"ogled" poems
Let me continue the story about a guy named Akshant,
Who belonged to Mathura in India, once the city of Krishna.
Akshant rejoined college and scored acceptably well this time,
He had realized his mistakes while he was to stay at home.
Repentance on committing mistakes intentionally was ripe,
He barely controlled the regret from flowing through his eyes.
Anamika was the only friend who was by his side in this time,
Giving him relief from loneliness which rang as the door chime.
Akshant had a poor memory so not much could stay on his mind,
Stressing his memory too much would only make his brain to grind.
Akshant then studied cautiously holding onto Anamika's hand,
Cautious he was not to crush it as he had formerly done to others.
He brightened up his professional life along with the romantic life,
And he scored brilliantly given his mental health was really affected.
The dried clots inside his brain were still an issue two years later,
But he controlled himself to not harm others from his anger.
The clots used to come out through as tears and ear wax,
Almost all was physically well after three more years.
Akshant went Kodaikanal after his bachelor's degree college,
He was an eligible bachelor when he had a job confirmation.
This happened when he was drifting away in the Kodai lake,
Anamika who sat next to him in the boat congratulated him.
Now Anamika confessed her feelings for Akshant in the boat,
Akshant couldn't find any words & found himself quite quiet.
This made Anamika challenge and taunt about his manliness,
Which caused Akshant get enraged & kiss his reply on her lips.
The boat swayed terribly in the star-shaped lake's still waters,
Anamika ogled & felt her hair get wet & this made her ****** Akshant.
She started kissing him back now & her eyes were coming back to normal,
These had been wide ogling when Akshant had started kissing hard and so it was.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
There was an old man, I once knew
Peaches was the name he used
He was the drunk, set on our trunk
his body old and abused
Sharing his beer with an old horse
who caroused in the end stall
Each day by three, they'd walk by me
and stumble but never fall
His liver was a lace doily
alcohol pickled him thin
He'd been turned down, all over town
no one ever took him in
He drank his beer with ole Nellie
she could tip a bottle too
Swig and sway, like Don Quixote
as they staggered, swirling, brew
We were headed for the races
this blustery afternoon
Each planned the trip, we had to ship
I knew we'd be leaving soon
From where we trained at the fairground
we carted them to the track
Where all would race, and take what place
each earned in front or in back
Peaches rode in back of the truck
so he could drink the whole way
My uncle said, he'd soon be dead
drinking had seen his decay
We sat apart from others there
he and I were best of pals
He'd tell me tales, of life’s travails
while I ogled all the gals
That day he shared a sordid tale
of pain he caused his own son
He had shouldered blame, bore the shame
for this thing that he had done
Back when he was just a young man
a pillar of support
He took his boy, his life’s great joy
to play their favorite sport
They went to a picnic that day
he had drank one too many
On the way, to watch his son play
of fears he hadn't any
His boy was riding in the back
not thinking they skipped the seat belt
He'd rolled his car, the door ajar
surprise was all he had felt
His boy was tossed out in a field
sweet clover of timothy
The child's light hair, seen lying there
remembered so vividly
"I was a Veterinarian"
said Peaches to my surprise
"I went insane, called out in vain
but God never heard my cries"
"So now I ride where I belong
In back of my self-made bar
Hoping he, will come to take me
by tossing me from the car"
Just then a tear fell from his cheek
the pain enveloped me too
Here cried a man, much deeper than
any of us ever knew
Tate
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
I am so tired of being tied to “pretty”
As if all I am is nothing but a mere face.
A delicate mannequin protected behind glass
A porcelain doll to be ogled at from afar…
Until you find a prettier one.
A thing stared at until you walk away—
My face vanishing from your sight.
Forever forgotten the face that caught your attention moments ago.
Always treated as if my only purpose is to shut up and smile
Pose there as they auction and sell me off.
Pretty.
Pretty.
Pretty.
Pretty is not all I will be.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
Spider, that wily enchantress,
ogled through the gossamer web-
she meticulously spun for me,
I was entrapped that very moment!
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 7:16 AM UTC
A hapless Lit student named Brandon,
Was researching Death of a Salesman;
He Googled then ogled
What Hap Loman called Strudel,
Then choked on his oral exam.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Half-sane near the Seine
with my Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum
who lifted her skirts
to give the lie to the Oriental Lie,
I thought it apposite that an insane
clochard stood a speaker's distance
and masticated franc notes like portions
of ****** "pain" while he ogled
the impenetrable ideogram of
The Beast With Two Backs penetrating
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
I gazed at her skin, fried and sprayed orange like the flames
That swallowed her soul, dragged her down to hell with ‘em…
Let her burn.
Staring at her sparkly stripper shoes, I wondered how she could sleep at night.
Well, she probably wasn’t alone.
Her hair, so harsh, bleached blonde beyond compare,
Frail, fraudulent, wannabe beauty
Like her shallow, gimmicky, stage get-up for the guys,
Giving the goods in mass quantity, like a buffet.
How cheap could she be?
I ogled her body, ***** that resembled balloons.
Psh. More like implants.
Honey, you’re not fooling anyone.
Her makeup, tacky and overdone.
It could never be plastered over her tattered self-worth.
I glared at her clothes, or lack thereof, itsy-bitsy and a poor excuse
For a cover-up, of any kind,
Physical or emotional.
Leave something to the imagination, would ya?
Some girls, how pathetic they are.
I’m better. I have morals.
Even if I don’t abide by them…
Even if I despise the creature I’ve transformed to…….
I gaped at the reflection, in the million-watt mirror lit aglow…
Who could this be? It never could be me.
Staring between false eyelashes, she was easy to see.
A party girl. A ***
No, no!
It’s not me…
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
My love was bathing in the ****
in a creek in the woods: with bow and arrows,
I stood guard, but the rainbow, and sun, his accomplice, ogled.
Oh, the two! we laughed and beckoned the white clouds at once.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
lassitude lassoed her
she let her tripod hide in her hatchback
and woke not her camera
from its long nap
instead, she sat, a bowl of popcorn
in her lap, watched reruns of Madmen
and ogled a multitude of mushy moons
on Facebook's finicky feed
some were orange, some ivory
some gibbous, some round, all purporting
to be profound
this rare occurrence, captured copiously
in 2D, for all to see, and wonder, why shadows
on rocks rub us right, while myriad stars collapse every night,
and planets thought to be elegantly aligned,
are but bobbing bubbles
in an infinite sea
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
They say a mirror breaks
Into a thousand pieces
When it is hit by
By anything that contains
The force to shatter it
And crack the glass,that
Might have been immaculate,
Or might have been *****
With layers of filth-
There might have been a
Lady,who looked at the
Mirror and ogled at her
Perfect complexion and
Candy apple red lips,
Or there might have been
A teenage girl who
Looked at it,only to
Check if the acne’s gone,
There might have been a
Child who smiled at the
Mirror, to get that same
Sheepish grin in return
There might have been people,
So many people,
Who looked in the mirror,
Some to forget,and
Some to remember,
Some to dream big, and
Some to hide a guilt-
But now, all of it
Lies shattered in bits,
In shards that dig deep
In the skins of humans,
And sardonic blood
Flows warm against their skins-
All the faces are now nothing,
But sharp,evil shards.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
This purple silk is the colour of love, but a symbol of love I am not.
It is not love they see as I stroll along the street,
My waist cinched and gilded with poor man’s gold
(God forbid a woman should have anything to herself).
They think the shadows of their top hats hide their gaze
But I can feel their perverse eyes skimming my form. Hypocrites.
We’re forever forced to dress in a way that is pleasing
And overtly obvious to their unclothing, naked eyes;
Liberating, perhaps, if we were granted the freedom to act in accordance
With how the silk makes us feel as it caresses our skin
With how the stiffness feels against the flesh of our chests
With how the weight of our skirts make us long for a tender touch.
I have to wonder if Harriet Mill sits equally adorned and ogled
As she writes of our enfranchisement, if John watches her work
In the dresses he bought to intensify her shape,
Before asking her precisely where she wants to be touched
Because he knows she deserves to demonstrate what she is capable of.
They claim that might is their right,
But they know nothing of the strength it takes to resist these carnal pleasures.
Observe my corseted form, but let me assure you,
This was not the kind of bone I wanted digging into me tonight.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
I loved her, she loved me
not. She loved another who
loved another.
Hopelessness ran
through our bodies as one.
Together, we loved. Alone.
We climbed walls. Alone.
We walked the fields. Alone.
We slept entwined. Alone.
My heart, soaring, endured and surfed the storm.
Hers, spellbound, dreamed and ogled far beyond the horizon.
Our cheeks never flushed. Not once.
When she left, once again my sunsets were sunsets.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:23 PM UTC
I took the seat across and breathe deeply
Trying to ignite the will to last the night to make it easy
Folios with galloping notes reflected my eyes
Ascribing them as you started rippling nice
Taking your place behind those keys
while I guard the front as it seems
You fiddled the catguts, and I learned their secrets
And as you edify, I got lost in the sequence
You exuded the decree to keep my valiance
I lodged around the shadows keeping my silence
Risking the chance that was left of me
As I chant the cadence with complexity
I ogled before you with such esteem
As my mind creeps alone towards glaucous dream
Wishing that in every thing written in the sky,
You will always be my Marshall and I am your Spy
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
i remember how you hated arithmetic;
the nights spent huddled over assignments,
and in the midst of sleep groaning about numbers i never understood,
i'd like to count how long it would take for you to drift off.
i remember that you have ten fingers,
all of which have once touched me on wintery nights,
all of which have traced down the 65 inches of my body,
and you have two eyes,
the blue that ogled every part of me while in the shower.
and i used to love numbers,
because i could count each time i fall in love with you,
over and over again.
i remember how you'd mumble formulas in your sleep,
and i'd count each breath you'd take,
smiling to myself multiple times in the dark.
and i remember spending the 391 days without you in my life,
and it makes me hate numbers, too.
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 7:33 PM UTC
The lecturer stands, waving her hands
Wildly gesticulating
Squawking and screeching and and humming and preaching
Whilst our minds fix on matriculating
"Please, please I beg of you
Responsible for shaping heads
Tell your children this is true -
Use any verb other than 'said'!"
She demonstrates the dialogue tags
That we sages can impart
"Replied", "enquired", "sighed", "ragged"
"Norted", "blorted", "ogled", "blarted" -
But if a child uses all these
What kind of field will they have built?
Cohesive, engaging, with wonderful staging
Or splotted and sploged like a patchwork quilt?
For you see -
All the words inside your head
The ones who unwittingly cover for "said"
Are the drink-addled maidens you see in the street
Holding their heels and walking in bare feet
Flipping their hairs and waving their phones
Cackling and snickering in shrilliing, thrilling tones
As their best friends, the adverbs, grab them by their hair
Determined to prevent an emetic scare
To-ing and fro-ing, and never quite knowing
Where exactly it is they are going
All they know is they eschew intervention
By boldly pleading for more and more attention
But "said" is a lady of quiet grace
Wearing long tresses, muted dresses and a fair face
And sits beside each word with a natural restraint
Holding up quotations without complaint
Till it blends through the text like smooth, creamy paint
And fades till it becomes so, so faint
That it only feels natural to focus instead
On the intentions of the characters inside of your head
It's a word that fills most teachers with dread
But I earnestly plead to befriend the word "said"
For she's a hard-working lady with quiet conviction
- Does that help with your language affliction?
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring
and only son of Boyce and the late harriet harris)
made his unheralded debut on a brutally cold
January thirteenth.
Once awareness blossomed
within thee Iris of each eye, Mother Nature with
proclivity to become most grounded when basking
in the seasonal pastel of sounds and smells.
This predilection a rose and stemmed from self-propelled
exposure to fauna and flora.
All creatures great and small found him bedazzled, de
lighted, fixated, harmonized, kindled, moored, ogled, quelled,
seduced, tantalized, vaunted from biodiversity.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with
general electric - heard the powerful lungs of this gangly new
born prior to being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority
of his existence at two rural areas fifty plus four years ago.
Audubon and Collegeville the geographic names of said locales.
His ability to adjust from one than another grade school evinced
early signs of difficulty.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect (sub
mucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other classmates.
As an outside neutral observer, i watched with gut wrenching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited to join in any reindeer games.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered manna to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability and susceptibility being
the pluperfect target, thee oafish goons i.e. enemies all against
a once upon a time puny punt able person unfortunately at
receiving end of verbal slings continued all thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with scathing expletive filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and withdrawing
from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark shadow creeping closer like the edge of night.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
I can almost recall a time when I didn’t care... there was so much life laid up in store
frivolous days tossed aside:
grisly hangovers of endless nights,
I used to observe the characters of Paris from a window in Chez Camille... sun light flashing through the green of horse chestnut trees lining wide Montmartre streets-
well heeled parents guiding their chattering children past a
staggering drunk, **** marks up his trouser leg, greasy hair clinging to his beard
he’s avoided too by those girls in summer dresses, all legs and laughter and dreams
they are ogled by the old men drinking coffee outside cafes, complaining about their busy wives...
back in that time when our choices could send us anywhere-
careening into old cinemas watching movies with wide eyes,
building driftwood fires on deserted beaches
or writhing with nameless shapes in little rooms
washed in strawberry *****
back before our choices defined us and hardened into everything we are.
back when right and wrong were only whispering
and the streets of Paris called my name
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 2:03 PM UTC
were we but souls fed to the crows
and worms that had us as only that?
no wonder our thinking turned morbid
and said: earth our home, fire our enemy,
coffin our mansion our flat our roaming-room,
coffin birthmarks it's earthen superiority over fire
which fire entombs given sway; let us chopin the rest,
and have us as a spelling mistake
to akin rock an armadillo rolling with
stoppages of "roll a ***** rock out with a poet
asserting ***** the by-product and poetry the
begotten famished youth!"
for the head to pop-up less readier for blow,
than blow on helium than horsey ready a hark...
macho australian flex, and biceps to give to
blown-up treadmill versus catwalk loot,
she ***** cha cha cha lip-gloss for a footprint,
she wore it with a fascination for language,
getting bored with sign symbols > > > (sharp bend /
quick & trendy instant graphic ooh):
in the real world red started trending,
and black was a usual tuesday for karl lagerfeld
who said: wear the same **** over and over again,
and play the anorexic ******* to wear different
**** every day... be a fox among chameleons...
wear the same black tunic, turnip, tuck and shackle
otherwise known as a waistcoat all year round...
and they'll all puppeteer themselves around you
gladly ogled eyed all year round:
it might be summer in the sky, but on the catwalk
it will be silver birch dressed in khaki for oaken
wrinkles... and so on, and so forth... worth a rot...
had i turned to x-ray white suit and black shirts...
but the girls would have minded to adorn
a waste i claimed to be simplified by:
keep them thin, keep them anorexic...
the fatter the model the more materials we'll
waste tailoring: chubby gets the boot, the kick,
we need thin models, because the chubby ones
take up too much geography when cutting a leopard skin
print of silk for underwear.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
A fateful cocoon
Just a feeling
Nobody told you
You just knew
You hear sounds
And sense the light
As you ready yourself
For loves revival
A sparse moon
Staring at the blue disk
Awaiting his lover
Silently wondering
Aglow from desire
Reflecting passion
Fed by the desperation
Of loves survival
You pushed through
The vine was bare
A budding romance
Warned by your thorns
To be ogled
And pruned
Until the day
Of loves arrival
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Let’s talk about the stars
And how grey they turn out to be when you smile
Let’s talk about the sun
That lacks radiance and gleam compared to yours
Let’s talk about all the things
That loses its beauty whenever you’re near
Now let’s talk about her
And all her imperfections, failure, and flaws
The way she adores the night
And all the blackness that it emanate
The way she cradle these demons
Miserably trapped inside her mind
Because she’s anxious she’ll be ogled
When she tell the world of it
The way she takes relief in loneliness
Because that’s the only certain entity in this realm
The way she says
“I’m okay”
Because that’s the easiest answer
While resenting alone all the pain
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
A / Korean / friend of my mother’s returned
from Seoul with a gift for me / a Hanbok /
glowing with violent shades of pink and yellow
when I settled the / chima / on my shoulders
and tied the / jeogori / around my waist
I felt like a / white girl / in an / oriental costume /
The year I turned six / my white brother /
brought me to his school when they talked
about / South Korea / a real live / Korean /
to ooh and aah at while a map on the whiteboard
displayed my far off land for them to ogle
with / wide eyes / I leaned into the mirror
that night and ogled my / small eyes / that no
amount of widening could make / white /
All those / white / kids called me / ***** /
Like / ***** / in your armor? I thought
When / my white brother / got married no one
thought I was there for him everyone
thought I was there for his / Vietnamese /
wife. We’re here for the / white boy / his / Korean /
friend drawled. My ally in this sea of / white /
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 1:18 AM UTC
Mountain flower ,
She kept on flowering,
She gave the green grass utmost flowering,
She kept on flowering
Onto the rocks of the mountain
She grew and glowed
Away from the shades of darkness
She ran and rest at the shades of light.
With the rock ahead , she turned,
With the baking sun
She longed for the cool shade
under the vine ,climbing on another vine.
She ogled like a seductive goddess ,
Like boiling water she kept boiling.
Mountain flower.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 4:14 PM UTC
i ******* hate moving.
shoving my every belonging into boxes from lowe's,
folding,
rolling,
dust in the air.
there is never enough room.
i have too many pieces of myself and
i live closet to closet.
i try so hard to keep my feet planted,
shove them into the garden outside my window,
feel the dry mulch between my toes,
but the coat hangers attached to my shoulders
do nothing but drag.
now this house,
(this rental apartment)
felt like home.
for the first time in nineteen ******* years,
i had white walls and a window facing the street.
i had carpet that, ten years ago,
my brother and i would have ogled samples of at home depot,
running the plastic threads under our fingertips.
living in the center of town,
i would never be alone.
even if i were to wake up at 4 am, dry mouthed,
heart racing from seeing your eyes again,
the sound of car tires,
knowing that someone else existed within my reality
could make me notice your absence less.
my arms would still be grasping
at the space in my bed where you should be,
but the spot on my ribs that you held
would feel less painful tonight.
i can't stop feeling like you're this apartment,
which, as of tomorrow,
i'll be out of for good.
not in the sense that i'll never see you again,
but in the sense that i got a taste of what i've always wanted.
i'll drive by every day,
notice that the blue paint has faded
by the strength of the everyday sunshine,
but i'll still tear up
at the memory of resting within your eaves,
candles in the windowsills.
at work a few days ago,
my coworker breathed in my ear,
and my stomach dropped to my knees
at the memory of your lazy and quiet sleeping breaths.
i am detached and searching
because within every home i enter,
i scavenge for a chip of blue paint,
a messy carpet square,
a roof shingle,
fractured,
but nonetheless whole.
i search endlessly for pieces of you,
and maybe,
someday,
i could finally unpack.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
The red circled thing
Owned the hands of time
It stopped and ogled at me
Our eyes met, and he snubbed.
He is vital to me
That I can’t live
Without even looking at him
The space he knows,
And I was left dumbfounded how he knows.
He owned the twelve sections
Clinched it with glass,
I thought he’s atypical
For his hands were not two but three
Now, I’m baffled of his identity.
He was quiet for days
But I needed him somehow
I wish to own him ceaselessly
But he’s running to fast.
Even if he’s staggered
He’s still making his shift
Working for others
Wouldn’t stop at any moment.
Farewell my friend,
I disgust it, gazing at you
My calendar was so rigid, so tight
Then you left me at night
Adieu, owner of time!
(2/21/14 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC