"mooned" poems
a future promise
a hard on like bundled gym socks
in stuffed blue jeans
a future threat
a shriveled phallus wrinkled obsolete
she remembered fondly
being beaten drum chatter
and seized like slow roasted
fall off the bone pulled pork
****** raggedy Ann
catapulted beyond Euboean heavens
ravaging scrotums Gordian ******
with her wild fiendish mouth
drinking a river of
haloed golden showers
spit and ****
in a runaway hot house of glistening pink
buttery spires
engorging her macerated orifices
half eaten radish
chocking on hordes
of big do do *****
a ****** face; cross eyed
Babylon abalone
bashed Ashly mashed
begging for
a face full of swinging *****
like caped chandeliers
trotting faint giggles
in a constellation
of ruptured arteries
and thick sparked ****
on her knees
milk glitter faced
scared with happiness
she counted one smiling bruise at a time
her badge of calamities
black and blue silhouettes
grinning invitations like party favors
without a crease of shame
her skin rapturous
spackled patchworks
bled like torrential fountains summer tide
while every body had fizzy red ice phlebotomies
and steamed through her drooling tumble pie
lust ***** totem
house of winding labyrinths
honey pumped transfusion
flush on blush
opera of tangled limbs
red pulse wedding flowers
slick ***** palace
blood tongued orchard
caressing knotted mooned
**** spill
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 2:22 PM UTC
Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.
Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!
Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!
Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.
The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!
Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!
The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.
Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.
Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!
Dec 12, 2021
Dec 12, 2021 at 11:53 PM UTC
A pickle’s tip is not enough for you.
Its going all in.
Taste is a side dish, too.
Savor the mooned lemons,
the skin’s sahara’s,
or the two parallel
ulurus.
Don’t forget your sin.
You take food off the table–
from your neighbours, too.
Your hunger could ****
Take your worn-out maps–
old lessons of geography–
skim your finger
in between the iced caps.
Kiss the foreign,
the countries that don’t belong
to you.
Take it all, avariced ****
*** to you,
is a selfish meal.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 4:10 AM UTC
free-floating, untethered
like a chimney-sweep orphan
it swirls alone in space
no star nearby, no system to call it home
free, wandering, swaying to a symphony of
embracing silence
there are possibly millions
these drifters, these mavericks, rogues
sub-stellar, not mainstream
no pull on each
not your usual planet
with position, star-bound and mooned
but a maverick, free, solitary
untethered, untethered, indie planet
in no one’s sway
….a maverick, it does it all its own way….
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
Succulent, meaty, ribs falling off the bone and drenched in a velvety, thick, sauce.
“Check please.”
Tender chunks of lobster tail bathed in sweet, drawn, butter.
“Thank you. That will be all.
Heavy, cream-coated, strands of fettuccine accompanied by fresh peas, Speck, and shaved Parmesan.
“I wish I could stay but I can’t.”
Filet. Rare. A veil of Roquefort and sautéed wild mushrooms in a Sauternes reduction.
“It's just not the right time.”
Perfectly seasoned carne asada with a creamy roasted poblano sauce, queso fresco and the cool, half-mooned, sultry innards of a Hass avocado.
“I'll call you tomorrow”
A decadent Kobe burger blanketed in cheeses, caramelized onions, crisp bacon, and a cap of unctuous foie grois.
“But thank you for everything.”
Peanut butter and jelly on white bread.
And you would have me forever.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
Imagine the first rumor. The first grunt of gossip
The first finger-point of prejudice. It was probably
like noticing the sunset for the first-time. How it
stretched out across the entire scope of your vision,
peeled back into a city that wasn’t the one you were in,
like an orange peel, one skin at a time. Eventually,
the world rounded, the ice melted, homo-sapiens
grew taller. Our voices deepened, bodies thickened.
We learned to survive the cold, the floods,
the irrational wars, and crescent-mooned nights
underneath tinned roofs. Then came the enlightenment,
the evolution of speech. The first cousin of Germanic
languages; the second cousin of Romantic languages.
And then the first rumor. The first appraisal of good
or bad actions of people hardly known. I imagine
my ancestors, 1.9 million years ago, grunting
with raised brow in her partner’s direction. Pointing
at two men crouching behind a large, fallen boulder.
Pointing at a man who belongs to her neighbor,
crawling out of a cave that doesn’t belong to him.
They are probably turning over in their bone-filled
graves as I think of what to say next, laughing at how
far we haven’t come from the ghouls of gossip,
discussing how out of all the occupations in this world:
bricklayer, lawyer, educator, their descendant chose
this noble profession, this calling up of events.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, funny how a book can be translated by everyone's Mercury differently--edited;}
on a beauty so mystical on a plastered smile an essence so beam
yet not everlasting not in a bare nor a second tormenting blurt
such stars she begged them Gods for she tormented in a skeptic hurt
she trails her menaces to **** in a drip
of a bordeaux in a wine in a mindless sip
yearning erased letters from people from faces
a charm of a devil monster selfished her feels down her laces
a bound to the intimate
flushed upon the ultimate
of the hate of the ends
an evermore of upcoming pained centuries
moments the gods abide to hide to conceal
from human memory to blank and come across a past life to steal
then to the unconscious to plant on dreams and make souls heal
speechless left
one on the fictional
two on the cure in the weeks my delusional
believed seven constellated freckles pure by the character been held
mooned self-expressionism in sick mind delves I label mine
forever fallen saint on the line
--------ravenfeels
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
these days i feel like water. like an ocean cusping on the marked line of a horizon. like a droplet riveting and rolling, making its way down to pool onto a ledge.
the slightest nudge, a gentle push
and i'd spill over.
sitting dangerously on the lip of the cup
teetering in and out of balance-
it is a game of give or take
i bend myself backwards into a crescent
just to make room for their full mooned selves
i wonder how Neil Armstrong felt
when he took his first step onto the dusty crater ridden plain
and found himself
all
alone
i am
alone
destined to listlessly twirl around my own axis dreamlike
but not like a dream at all
floating miles away from the person i have yet to unearth
but yet not far enough to fly among the stars
i am held by the centre of my own gravity
is that why sometimes i can hear my bones creak under the weight of the person i was supposed to be?
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 6:44 AM UTC
like stars, her eyes following the path,
time moulded into its caves
the sky with its sapphire-mooned dome,
the rustling trees where the fast
wind swore and shook each crooked branch
here beyond the houses and the well-kept lawns,
the low walls and scrolled iron gates
the sounds of the night a bat’s wing,
the sagging wind gusting, smoke
peppering the sky from chimneys in a thin flame
or the jagged ice of a jaded moon
where the horses in the woodland
shook their manes, grey-eyed like
athene and her owl, untired as
a fog-spun sea, relentless and alive,
the trees and their ghosts around her
she held her breath, bare feet weaving
along the sandy track, dress flowing,
her arms covered in bracelets,
her lips, coral-pink, brushed in peppermint,
free to dream at last , eyes swallowing
the dark lines of the trees, hanging the dusk
from her eye lids, singing of the sweetness
of the night and its ragged clouds,
the raw dust of the moon.
her dreams were blue pools, the night
with its midnight leaves, her
heart longed to be free, to wander
through the trees as wild as the
horses with their stone-like manes
and sweeping metal hooves, brushed
with the inks of the sky in the shadowy
woods where everything was still but
not still, where the moonlight carved
its name in the woken tree.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
The double wheel,
Mooned sky,
Dogs bark,
Children they flinch,
A spine tingling sense,
I worry.
The kids,
Soundlessly asleep,
They unaware,
Worryless,
The house creeks,
Eyes wide open,
I glance at side to side.
I worry.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming
From I know not where.
How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.
1.1k
Rustling among his odds and ends of knowledge
Suddenly, to his wonder, Senlin finds
How Cleopatra and Senebtisi
Were dug by many hands from ancient tombs.
Cloth after scented cloth the sage unwinds:
Delicious to see our futile modern sunlight
Dance like a harlot among these Dogs and Dooms!
First, the huge pyramid, with rock on rock
Bloodily piled to heaven; and under this
A gilded cavern, bat festooned;
And here in rows on rows, with gods about them,
Cloudily lustrous, dim, the sacred coffins,
Silver starred and crimson mooned.
What holy secret shall we now uncover?
Inside the outer coffin is a second;
Inside the second, smaller, lies a third.
This one is carved, and like a human body;
And painted over with fish and bull and bird.
Here are men walking stiffly in procession,
Blowing horns or lifting spears.
Where do they march to? Where do they come from?
Soft whine of horns is in our ears.
Inside, the third, a fourth . . . and this the artist,--
A priest, perhaps--did most to make resemble
The flesh of her who lies within.
The brown eyes widely stare at the bat-hung ceiling.
The hair is black, The mouth is thin.
Princess! Secret of life! We come to praise you!
The torch is lowered, this coffin too we open,
And the dark air is drunk with musk and myrrh.
Here are the thousand white and scented wrappings,
The gilded mask, and jeweled eyes, of her.
And now the body itself, brown, gaunt, and ugly,
And the hollow scull, in which the brains are withered,
Lie bare before us. Princess, is this all?
Something there was we asked that is not answered.
Soft bats, in rows, hang on the lustered wall.
And all we hear is a whisper sound of music,
Of brass horns dustily raised and briefly blown,
And a cry of grief; and men in a stiff procession
Marching away and softly gone.
1.1k
Let's see, my oldest son was about seven years old. The boys had to ride a buss to
school, which my oldest did not do well. He has this way about him, that tends to have
women authoritative figures letting him off the hook, when he's been naughty. I always
thought it was his eyes and devilish smile. They both still get him into and out of
trouble. But those are stories for another time.
This particular year, he was having a must difficult time behaving on the buss. He had
discovered that he could be a real clown and the girls loved it. Go figure. The buss
driver gave him multiple warnings and "Buss Tickets" for misbehaving. But, somehow,
he was always forgiven by the schools principal (a woman) and never got detention.
Even when we insisted on it.
All except this one time. On the last day of school, he decided to end the year with a
bang. He came home from school that day and acted as though nothing had
happened. Later that evening, I received a phone call. It was the buss driver. She was
laughing before she was even able to tell me why she called. Although I was 100% sure
it was about my oldest.
Apparently, he was a little angel the whole ride home. That alone made her suspicious.
She pulled up to his stop. Out he got. Then he mooned her. The way the buss driver
told it, it wasn't a quarter moon, nor a half moon. But a FULL MOON. He had hitched
up his pants and ran before she could get her wits about her. She said she laughed all
the way home.
Well, I started to apologize through my laughter. I assured her that we would most
definitely take this in hand. But she stopped me and stated "Oh, I'll handle this". She
shared with me her plan. I had the hardest time all summer, not telling him, that I
knew what he had done.
Next year, the very first day of school, my oldest went to catch the buss. Oh, I had a
hard time waiting to see what would happen. That afternoon, when he came home, he
was upset. "Look what she did Mom! I can't believe it!" he whined. There in his hand,
was a bright red "BUSS TICKET" The reason on it was marked in bold felt
pen..."Mooning". Now, you would think that he would be upset about the mooning.
Noooo, not my son. His exact words were...."I can't believe someone that old would
remember what I did."
sigh That boy has never changed
On a side note: He and his Dad had a long talk about that Ticket.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
We've all heard the story about Bonnie and Clyde
How they met, eloped and died.
And we're tired of hearing
About Henry and Ann,
And their shameless lives
Back in Tudor England.
When their marriage broke,
Ann lost her head,
With one stroke.
I won't bother you with the story
Of Napoleon and Josephine,
And that messy business
With the guilotine.
You know Caesar and Cleo
Put on quite a show,
They had a long distance relationship
From Rome to Egypt.
But it ended badly.
She by a snake bite,
Him by Marc Antony.
These famous couples didn't tarry;
They were harried
Before they married;
They met and wed,
But were too soon dead.
Now Byron and Colleen
Met when teens,
Byron was sixteen,
Colleen just fifteen.
They lived together,
To begin,
He loved her,
She loved him.
This wasn't living
As they say, “In sin.”
No rings lingered
On wedding fingers:
No bands of gold
To wear 'til old.
No license, no Registrar,
No vows were spoken,
But their silent vows
Were never broken.
They didn't need
A wedding token.
The cost was never the issue here,
Although Byron always claims he's poor.
And thus they carried on.
Boy, did they carry on.
In a romantic spree.
First came Jordan,
Then Jamie.
And thus they passed
Their years together,
In seeming status quo;
A happy well-matched couple,
For all intents, and show.
They lived well,
Ate well too,
Dressed and drove,
Worked and strove
For friends and family.
And all along,
The two of them
Have been our pleasure
To know.
After all, they're behind
Their doors,
That's all we we need to know.
And thus, they carried on.
Boy, they carried on.
Years down the road
They honey-mooned,
And after this, they married;
Like Benjamin Button
All seems reversed.
Should they continue
This backward style,
Then in awhile,
Following this reception,
They'll probably meet
At their conception.
Should they continue
In this fashion,
Their marriage should end
With their parents' ******
This is
The Ballad of Byron nd Colleen,
and if truth be told,
You're still just teens.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I don't even know if I am her anymore:\
I am silenced beneath
dropped to rage in peace
I am aloned born
crafted head lonely worn
I am abused again
manipulated in blind to the said
I am saddened depressed
repressed too much till death
I am nightened a lot
mooned in the soul shot
I am painted black
darkened no rainbows seen back
I am cried tears
abandoned for good of fear
selfish no one cares
to see how human small I mere
------ravenfeels
May 27, 2021
May 27, 2021 at 3:26 PM UTC
There are ghosts that stir inside of her,
shimmering and wraithlike.
The desperate ways
in which she's mooned
have craned and fused
and become a part of her.
They've since dissolved
and left a hollow
in their place.
And though she knows
they aren't there,
she feels them
crushing, crushing, crushing
all the same.
Without their heavy presence,
she is left
with an idle ache.
Unable to separate herself from the ghosts,
she will indulge in the sickly-sweetness of yesterday.
She will enclave herself in the ghostly, glimmering fog,
breathing sticky recollection
that will cling to her lungs like ash,
and smother her.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
Immobile, a feathers light touch
Moist folds seep a delicious scent
An electric touch, down back, thighs
Tracing sensual lines up, tip
Your hands, clasp, fingers together grasp
Outstretched before me to savor
A meal of the ******** clad
Arched feet, delicate in touch
Stretch and curled in delight
Long legged minx, twist and writhe
Silken skinned beauty of light
Thighs quiver, not a moment too much
Building your castle, biting your lip
Hips reach, my fingers brush
Arching, straining at the bind
Your breath comes, heavily restrained
Bits of words escape between
Feather alone, again, you squirm
In the dark, anticipating it's touch
From navel down, then up
******* swell with pleasure
Your body a playground
It's adventure in a sigh
Fingernails leave half mooned sign
An almost cry, demanding time
Cold, the ice brings nip to glass
Topping perfect twins, dripping
Your tender valley, chilled
Trails of cold run along caramel sweet
A quick gift, you keep inside
Your breathing betrays you
And I bring you down
To surf along the edge of time
It's cliff I want to divide
Invisible breeze on your soft skin
Keeping sweating passion at bay
Goosebumps from feather or ice
Sparkle along, tracing your corvette curves
I want you at the brink, my Goddess of night
Once more, but this time the tongue
Darting in, suckling, buckling
Edging less quiet from deep inside
Slow pleasuring a whimper, a mewling simmer
Quick breaths between as you struggle
Contractions in your stomach, hips
Strain, bring crescendo
A fire deep inside
About to erupt
I bring vibration
***********
A thrusting
From you
Power
And
Volcanos break earthquakes
Shatter stars hurricaned
Against a tropical storm
Sending its rain
Cascading down
Between your
Thighs
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
I know its hard at times for u
To understand me
Less words just become
Basic non verbal communication
Im use to blue lines
And 1 red
3 holes for some half mooned
Clips to fill
Followed with a white canvas
My binder paper strays
The pen bleeds out its ink
Like taking in a stray
I so much hidden
So many words
Alot of me to show and say
But thats just paper
Thats just how my heart breathes
For the pen to paper
Is how i listein
And how i see
But this way of communication
Isnt fitting
For ur needs
So we sit through text
Never really speaking of the things
We seek to appeal
Just words yhat are wordless
To pass by our time
How long does nothing last
When u plan to spend a lifetime
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Mary Jane
Wrapped in cellophane
her body an empty cavern
an embodiment of losses
tastes of bitter Mary Jane
Holland.
Baby miracle of life
a stab in the dark
a twisted knife
to the heart, breathe
Me.
Life had stained her
a reflection upon,
a broken glass mirror
a blue mooned
Sky.
Tornado fires; paper dresses
deep volcanos filled to the brim
ashes & dust
tears bring pain
burns holes in
Skin.
Cleansing comes
blood oozing out
attacking this monster
living inside
python green eyes
Robotic.
Dancing with demons
poisonous addictions
hells aftermath
skulls, crossbones
signify splintered
Souls.
Yours for slaughter,
surrendered in this wasteland
my mind created
when you were first
Gone.
Butterflies cover *******
love hearts & roses,
form tattoos across,
my spine, enviously decorating
this bare form, one alive, one
Ghost.
Drink me up, make it quick,
**** me dry, dear Carmen
please don't cry
it's all an alibi, one that
Sings.
A lullaby; a secret way out
how tranquil it leaves me
a baby lulled to sleep, I
call you Mary Jane
Holland.
My lover, my life,
it's nothing more, I
am at one, with stars we name
in this infinite
Universe.
If I am a star above
& you are named as one too
we will never be lost
wrapped together, conceiving
Constellations.
That is why I want to sit
with you, on the roof
top of my car, out in the abyss
of my surroundings
&
Stare above, sing a lullaby
of my love, count those stars
until claimed & soothed we fall
into the slumber of love.
Only a cloud can carry
& awake anew to
the rising of the sun
an abstraction deferring
multifaceted realities.
© Sia Jane
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
a spidering across my face, that mooned mirrored moment.
raising from sleep dreamed , dashed my hand to move it,
sadly this morning find the remains stain, detritus with remorse.
radio news says the evacuation from aleppo is delayed.
history repeats itself.
spider.
sbm.
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
He sat under a hazy mooned sky.
Mental snapshots
Of the sad layered stories of life
Crept into his haunted dreams.
The inner torture waking him,
His nerves pricking to life.
A sickening wave of dispair
hit him like a freight train.
Fear had found him.
The shadowy figure of his past,
Swiftly approaching,
Only to send him into sinking depression.
There was no light.
Within the darkness
He became aquainted with his demons.
A war against himself broke loose.
He fought until the bitter end.
Then the sky exploded,
And he was finally at peace.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
the droning image before me,
a wetted silhouette hushed in loincloth.
all are tiny currents with their immediacy;
confound careless grace for warmbound sweat
of the swollen world in the heat of an uncollected moment.
dartle I may in delight of frenzy, cold air nibbling
at my feet. river runs pale in the narrow grey-faced street.
knee-deep into the water of no rain, simply a dream
of wide hours. mind you in the **** of minutes
and fine-tune this machine infected with body english;
basking in the flood of midnight – this swirling fish
in the permeable navy: a nautical breath tender in its rasp;
a trifle on the things and their undulations. remember you
in that stolen night, face to face with walls their blackened meanings
faces pining away in transit – if the plenitude of voices
in the station would merge and form a whole new world,
are we to drown in the sound and emerge mute with wonder?
I squint at the city across the balustrade, its sibilant air
of disgust – I recognize mooned tapestries and see myself
as one of the lights, the appropriate tension of hands that
have their own silences held to themselves
like how I ***** you in light.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
I am a love addict.
In this harsh climate
I'll take what I can get
But don't forget I am not proud of this, no.
Sometimes I pluck the leaves off dead trees
and string a garland around my neck
because I want to be reminded of your sweet scent.
*Musky, full-mooned nights,
the frosted soil in the garden where in summer we laid,
the last days of autumn.*
I haven't been without a lover in ten years.
My mother tells me I need to slow down
that I need to find myself and find God.
The only type of slowing down
that works for me is when I want to make love
and there is no need to find "myself"
by cosmic law, that is fluctuating everyday
and as the Hindus say,
I
AM
GOD.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC