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"petalled" poems
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs? and the poppy-petalled metaphysics? and the rain repeatedly spattering its words and drilling them full of apertures and birds? I'll tell you all the news. I lived in a suburb, a suburb of Madrid, with bells, and clocks, and trees. From there you could look out over Castille's dry face: a leather ocean. My house was called the house of flowers, because in every cranny geraniums burst: it was a good-looking house with its dogs and children. Remember, Raul? Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember from under the ground my balconies on which the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth? Brother, my brother! Everything loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises, pile-ups of palpitating bread, the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake: oil flowed into spoons, a deep baying of feet and hands swelled in the streets, metres, litres, the sharp measure of life, stacked-up fish, the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which the weather vane falters, the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes, wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea. And one morning all that was burning, one morning the bonfires leapt out of the earth devouring human beings -- and from then on fire, gunpowder from then on, and from then on blood. Bandits with planes and Moors, bandits with finger-rings and duchesses, bandits with black friars spattering blessings came through the sky to **** children and the blood of children ran through the streets without fuss, like children's blood. Jackals that the jackals would despise, stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out, vipers that the vipers would abominate! Face to face with you I have seen the blood of Spain tower like a tide to drown you in one wave of pride and knives! Treacherous generals: see my dead house, look at broken Spain : from every house burning metal flows instead of flowers, from every socket of Spain Spain emerges and from every dead child a rifle with eyes, and from every crime bullets are born which will one day find the bull's eye of your hearts. And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets. Come and see The blood in the streets. Come and see the blood In the streets!
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23.3k
Pablo Neruda
I'm Explaining a Few Things
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs? and the poppy-petalled metaphysics? and the rain repeatedly spattering its words and drilling them full of apertures and birds? I'll tell you all the news. I lived in a suburb, a suburb of Madrid, with bells, and clocks, and trees. From there you could look out over Castille's dry face: a leather ocean. My house was called the house of flowers, because in every cranny geraniums burst: it was a good-looking house with its dogs and children. Remember, Raul? Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember from under the ground my balconies on which the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth? Brother, my brother! Everything loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises, pile-ups of palpitating bread, the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake: oil flowed into spoons, a deep baying of feet and hands swelled in the streets, metres, litres, the sharp measure of life, stacked-up fish, the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which the weather vane falters, the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes, wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea. And one morning all that was burning, one morning the bonfires leapt out of the earth devouring human beings -- and from then on fire, gunpowder from then on, and from then on blood. Bandits with planes and Moors, bandits with finger-rings and duchesses, bandits with black friars spattering blessings came through the sky to **** children and the blood of children ran through the streets without fuss, like children's blood. Jackals that the jackals would despise, stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out, vipers that the vipers would abominate! Face to face with you I have seen the blood of Spain tower like a tide to drown you in one wave of pride and knives! Treacherous generals: see my dead house, look at broken Spain : from every house burning metal flows instead of flowers, from every socket of Spain Spain emerges and from every dead child a rifle with eyes, and from every crime bullets are born which will one day find the bull's eye of your hearts. And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets. Come and see The blood in the streets. Come and see the blood In the streets!
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78
I called her Molly Bloom. Then the final blossom fell from Molly As I sipped over the lip of morning. She grew on me. I grow into things as well. I was once worried about my height, But I had large feet, Not to worry. I grew as the present slipped. Hair was important To grow. It appeared, slowly, on arms, Pits, lips and legs. And groin pains followed. Atrophy and entropy grow, Take root like my historical assimilations. I daily **** out apathy. Molly was different. She was presented with love, And received with indifference, Then I cared too much. She was my Bloomsday When I raised her ashen petalled face. Should I vacation on Reunion Island Where they make great *** I could pestle her blooms to reinvigorate myself. Or kid myself, believing her shadow Will open in the sun.
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Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
francie-lynch
Molly Bloom
I called her Molly Bloom. Then the final blossom fell from Molly As I sipped over the lip of morning. She grew on me. I grow into things as well. I was once worried about my height, But I had large feet, Not to worry. I grew as the present slipped. Hair was important To grow. It appeared, slowly, on arms, Pits, lips and legs. And groin pains followed. Atrophy and entropy grow, Take root like my historical assimilations. I daily **** out apathy. Molly was different. She was presented with love, And received with indifference, Then I cared too much. She was my Bloomsday When I raised her ashen petalled face. Should I vacation on Reunion Island Where they make great *** I could pestle her blooms to reinvigorate myself. Or kid myself, believing her shadow Will open in the sun.
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28
(for children) (1) I heard a big word once. 'Armamentarium'. It's a word with old parents. It means things like medicine and how doctors feel your chest for beats that don't quite fit. It means red and the things inside your body that need hands to help you. My hands help by wandering. I tap my hands on tables, I comb my hair, I pick up flowers, I hold up faces of people I love when I feel blue. But my favourite is red, because it is inside me, beating. I learned a big word once. It was my name. I said it and it sang. (2) If you peel me you will find songs as thick as grapefruit. I am red inside. I take some time. I am always late. I am best in the mornings but at night awake. I'm from a place that is not as green as here. Our grasses are yellow and say so with the wind. My mirror is both my best friend and enemy, sometimes a lover, often a bully, either way hands are caught. I like to read. I read so much that I think of my skin as grapefruit. I don't even like to eat it. I just like the red. (3) Planes have mouths. They swallow people. They fly them away. They spit me out. Sometimes I do not know whose stomach I am in. Inside the planes I dream of reds as dense as roses. When the planes land I give them to me as myself. Let me explain this better: my accent is a grand liar because my country is blue. It never rains there but when it does you will find my mother's throat. I croak with such dryness that the sounds turn to words. (4) When I see me I see soil. I grow roses in my skin. People who don't look like me first brought those kinds of flowers to my country with ships. Kind of. We do not have oceans. They must have walked so far for me to speak with things they then planted. People think of me as oceans reflecting the sky. I say I want the sunset petalled perfectly into soil. My skin. When you see me you must adore me because of your planting. I am not your garden. I bloom. (5) When you hear words do not forget that someone taught them to you. Maybe your mother who read books about cats in hats to you at airports. Maybe your father and his stories of his childhood with feet twisting through thin sand as roses dancing. Where I am from we do not have soil for those kinds of flowers. My father still grew and my mother still grew me. Peel my skin and you will find that sort of red beneath. If you ask me where it came from I won't say. I will sing.
0
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
tawandamulalu
Red Songs.
(for children) (1) I heard a big word once. 'Armamentarium'. It's a word with old parents. It means things like medicine and how doctors feel your chest for beats that don't quite fit. It means red and the things inside your body that need hands to help you. My hands help by wandering. I tap my hands on tables, I comb my hair, I pick up flowers, I hold up faces of people I love when I feel blue. But my favourite is red, because it is inside me, beating. I learned a big word once. It was my name. I said it and it sang. (2) If you peel me you will find songs as thick as grapefruit. I am red inside. I take some time. I am always late. I am best in the mornings but at night awake. I'm from a place that is not as green as here. Our grasses are yellow and say so with the wind. My mirror is both my best friend and enemy, sometimes a lover, often a bully, either way hands are caught. I like to read. I read so much that I think of my skin as grapefruit. I don't even like to eat it. I just like the red. (3) Planes have mouths. They swallow people. They fly them away. They spit me out. Sometimes I do not know whose stomach I am in. Inside the planes I dream of reds as dense as roses. When the planes land I give them to me as myself. Let me explain this better: my accent is a grand liar because my country is blue. It never rains there but when it does you will find my mother's throat. I croak with such dryness that the sounds turn to words. (4) When I see me I see soil. I grow roses in my skin. People who don't look like me first brought those kinds of flowers to my country with ships. Kind of. We do not have oceans. They must have walked so far for me to speak with things they then planted. People think of me as oceans reflecting the sky. I say I want the sunset petalled perfectly into soil. My skin. When you see me you must adore me because of your planting. I am not your garden. I bloom. (5) When you hear words do not forget that someone taught them to you. Maybe your mother who read books about cats in hats to you at airports. Maybe your father and his stories of his childhood with feet twisting through thin sand as roses dancing. Where I am from we do not have soil for those kinds of flowers. My father still grew and my mother still grew me. Peel my skin and you will find that sort of red beneath. If you ask me where it came from I won't say. I will sing.
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59
This collecting; this laying out of treasures. A piece of watercolour paper cut to fit the sill of a window, then each object placed in a sequence. Stones and shells at first, then slivers of wood, a crab, a starfish. Eventually, small objects from inside the Fishing Station. Strange and so different away from their location. Strange to be displayed as distinctly separate rather than a gregarious jumble of ‘finds’. Their shadows fell with such delicacy across the paper, turning as the light turned, sharp-edged now, smudged later. I would catch her sitting before these collections, observing their properties as the window projected different qualities of light with the passing day. I had them to myself in the early mornings when I crept from our bed into the grey blue light of the dawn. I would sit before them with a china mug of tea feeling my body come to terms with its own self having left its shared part of me in bed. Every day seemed more precious than the previous. As the calendar moved relentlessly forward I realised we had begun to speak in whispers, beyond whispers in fact. I would look at her and speak silently in my head, as I do when I ‘say’ our silent grace, when I close my eyes and pause before the delight of a meal shared. She would nod, or answer with only the barest movement of her petalled lips. The most delicate stroke of my arm was a poem; a hand resting against the neck a chapter of novel. The volumes of words that we had between us come to own tumbled away into the machair. And living slowed right down. Every movement had a graceful turn, bend or flow to it. If we stood close to each other there was rarely the need to venture into an embrace. For once we were not about to part, we became completely, utterly together. We would listen to each other breathe until even that became absorbed into the sea's great breath we could feel from the cottage windows ruffling the waters.
0
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
nigel-morgan
A paragraph from The Fishing Station
This collecting; this laying out of treasures. A piece of watercolour paper cut to fit the sill of a window, then each object placed in a sequence. Stones and shells at first, then slivers of wood, a crab, a starfish. Eventually, small objects from inside the Fishing Station. Strange and so different away from their location. Strange to be displayed as distinctly separate rather than a gregarious jumble of ‘finds’. Their shadows fell with such delicacy across the paper, turning as the light turned, sharp-edged now, smudged later. I would catch her sitting before these collections, observing their properties as the window projected different qualities of light with the passing day. I had them to myself in the early mornings when I crept from our bed into the grey blue light of the dawn. I would sit before them with a china mug of tea feeling my body come to terms with its own self having left its shared part of me in bed. Every day seemed more precious than the previous. As the calendar moved relentlessly forward I realised we had begun to speak in whispers, beyond whispers in fact. I would look at her and speak silently in my head, as I do when I ‘say’ our silent grace, when I close my eyes and pause before the delight of a meal shared. She would nod, or answer with only the barest movement of her petalled lips. The most delicate stroke of my arm was a poem; a hand resting against the neck a chapter of novel. The volumes of words that we had between us come to own tumbled away into the machair. And living slowed right down. Every movement had a graceful turn, bend or flow to it. If we stood close to each other there was rarely the need to venture into an embrace. For once we were not about to part, we became completely, utterly together. We would listen to each other breathe until even that became absorbed into the sea's great breath we could feel from the cottage windows ruffling the waters.
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1
Her shoulders are tired carrying heavy loads. While crawling, she began throwing away the logs, rocks, barbs, and thorns. She replaced them with feathers and flower-petalled wings to reach the moon.
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May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 1:56 AM UTC
eloisa
Wings of Grace and Faith
Her shoulders are tired carrying heavy loads. While crawling, she began throwing away the logs, rocks, barbs, and thorns. She replaced them with feathers and flower-petalled wings to reach the moon.
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4
I have no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before, Bare is the shepherd’s fold. Rubies nor pearls Have I to gem thy throat; Yet woodland girls Have loved the shepherd’s note. Then pluck a reed And bid me sing to thee, For I would feed Thine ears with melody, Who art more fair Than fairest fleur-de-lys, More sweet and rare Than sweetest ambergris. What dost thou fear? Young Hyacinth is slain, Pan is not here, And will not come again. No horned Faun Treads down the yellow leas, No God at dawn Steals through the olive trees. Hylas is dead, Nor will he e’er divine Those little red Rose-petalled lips of thine. On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.
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1.9k
Oscar Wilde
Canzonet
I have no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before, Bare is the shepherd’s fold. Rubies nor pearls Have I to gem thy throat; Yet woodland girls Have loved the shepherd’s note. Then pluck a reed And bid me sing to thee, For I would feed Thine ears with melody, Who art more fair Than fairest fleur-de-lys, More sweet and rare Than sweetest ambergris. What dost thou fear? Young Hyacinth is slain, Pan is not here, And will not come again. No horned Faun Treads down the yellow leas, No God at dawn Steals through the olive trees. Hylas is dead, Nor will he e’er divine Those little red Rose-petalled lips of thine. On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.
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32
Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent: three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun. Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather - and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done for there is no permanence in her grief. She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child: clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries, new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.
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Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
nataliestilescarmona
Springtime!
Spring, cherished maiden ambivalent: three parts rain, one part intemp'rate sun. Show sympathy for clouded, rueful weather - and let her weep 'til she, at last, is done for there is no permanence in her grief. She's winter's lover, moreso summer's child: clutching daisy chains like bespoke rosaries, new petalled life retrieves her golden smile.
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8
The angels come more frequently now, Their visits like spring primroses, Full of five-petalled, open-palmed beauty and quiet energy, An unexpected surprise. For they will come again; persistence is a virtue, it seems, And I’m not quite lost yet. They smile encouragingly and their sparkling laughter fills the void; It lingers in the memory. And with them I can breathe full-lung and be joyful, Shout and dance naked in the street if I like. Or dye my hair blue. But of course I don’t. Because for now I am content to let them fill my soul with wonder, To be their angel in return, And to wait for next year’s blooms. Copyright © 2013 Vicki Watson
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Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 6:55 AM UTC
vicki-watson
The Primrose Angels
The angels come more frequently now, Their visits like spring primroses, Full of five-petalled, open-palmed beauty and quiet energy, An unexpected surprise. For they will come again; persistence is a virtue, it seems, And I’m not quite lost yet. They smile encouragingly and their sparkling laughter fills the void; It lingers in the memory. And with them I can breathe full-lung and be joyful, Shout and dance naked in the street if I like. Or dye my hair blue. But of course I don’t. Because for now I am content to let them fill my soul with wonder, To be their angel in return, And to wait for next year’s blooms. Copyright © 2013 Vicki Watson
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16
Awake mono no aware,           so adored,      rested upon pure pillows,           billowed,                           blooming, and drifting, on the dreams we evoked in pink petalled words, as t'skys silence spoke.
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Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
ruby-watson
Ma Chérie,
Awake mono no aware,           so adored,      rested upon pure pillows,           billowed,                           blooming, and drifting, on the dreams we evoked in pink petalled words, as t'skys silence spoke.
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11
I lie awake, listening to the unearthen trees whisper their rose petalled lies prophesying the return of my hope. Whilst the wind's mournful kisses die gracefully in a futile attempt to form the epitome of happiness.
0
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
maha-salman
A weather of bliss
I lie awake, listening to the unearthen trees whisper their rose petalled lies prophesying the return of my hope. Whilst the wind's mournful kisses die gracefully in a futile attempt to form the epitome of happiness.
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9
I'm the fire of his afterthought, the spark of guilt that lit his soul on fire that blazing innocence around his eyes when he smiles I stick tongue in his ear in devilish voice of seduction whisper in heated breath what I'm gonna do to him, one lick of heat he flitters like a moth to flame flickering in and out breathing my name; I got game, when I make him holler in vain he's tamed; sweet as a kitten licking and dipping in fiery pit, as I allow him to suckle a little *** having a fit, mind bound in illusions wrapping lips around wanton conclusions I leave him delusional as I whip with lust; blowing his mind just so, I can control him as I allow him to leave nibbling teeth marks tonguing wetness back to front upon silkiness of skin, delving into softness of elusive innocence; still whispering words, igniting fires of desirable passion as he's gasping for breath between wet thighs...yes I sighed as each word and lick fell between each soft petal dripping with his tenderest touch caught as I squeezed and teased, the heat of his passion blew flames in and out of petalled mouth, zapping any thoughts of guilt; sipping sweet nectar seeking political asylum as a defector tasting his way south; dribbling and mouthing in hunger on bended knee's to forever please me as he walked beside me collared on leash; in beggary silently still ********** me melting away each layer with every lick of my whip; he adored me with his touch, as I, his ebony skinned Mistress whipped his mind into submission; bending him to my will **** he thrilled me as I played him like a fiddle, he dribbled into my fiery pit in which he was well equipped so, I allowed him to dip with his flaming hot wick...LICKED
0
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
debra-a-baugh
Flaming Hot Wick...Licked
I'm the fire of his afterthought, the spark of guilt that lit his soul on fire that blazing innocence around his eyes when he smiles I stick tongue in his ear in devilish voice of seduction whisper in heated breath what I'm gonna do to him, one lick of heat he flitters like a moth to flame flickering in and out breathing my name; I got game, when I make him holler in vain he's tamed; sweet as a kitten licking and dipping in fiery pit, as I allow him to suckle a little *** having a fit, mind bound in illusions wrapping lips around wanton conclusions I leave him delusional as I whip with lust; blowing his mind just so, I can control him as I allow him to leave nibbling teeth marks tonguing wetness back to front upon silkiness of skin, delving into softness of elusive innocence; still whispering words, igniting fires of desirable passion as he's gasping for breath between wet thighs...yes I sighed as each word and lick fell between each soft petal dripping with his tenderest touch caught as I squeezed and teased, the heat of his passion blew flames in and out of petalled mouth, zapping any thoughts of guilt; sipping sweet nectar seeking political asylum as a defector tasting his way south; dribbling and mouthing in hunger on bended knee's to forever please me as he walked beside me collared on leash; in beggary silently still ********** me melting away each layer with every lick of my whip; he adored me with his touch, as I, his ebony skinned Mistress whipped his mind into submission; bending him to my will **** he thrilled me as I played him like a fiddle, he dribbled into my fiery pit in which he was well equipped so, I allowed him to dip with his flaming hot wick...LICKED
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106
We’ve got a lot in common, we share the same disease. We’re thankful for our belongings, though we fall down to our knees. And the Israelites are coming, they bring their funeral song, a one thousand petalled lotus is burned in the Gaza storm. Oh, I don’t want to hurt you, but you know that love is pain. You find yourself in its absence, just to lose it all again. And still, I’ll come back for more, like some sex-starved, pointless slave. Fixate on you in the darkness, and forget you in the day. And I do not need this devotion, I know not what it is for, I waded through the ocean, just to fall down at your door. I gave myself to religion, I gave myself to war, I fought for all of the peace, that I’d lost on your bedroom floor. And I do not need this devotion, 'cause I know not what it is for, I waded through the ocean, just to fall down at your door. And the soil swallowed me whole, whilst I’ve been searching in the skies, A motion of light in the treetops, a love before the lies. I do not need this emotion, I do not need your pearls, I’m looking for a brand new woman, now I’m tired of spoiled little girls. We’ve got a lot in common, how we tend to impossible dreams. The way we stand up for freedom, the way we fall down to our knees. The way we fall down to our knees.
0
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Edward-Coles
Fall Down To Our Knees
We’ve got a lot in common, we share the same disease. We’re thankful for our belongings, though we fall down to our knees. And the Israelites are coming, they bring their funeral song, a one thousand petalled lotus is burned in the Gaza storm. Oh, I don’t want to hurt you, but you know that love is pain. You find yourself in its absence, just to lose it all again. And still, I’ll come back for more, like some sex-starved, pointless slave. Fixate on you in the darkness, and forget you in the day. And I do not need this devotion, I know not what it is for, I waded through the ocean, just to fall down at your door. I gave myself to religion, I gave myself to war, I fought for all of the peace, that I’d lost on your bedroom floor. And I do not need this devotion, 'cause I know not what it is for, I waded through the ocean, just to fall down at your door. And the soil swallowed me whole, whilst I’ve been searching in the skies, A motion of light in the treetops, a love before the lies. I do not need this emotion, I do not need your pearls, I’m looking for a brand new woman, now I’m tired of spoiled little girls. We’ve got a lot in common, how we tend to impossible dreams. The way we stand up for freedom, the way we fall down to our knees. The way we fall down to our knees.
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41
I shall pass, in time amongst the edges of a lover’s sigh, Yet my atoms shall live in human touch, dashing against lips and hands and thighs, slumberous eyes. Gentle affections of my bodies edges, shall sway within tides of light. Among the nigh’ and her fragrant roses hue shall soften with time Within slender silver rapture, To drift ‘side heavenly bodies, Hundred petalled suns will blossom under the darkening eventide, and tremulous, I will follow.
0
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
ameliabourne
Quiver a little
I shall pass, in time amongst the edges of a lover’s sigh, Yet my atoms shall live in human touch, dashing against lips and hands and thighs, slumberous eyes. Gentle affections of my bodies edges, shall sway within tides of light. Among the nigh’ and her fragrant roses hue shall soften with time Within slender silver rapture, To drift ‘side heavenly bodies, Hundred petalled suns will blossom under the darkening eventide, and tremulous, I will follow.
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16
He Whom The Light Loves by Sara L. Russell aka Pinky Andrexa Where is he today, he whom the light loves, his face all kissed by sunlight, caressed by shadow, he who moves through the world like a sleek caracal, lissom and lithe as a dancer spellbound by a song? I thought I saw him in a waking dream, all haloed in rays of a sunrise; hot amber and gold; drawing admirers around him with burning allure, luring us into the warming embrace of his arms. Where is he who shines with an inner light, with shades of magenta-rose on his petalled lips? does he wander through distant daydreams of far away unaware of all observers who wish to be loves? Where is he today, he whom the light loves, all vibrant energy of highlight and shade? I'm blowing wistful kisses to air again wishing him love and the happiness I've still to find. --------------------------------------------------------------- (Dedicated to my favourite actor, talking about the way he lights up the screen).
0
Oct 25, 2009
Oct 25, 2009 at 5:00 PM UTC
sara-l-russell
He Whom The Light Loves
He Whom The Light Loves by Sara L. Russell aka Pinky Andrexa Where is he today, he whom the light loves, his face all kissed by sunlight, caressed by shadow, he who moves through the world like a sleek caracal, lissom and lithe as a dancer spellbound by a song? I thought I saw him in a waking dream, all haloed in rays of a sunrise; hot amber and gold; drawing admirers around him with burning allure, luring us into the warming embrace of his arms. Where is he who shines with an inner light, with shades of magenta-rose on his petalled lips? does he wander through distant daydreams of far away unaware of all observers who wish to be loves? Where is he today, he whom the light loves, all vibrant energy of highlight and shade? I'm blowing wistful kisses to air again wishing him love and the happiness I've still to find. --------------------------------------------------------------- (Dedicated to my favourite actor, talking about the way he lights up the screen).
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20
Now November's uncovering reveals slightly embelished skin-tight holds in pre-winter flirting of untried ***** first kisses from her bolder more moisturised rosy-red lips. November's call nips boisterous early-morn breath, cools dawning, catches the depth of petalled laggards full with dry doze of surfeit summering and tho aslumber shows them her potential, November blows her own wake-up call of uncovered cold shoulder, so essential to lingerers, with a real zeal. .
0
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
fay-slimm
Uncovering November.
Now November's uncovering reveals slightly embelished skin-tight holds in pre-winter flirting of untried ***** first kisses from her bolder more moisturised rosy-red lips. November's call nips boisterous early-morn breath, cools dawning, catches the depth of petalled laggards full with dry doze of surfeit summering and tho aslumber shows them her potential, November blows her own wake-up call of uncovered cold shoulder, so essential to lingerers, with a real zeal. .
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22
We dressed her in delicate silk And gave her glittering jewels to wear, A crown with rubies on the top, And flowers for her fragrant hair We placed wings on her dainty shoulders, Crystal heels on her slender feet, We draped her in beauty head to toe, Gave her the shape of all our fantasies, So that when we picked at her flawless skin, And tore off her silken gowns, When we pulled at her rose-petalled hair And her lovely stone-studded crown, When we chased her into darkness, As she tripped on manacled heels, When we watched her try to fly but fail With bejewelled wings that were too heavy, We could baffle her, confuse her, fool her Into believing it was not our fault, For we had revered and worshipped her, Could the devotee be responsible for her fall? Oh not at all! She was too beautiful, She radiated too much, She was too pristine, Easily dirtied on touch, She was too striking, She was too bold, To not be stripped off of all that glitter And all that shameless gold.
0
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
ghazal-tansir
All That Glitters
We dressed her in delicate silk And gave her glittering jewels to wear, A crown with rubies on the top, And flowers for her fragrant hair We placed wings on her dainty shoulders, Crystal heels on her slender feet, We draped her in beauty head to toe, Gave her the shape of all our fantasies, So that when we picked at her flawless skin, And tore off her silken gowns, When we pulled at her rose-petalled hair And her lovely stone-studded crown, When we chased her into darkness, As she tripped on manacled heels, When we watched her try to fly but fail With bejewelled wings that were too heavy, We could baffle her, confuse her, fool her Into believing it was not our fault, For we had revered and worshipped her, Could the devotee be responsible for her fall? Oh not at all! She was too beautiful, She radiated too much, She was too pristine, Easily dirtied on touch, She was too striking, She was too bold, To not be stripped off of all that glitter And all that shameless gold.
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29
Thousands of slaves of The Saviour run bent over to a place to sit, belly to buttock nose in the back, sections full of light pink shoulders under the violet shaved crowns to open the brain under sun and moon to the Great Soul and to gain self-knowledge from the mirrors around you the exchangeable bodies that under the discipline of loneliness among silent fellow sufferers no longer can die from everyday life's dangers Everywhere you see yourself among the hard faces of armed guards and you cling to the changing of the light the rustle of rain and scents brought by the wind "He laughs best who laughs last" But what kind of laugh is that? A laugh which is not shared...
0
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 3:25 AM UTC
Zywa
Thousand-petalled day
Thousands of slaves of The Saviour run bent over to a place to sit, belly to buttock nose in the back, sections full of light pink shoulders under the violet shaved crowns to open the brain under sun and moon to the Great Soul and to gain self-knowledge from the mirrors around you the exchangeable bodies that under the discipline of loneliness among silent fellow sufferers no longer can die from everyday life's dangers Everywhere you see yourself among the hard faces of armed guards and you cling to the changing of the light the rustle of rain and scents brought by the wind "He laughs best who laughs last" But what kind of laugh is that? A laugh which is not shared...
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25
You said you wanted to know, How you appear through another's eyes. I wonder though, how YOU see you, How much of what I see is a disguise. Well, I want to tell you how you taste, Of cool rain and fire. With petalled lips and milky skin, Flushing crimson with desire. Sometimes I can hear the soft notes of the music that moves you, Dancing along parted lips. Spilling secrets and an incandescent light, Celestial parts, that you'd normally eclipse. Sometimes you seem far off, Battling monsters beneath the surface. Externally calm, like the eye of a storm, While the rest of us play part in life's circus. Sometimes I want to trace your scars, Which only tell truths in part. And cannot even begin to tell, Of the scars criss-crossing your heart. ..and still, delicate, like intricate lace, Following the curves of your figure. Woman, you are beautiful! I'm not sure how you can't see that in your mirror. I do not know your story, The things that you have seen. But I can see you've earnt your armour, Placed around you like a screen. So, please forgive this, a glimpse of how I see. You, your being, your purpose. And despite all these things, There's untold more beneath your surface.
0
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
casey-1
When I met little chicken
You said you wanted to know, How you appear through another's eyes. I wonder though, how YOU see you, How much of what I see is a disguise. Well, I want to tell you how you taste, Of cool rain and fire. With petalled lips and milky skin, Flushing crimson with desire. Sometimes I can hear the soft notes of the music that moves you, Dancing along parted lips. Spilling secrets and an incandescent light, Celestial parts, that you'd normally eclipse. Sometimes you seem far off, Battling monsters beneath the surface. Externally calm, like the eye of a storm, While the rest of us play part in life's circus. Sometimes I want to trace your scars, Which only tell truths in part. And cannot even begin to tell, Of the scars criss-crossing your heart. ..and still, delicate, like intricate lace, Following the curves of your figure. Woman, you are beautiful! I'm not sure how you can't see that in your mirror. I do not know your story, The things that you have seen. But I can see you've earnt your armour, Placed around you like a screen. So, please forgive this, a glimpse of how I see. You, your being, your purpose. And despite all these things, There's untold more beneath your surface.
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33
i. The notes are ingrained by the blue petalled flames, burning them into my bones. All other colors fade, detach, suspended in a waking dream. Here, in the lingering lucidity, this maddening gnaw of pain leaks the little whispers, stealing rhapsody from pleasure. ii. Tightrope treachery, a daringly dancing gypsy spinning about on a narrow wall. A burning star, she leaps... leaving shimmering stardust in her wake, balance risked for the momentum of grace. A barter between freedom and fate, perhaps circles of three will bring it all tumbling to the ground. iii. Ariadne abandonment, I foam milkweed at the mouth under the burning moon. Casting aside the anguish of this tether, feeding tinder to an infant rage, I let its coals singe my soul while this blazing inferno carries my fury forward. I **** the marrow of courage... Now, I shall deprive the Minotaur of his horns and roast Theseus' heart upon their tips! iv. The flavor of innocence on my lips has become a sorrowing memory. In the waking moments, the world slowly becomes unbound before me, my wandering is done, the final marks are made. And the taste of one too many poppies tingles on my tongue, as my voice is laid out on a slab of words.
0
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
misty-roper
On the Bed of Hypnos
i. The notes are ingrained by the blue petalled flames, burning them into my bones. All other colors fade, detach, suspended in a waking dream. Here, in the lingering lucidity, this maddening gnaw of pain leaks the little whispers, stealing rhapsody from pleasure. ii. Tightrope treachery, a daringly dancing gypsy spinning about on a narrow wall. A burning star, she leaps... leaving shimmering stardust in her wake, balance risked for the momentum of grace. A barter between freedom and fate, perhaps circles of three will bring it all tumbling to the ground. iii. Ariadne abandonment, I foam milkweed at the mouth under the burning moon. Casting aside the anguish of this tether, feeding tinder to an infant rage, I let its coals singe my soul while this blazing inferno carries my fury forward. I **** the marrow of courage... Now, I shall deprive the Minotaur of his horns and roast Theseus' heart upon their tips! iv. The flavor of innocence on my lips has become a sorrowing memory. In the waking moments, the world slowly becomes unbound before me, my wandering is done, the final marks are made. And the taste of one too many poppies tingles on my tongue, as my voice is laid out on a slab of words.
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48
In the ageless place where wings greeted the realms of the sky. A single  rose did blossom, its thorns of clarity transparently Unseen, to hide the deed that would be beauties hidden snare. Fallen a single item of purity fell upon this petalled beauty and From white It was consumed, until it flamed black Till ash Nourished the rose and petals turned starless black. She happened on this rose of no thorn, nicking her index it bled But a drop, and what wasn't was now shown a thorn of red, As if blood had filled its edges, and with that one knick a petal Of black did open, no longer closed the door now open. As upon an exposed moment this petal permeates the purity Of Innocence, inviting those enticed to obscurity of beauty hidden is the pollen that infiltrates the air seeding its Influence upon others self. As all are drawn to the rose that drinks. Each thorn did consume, all met innocence and each petal now Turned from purity to onyx of corruption. Where the shades of White confronted with desires of a thought never felt. Ever petal had opened, spawned the beast that had slept, but Now woken as pollen of darkness inhaled by light. Those perfect features now jagged upon silk torn, blood was not spilt on thorns But on the white cobbled streets, screams of insanity reeked. A single rose blossoming beauty of flawed conscience's had Given birth to unclean emotions, thoughts that took control. All were nearly tainted only a few were still pure of heart, this Place of fallen feathers into the clouded thoughts. There was a rose that blossomed in Calluna, its beauty seduced Those of purity of heart and seeded a petal that was like a razor Jagged, upon a soul cutting it apart. With tainted beauty till only the shards of edges sharp breathed upon a heart. now all was black Where once there was only shades of white that have fallen apart.
0
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
poetic-t
Angels Of Calluna
In the ageless place where wings greeted the realms of the sky. A single  rose did blossom, its thorns of clarity transparently Unseen, to hide the deed that would be beauties hidden snare. Fallen a single item of purity fell upon this petalled beauty and From white It was consumed, until it flamed black Till ash Nourished the rose and petals turned starless black. She happened on this rose of no thorn, nicking her index it bled But a drop, and what wasn't was now shown a thorn of red, As if blood had filled its edges, and with that one knick a petal Of black did open, no longer closed the door now open. As upon an exposed moment this petal permeates the purity Of Innocence, inviting those enticed to obscurity of beauty hidden is the pollen that infiltrates the air seeding its Influence upon others self. As all are drawn to the rose that drinks. Each thorn did consume, all met innocence and each petal now Turned from purity to onyx of corruption. Where the shades of White confronted with desires of a thought never felt. Ever petal had opened, spawned the beast that had slept, but Now woken as pollen of darkness inhaled by light. Those perfect features now jagged upon silk torn, blood was not spilt on thorns But on the white cobbled streets, screams of insanity reeked. A single rose blossoming beauty of flawed conscience's had Given birth to unclean emotions, thoughts that took control. All were nearly tainted only a few were still pure of heart, this Place of fallen feathers into the clouded thoughts. There was a rose that blossomed in Calluna, its beauty seduced Those of purity of heart and seeded a petal that was like a razor Jagged, upon a soul cutting it apart. With tainted beauty till only the shards of edges sharp breathed upon a heart. now all was black Where once there was only shades of white that have fallen apart.
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30
Dog Daisy's, Taller than their tiny kin Long stemmed and green in leaf, reaching up towards the sky. Now new, with white petalled faces and a bright and golden eye, in the Autumn they will wither appearing then to fade and die, not so, in the Spring they'll rise again, to carpet all the grassy borders, with a promise to renew their duty spreading over all their beauty, blowing in the Summer breeze playing host to swarming bee's.
0
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
b-j-clement
Dog Daisy's.
Dog Daisy's, Taller than their tiny kin Long stemmed and green in leaf, reaching up towards the sky. Now new, with white petalled faces and a bright and golden eye, in the Autumn they will wither appearing then to fade and die, not so, in the Spring they'll rise again, to carpet all the grassy borders, with a promise to renew their duty spreading over all their beauty, blowing in the Summer breeze playing host to swarming bee's.
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13
Your time, has dropped like sand Amid, the hour glass Cocooned, caressed, life’s hand, Gathered grain, moment by moment. Your time has left, as we stand, Our eyes no longer glimpsing Your sand, it shifts leaving us adrift Drifting, needing your steadying hand Capturing the sand Each particle a memory, our way to Invite and view who..... you were And are, and yet to be; we wonder how it Will unfurl like petals waiting to uncurl Facing your new pathway, each petalled Pearl dropped before your feet, leading. Each grain renewed amid the hour glass, Breathing So take my hand, rake through the sand Hold each petal within your hand
0
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
laura-susan-smith
Amid the hour glass
Your time, has dropped like sand Amid, the hour glass Cocooned, caressed, life’s hand, Gathered grain, moment by moment. Your time has left, as we stand, Our eyes no longer glimpsing Your sand, it shifts leaving us adrift Drifting, needing your steadying hand Capturing the sand Each particle a memory, our way to Invite and view who..... you were And are, and yet to be; we wonder how it Will unfurl like petals waiting to uncurl Facing your new pathway, each petalled Pearl dropped before your feet, leading. Each grain renewed amid the hour glass, Breathing So take my hand, rake through the sand Hold each petal within your hand
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19
this bang from aeons ago unleashes a dark centrifugal fury in far-flung M87 devouring neighboring stardust the other side of this hawking spectacle, a black king cobra entrancingly coils around a thousand-petalled white lotus finale of an existential journey misery over.... © 2019
0
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
rama-krsna
kundalini 2
this bang from aeons ago unleashes a dark centrifugal fury in far-flung M87 devouring neighboring stardust the other side of this hawking spectacle, a black king cobra entrancingly coils around a thousand-petalled white lotus finale of an existential journey misery over.... © 2019
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12
There on the path she stands, the evening sun sculpting her face with light and shade. An on-shore wind has dressed the curls in her hair and between expressions she’s composed, in charge of herself, hand on her camera, almost a smile on those petalled lips he loves to brush and rest his tongue between and kiss, and there behind her a backdrop: a river on the ebb, a shoreline path of Maytime green, and a sky of floating cumulus mediocris.
0
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
nigel-morgan
Woman by a River
There on the path she stands, the evening sun sculpting her face with light and shade. An on-shore wind has dressed the curls in her hair and between expressions she’s composed, in charge of herself, hand on her camera, almost a smile on those petalled lips he loves to brush and rest his tongue between and kiss, and there behind her a backdrop: a river on the ebb, a shoreline path of Maytime green, and a sky of floating cumulus mediocris.
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25
her tulips bloomed in the night,        softer than the paling moon/       beams darker silhouettes —hers—lined the u’s and i’s of turning. the headlights skimmed the road, petalled like ice.
0
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 2:54 AM UTC
narvik_snow
her tulips bloomed in the night
her tulips bloomed in the night,        softer than the paling moon/       beams darker silhouettes —hers—lined the u’s and i’s of turning. the headlights skimmed the road, petalled like ice.
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10