"paramours" poems
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
I am lovely, O mortals! Like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where poets are bruised to the bone
Formed to inspire each in their quintessence
A love as eternal and silent as essence.
I unite Ledaean pallor with a frozen heart,
I scorn movement for it displaces my art,
A riddling sphinx, on a throne in the sky;
Never do I laugh and never do I cry.
Poets, at the feet of my imperial pose,
Which I seem to adopt from statues grandiose,
Will consume their lives in studious indulgence;
For I have, to enthrall those docile paramours
Pure mirrors to enhance all beauties evermore:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal effulgence!
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
How do I love thee? In a way that's bad,
by which I mean so bad it's almost good.
I need you, and you know it drives me mad.
I want you more than any other could.
And we could write romances, you and me.
I want to hear your Hitchcock movie schtick.
I want your everything. I hope it's free.
I want you in my window, and you're sick.
And yet you know my raving is a sign
I'd rather we were paramours than friends.
You're outlawed from the moment that you're mine
Until the day our bad romancing ends;
I'll love you in a leather-studded bra.
Rah gaga gaga roma ooh la la.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 3:02 AM UTC
The snowflake is castellated cold,
Of chill crenellations and turnings narrow.
Court of pie-powders and gray-skied brazier smoke,
Of inner mazework dimmed to ****** holes,
Or the hooded machicolations from tower spire
Of oily darkness and arrowslits of Greek fire.
—
The snowflake is Medieval reliquary,
The frozen skull of rain and blood clear of sin,
Wind-captive with its prayer of quiet
On quietest lips, close to wine and sacrament.
Or the chapel and its waxen paramours
Of incorrupt body and candlelight upon the moors.
—
The snowflake is the mighty frozen spark,
Fire-forged and ironwrought,
Under the eye of Hephaestus,
Blacksmith of sorrow’s wind.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
We were a beleaguered bard born,
a chief in chatoyant charms charged with
the principle petrichor of passionate paramours;
to drive the dainty dalliances
of incipient ingénues immured in
glamourous gossamer gowns;
lilting, lead lissome lads 'long labyrinthine love;
mischeiviously make mellifluous mondegreens;
sing of such serendipity: surreptitiously susurrous sessions
scintillas of Spring's sempiternal sentiments!
But fetching fugues fade fast, felicity's fated to fly. For
penumbral poets, it portends a pyrrhic pay.
We wander woebegone, waiting wistfully.
Lovers leave lyricists to languish in lonely lassitude.
The halcyon heyday has harbingered
inbroglio in the inured inventor of infatuation.
Why? With what wherewithal?
Often our offerings off us, opposite of, obviously, obtaining, or,
lucidly: lyrical lacers of Love likewise lack its livening lagniappe.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?
Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?
Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.
Perchance it may be better so—at least
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.
Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
While all the forest sang of liberty,
Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where some steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.
Or how the little flower he trod upon,
The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
Content if once its leaves were aureoled.
But surely it is something to have been
The best beloved for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.
Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed
On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!
1.8k
I am a poet, yes, but I sing only of
what I know, and all of that is
bicycles, the cries of the giraffe,
loneliness, and walks on
radioactive beaches.
So what is this, when you
ask me to write a love poem?
For three days, I have sat and
tried to write; and from my hand
has only come three arduous lines:
"I shall **** your ******* so hard
that your external **** sphincter shall
forever cease to function."
What the hell was that, I beseech you?
Our poets down the ages, have
written love poems on their paramours' blue
eyes, their raven-black hair, their fair
faces, yet mine is of my lover's rear?
Alas, this love song is no better than
a eunuch's, as it lacks compassion,
eroticism, sentimental
tear-filled eyes and superficial flirting words.
It is nothing fit for a Valentine's Day card.
But know, my darling, my aim was true;
I wished only to express my love for you.
At your disdain, your unhappiness, with my
threat toward an orifice, I've written five
lines of some things that I do happen to know:
"The weeping giraffe,
rode his blue bike
in silence,
down the contaminated beach,
lamenting his loneliness."
In the tears of that giraffe can be found
my great love for you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
Presidential paramours sanctioned but not silenced.
Not to speak yet being heard, attorneys and agencies speaking on their behalf.
Everyone knows,
now that the election has passed.
Who would have cared anyway?
We know now that it doesn't matter, transgressions and despicable deeds never tarnish the orange luster.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring’s unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year’s friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
1.6k
Love too strong for
those who bear it
is a curse invoked
by a deficit of worth.
It is not enough to
seek validation through
a proxy designated
Heaven on Earth.
With no center of gravity,
no anchor in character,
obsession is the limit
of the capacity to love;
Projecting impossible
desires and untenable
expectations amounts
to blasphemy of.
True love may not be
forever or easy;
parting may never
be pleasant to bear;
Love is not merely
what's pleasing or comfortable;
love is a crucible;
love is not fair.
Those fleeting failures
and moments of error
are chances at triumph,
a challenge to change.
Breaking our boundaries,
ballooning outward:
love is inevitably
savage and strange.
Unbefitting to cling
to the bridge that enables
a star in its wand'ring
to cross the abyss;
To carry the ballast
of vast insecurity
over that chasm,
untenable risk;
Or swallow the poison
of foolish dependence
on whimsical paramours,
obesiance thereof,
To be hung from the neck
by detestable premises,
weak and debased
by untenable love.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
With a heavy gait
She trampled on the heart that loved her fiercely and without reservation
A thorn she was, disguised as a lily
To him, the prettiest of flowers
Pulling back the veil to see she was the poison gnawing at his heart
What followed was the corrosion of the love he felt for her by the ludicrous vile flavour of her deception
Her ignition of an empty flame that should have never been lit
Was nothing new
Started fires only to leave them burning along with her paramours
Feeding off of hearts and basking in the victory of her betrayal of souls was the only thing that sustained her
The red woman in the midnight blue dress
Possessed a beauty beyond compare
With a frost covered heart
And snake scales beneath her fair skin
It was her who murdered love.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like...
#1
The serpent got
a ***** wrap
as well as did
the Jews
And if you read
between the lines
you won't believe
The news
#2
As I'm not
a Christian
I think it
quite odd
That I should
be punished
by a biblical
God
#3
God the father
and his boy
appear to find
the greatest joy
deciding who
will sing or fry
in pits of Hell
or Heaven’s sky
Me thinks I’d
rather burn in Hell
for truth be told
I don't sing well
Besides in Heaven’s
realm I hear they’ve
put a ban on wine
and beer
#4
Scribbled notes
on wrinkled pages
offer up my
rants and rages
To the gods
both big
and small
who really
don't exist
at all
#5
Going to Hell
is not my intention
For Hell I believe
is your little
invention
Ingeniously
Crafted for
scaring the
masses
By threatening
Flame if they
don't kiss your
*****
#6
Such a simple
happenstance
No books to
study true
No condemning
sermons from
the everlasting
Jew
And since
His love
is only for
the chosen
and the few
I think I'll pass
on Sunday Mass
I've better things
to do
#7
Galileo’s castrated
brilliance shackled
to an empty cross
as demonic paramours
burn in the city square
#8
Rest assured
the herd will
follow the absurd
proclamations’
and the institution's
philosophical solution
to the daily grind
that binds us all
to this stalled
morality we
have mistaken
for God
#9
'Peace on earth
and love thy neighbor'
Cried the man with
cross and saber
Even as he slaughtered
millions for the crime
of pagan birth
#10
Cups and saucers
filled with gold
but not a cent
may we behold
for we are not
among the few
selected by the
ancient Jew
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
through the
Humbling Portal
of these
Hallowed Pages
you'll find
Hesitant Plunges
both by new
and "older"
Honored Poets
using
Harmonious Palettes
to create
Haunting Pictures
sometimes giving a
Heavenward Peek
through
Hypnotic Potpourri
Heady Perfume
even
Happy Poison
while
Hapless Pixies
and
Hopeful Prophets
Hunt Pearls
and
Hold Parades
that result in
Holy Pandemonium
yet
within our reach are
Homegrown Peaches
Hanging Pome
for our
Hungry Prowling
as we read
tales of
Heartless Paramours
Hissing Pit-vipers
who gave
Half Promises
we decipher
Humorous Puzzles
Hardest Perplexities
based on
Hysterical Pretexts
until our eyes see only
Haphazard Pixels
on the screen
and in a
Helpless Panic
we quickly read
the notes
a
Hasty Postlude#
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
Star crossed lovers, were we
Passion burning bright
We took upon wings
It began to take flight
Wordless conversation
Your name on my breath
Macabre heart melodies
And the dance of death
My ultimate act of hope
An act of valor
Desolate tears
Adoration colored pallor
Acid dipped colloquy
Mind tires, succumbs
Angelic contradictions
Senses numbs
Whispers of footsteps
Paramours’ ceasefire
Blood spilled emotions
No longer my desire
Unwept severed promises
Hearts struggle to breathe
Disunite in same direction
Faceless anonymity
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
It is true that secrets play hide and seek
Like jolly lads and whimsical princesses
It is true that secrets play hide and seek
Going along with childhood unearthed
Vanishing away with a disguised fairytale
Littlers believe before their torn faith
Stories of hope and paramours twisted
Into joyous love myth and red slaughter
For the laughter was just a radical sound
Unknown to all of us in sunset earlihood
When I grow up I want to be what I did
Not know, while thinking of ghosts and
Things unexist, jolly princesses with all the
Whimsical lads, thought only of beauty
And the sugar-dips poison of love long
Lost astray till they climb up a stair and
Claim a throne of stern jaw and bones
Our skeleton soaring and hair dressed
We finally find the secrets that played
With us throughout the childhood like
Memories unearthed, wither and die
A painful death in their game of a foul
Revelation sewn tight without a trace
In our sunset earlihood when we used
To think that this world is composed of
Beauty and sugar-dips decomposed
Children of impurity and twisted guns
Anything but lethal when they let us live in
Mere tales of pride-degrading fables
To play
Or hide
And seek
Forever now
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
He hated his life incredibly deeply
So he resigned from it incredibly meekly
He wrote poetry with passion so seething
That late evening paramours would recite it so deeply
Suicidal sons would read on and keep breathing
Loathsome lovers would repent for their cheating
His words float without effort, masterfully perceiving
Of the harsh and real yet ensorcelled and believing
The lost and the ****** with one glance would find meaning
In a world so berift of love
Who knew when his bullet, right temple and pulled it, from the left side would fly a dove
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Here's to all the lovesick dilettantes
Telling of lost, broken souls and defiled consecrations
In the bindings of hidden compositions
That will never see the light of day in the transient eyes of lost paramours
Oh, how they ache for one more night of heated embrace
But alas, they're stuck wallowing in the depths of their own melancholy tribulations,
Only to be read by the few fellow dilettantes that pass on their way
And die away in the passed-around hearts of their once beloveds
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
In the corner, a sign: “Welcome back students!”
(Oh, who could doubt Bud Light’s sincerity?)
“The townies are nice,
(As far as they go)
But the size of their tabs doth butter no bread.”
Merchants of spirits will always prefer
The deluge over the modest trickle.
Full for a weeknight, this place seems to me.
The close, thick air,
Breathed in by too many lungs,
Shows off proudly its perfume
Of grease, old sweat,
And stale, sour hops.
How many paramours have been drawn by that scent?
Lines of glass soldiers stand at attention,
Waiting to be drained of their courage,
Shot by shot.
Bitterness is sweet here,
A flavor to be savored,
Rolled ‘round the tongue then swallowed down;
An arid rain to dry wet fields.
An old, kind, self-conscious biker-type,
My grandfather’s ghost tends bar.
A red bandana over a ponytail stirs black and white memories;
Long legs astride a battered black Harley,
Easy grin tearing the corners of his lips,
Faded, cliché bald eagle tattoos
Adorning weather-leathered arms.
Grampa Chuck serves drinks with a smile
To the hot press of bodies that encircle him.
Sounds of glee and mirth pierce through the murmur
Of robot buzzing bees,
And generic rock music,
That no one listens to but everyone must talk over—
They did not come for the music any more than they came for the alcohol.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
From the outset, the marriage had
been a troubling one...a springtime
honeymoon in London with frigid
winds and dark April skies only
added to the gloom.
Their rocky union consisted of
alcohol-fueled marital warfare
...arguments endlessly erupting,
the 'silent treatment' dividing
them, bitter trial separations...
but somehow something always pulled
them back together until that one awful
morning when he found her lifeless body
next to him in bed, the victim of a stroke.
Weeks later he made a shocking discovery
...her hidden journals shoved inside a
trunk in a dark corner of their cluttered
attic - diaries filled with deception,
a litany of love affairs, heartless
couplings, page after page of secret
passions featuring a cast of paramours
catering to her every intimate whim.
And then he pondered his own romantic
intrigues slipping in and out of his
own life all those years they shared.
But he was certain she had no idea what
he'd been up to - she'd been entirely
clueless. She never mentioned them in her
private journals. She'd never accused him
of anything like that. She never knew
he'd ever been unfaithful. It was
simply not possible...
or was it?
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
We're all new endings and beginnings,
raised as paramours to our rips and tears.
We swayed like Wordworth's Daffodils,
and we all cried out in the air.
We're faded pictures in an infinity
told to believe in the death of our lives.
But we were never taught how to live
in this world filled with beautiful lies.
So there was no foreground to build upon,
but we were given the chance to survive.
Even when we all can't dance to live,
we can make music to battle the anguished cries.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
I once had this friend, see
and I was as much him, as he me.
And we’d laugh, and cry and dodge the stars,
weaving in and out of love,
fight and **** and long to starve,
hoping one more would be enough.
I only really remember him, me,
because he saw things I’d never seen.
Things you can’t tell people:
they just look at you like an animal;
something wild, and crazed, and raw.
And you say,
“Mainly, he used to sit, funny,
like something that mattered was coming,
all on edge, leaning forward,
perched between paramours and providence.
And his eyes,
My Eyes,
Would scan ahead, and roll
dully in the sockets.
And it seemed
(or so I was told, after and before and all at once),
that he, I, was about to pounce,
And tear at the flesh-
And rip at the bone-
And scream at the sinew,
carnal and callous fates.
But every time, beyond the guile,
Little more than a lamb; docile.
nobody moved.
And He,
and I,
would just sit there,
watching out for a lullaby”.
The audience will laugh,
And think you mad.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
Clouds descend on the berth that you fled
Both our brains are vexed by the hollowness
Wreck the centre, it's futile
From the flawless rise to the end
If you're inhaling purely yet, you are blessed
Nearly all of us are strangled by ill air
Igniting flames to our souls in leisure
Gathering labels of screwed-over paramours
We are the exposed ones, the age of ignorance
Hunting dreams of our fates
Someday we'll unveil what is real
That the lone will vanish before arriving
If your blood is still flowing, you are blessed
Much of our dreams, they are scorched and they have faded
It was the sea that drowned us
You didn't rescue me
Well, I've sent it all into disarray
I'm a breathless visage slipping from your memory
My vision's blurred from the echoes from your lips
Pealing through my mind
When you pierced my heart
If you're drawn close, you are blessed
The rest of us are sleeping alone
Igniting flames to our souls in leisure
To break the knot tied to their name
But I am never without that thread
-cj
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Kisses laughed too loudly
that summer afternoon
we walked the weathered planks
to and fro, to and fro
those so short shorts calling out
an invitation to potential paramours
eyeing our free-wheeling parade;
our rattle wagon welcoming guests
seeing them home, announced by
the creaking twin gates swinging wide
at the end of the bumpy ride.
Chicklet couldn’t remember
something now easily forgotten
and we cackled, a barnyard
full of happy hens,
to watch those too-full eyes
twist with concentration,
twist with consternation while those
lush lips refused to acquiesce, refused
the words to prove our teasing wrong.
She ain’t dumb drawled a sudden Southern Kisses
momma done dropped her on her head as a baby
and Chicklet smiled a fragile crease,
shy and kinda wavy but lost as it was to the
slap, slap, slap of a dusky mosquito massacre.
Chicken and potatoes set steaming on the table
I’d keep those days just as they were
if I were only able.
As midnight smiled we swam naked
beneath a too-full moon
in whose pale light we shone
laughed and splashed in golden sea
and soothing tumbled foam.
It was love that made us three and
a promise of better days, adrift,
surrounding us; we’re children at play.
silly, silly grins and declarations
set to fly on summer winds,
in cloudless skies,
of bonds that keep
and devotion that never dies.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
laughing and singing
dancing
swaying to the music in my head
living in my world
the most comfortable world
just me
dancing naked
amongst wildflowers that bow
to my every move
applauding me and urging me on
smiling up at me with yellowed faces
purple
blue
pink
and green
so so much green
the preferred currency color
of this world
and that
being thrown at me
for my performance
the wind whistling
in appreciation
and i fall exhausted
upon a bed of blossoms
bumble bees
buzzing around my face
covering it with pollinized kisses
smiling i fall into a deep, deep sleep
dreaming of fantastical adventures
and handsome paramours
this is my world
welcome to it.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC