you to smile like an innocent child, for once.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
2.1k
In your heart is a bouquet
Beautiful in many ways;
It is one always in bloom,
Your love gives it golden rays.
It's made of understanding,
Gentleness and TLC;
It is well known for kindness,
Your virtues give it beauty.
This bouquet has much power,
Light in hearts it does infuse;
It's a bouquet I treasure,
That I'll never want to lose.
This bouquet I sure treasure,
It means very much to me;
Its beauty excels sunshine,
Around it I like to be.
The bouquet found in your heart,
Is a bouquet highly prized.
Each day it gets lovelier,
This my heart has realized.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 6:46 AM UTC
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,
Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
Than small white single poppies,—I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.
Like him who day by day unto his draught
Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.
1.9k
With every day that passes us by,
You become lovelier to my eyes.
You are more beautiful than you were yesterday,
and like each and every day,
you will always take my breath away!
Your brilliance makes the sun seem small
because truthfully,
you are my sun,
you are my all.
I wish we shared the same bed,
so that we may wait for the sun to rise
and tell the beloved moon our goodbyes
And only that way,
I could wake up to you everyday,
only to remind you that you are the girl my heart is adoring,
and all before the sun’s first ray,
I could kiss you and wish you good morning!
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
THE ROSES slanted crimson sobs
On the night sky hair of the women,
And the long light-fingered men
Spoke to the dark-haired women,
"Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier."
How could he sit there among us all
Guzzling blood into his guts,
Goblets, mugs, buckets-
Leaning, toppling, laughing
With a slobber on his mouth,
A smear of red on his strong raw lips,
How could he sit there
And only two or three of us see him?
There was nothing to it.
He wasn't there at all, of course.
The roses leaned from the pots.
The sprays snot roses gold and red
And the roses slanted crimson sobs
In the night sky hair
And the voices chattered on the way
To the frappe, speaking of pictures,
Speaking of a strip of black velvet
Crossing a girlish woman's throat,
Speaking of the mystic music flash
Of pots and sprays of roses,
"Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier."
1.9k
I gave him my favourite book
And laughed it off as expanding his "cultural horizons."
I showed him my favourite movie
And shrugged it off as "chillin' and killin' time."
I sent him all my favourite music
But could not write it off as anything
Other than pure devotion.
I want to scoop out
His eyes that read my most beloved works,
His unworthy ears that heard the tunes of my heart,
His awful, ugly smile that enjoyed my dearest film.
And so now here I sit,
With his organs lying before me,
Looking lovelier than on him;
And still, I am not at peace.
The rumbling in my heart, and the twitching in my fingers
Has not stopped.
I dive for his heart;
I will sew it on my sleeve.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC