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Umi Feb 2018
Mixing tea, let's say lavender with something as simple as milk
Must sound silly and weird at first glance, as both come with their
own tastes and flavors which seem to not match at all.
Even the most unmatching couple can find bliss, harmony and
perfection in their very relationship, however.
Such as for the tea;

The milk manages to soften, embrace, advertise the taste of lavender
while leaving a pleasant aftertaste which is alike a ghost poorly
detectable, but present nonetheless after all.
With some sugar to sweeten this experience, it becomes divine,
something I would never have thought of, of such an odd couple.
The image of the lavender becomes overdrawn by the milk,
Engaging in a pure, creamy, brief white which reflects light just
in a majestic sense.
This is a taste to become lost in whilst reading a book in the best
of lightings, together with someone who causes your heart to race
and just turn ablaze

~ Umi
Shadow Dragon Sep 2018
Three orange lights
waiting in a cue.
Warm, pudgy and sweating.
Squeezing the last drop
of pure sweetener
down your throat.

Delicious syrup
growing and spreading
on the finger tips.
Feeding the eager.
Melting bright nectar
dropping down the thighs.

Saliva sprinkels
on the piano lips.
Playing chants
of **** and thirst.
Lavish liberation
buzzing for more bees.
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
**** bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be **** to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Louche tang of the berthafly ink on your nape
has me flushed glutton for its underclass umami.
'Cross a Newkie Brown kristallnacht-scape,
you: hither, blacken ballet pumps from Primani.

No rugbytackle on a hungry subtle jackal,
but it's risky (tho', tbf, not that risky)
to smuggle rumpled, prisonrolled rosepetals
int'a Dean Rhetoric afterworld for Daddy.

Whilst lukewarm ****'s a phoenix's acronyx,
asbestos gelos defervesces not, my frisky
alderliefest ticklish like Chi-nickel crucifix.
Life's too brisk: fake a risk (in itself quite risky).

A poet's the kinda herbert in Herbert Pocket's pocket,
who thinks risque lagniappe from Aganippe
is lock of autumnal pubarche from Humbert Humbert's locket,
in sink where gooseberries were electrolysised lately.

Flightless bard 'mid diorama of nephograms
(steppensheep nebula, staffage in matteshot sky),
*****, erm, Withwords, who broadsides how wrong I am:
'Heart's excrescences risk poesy's arty chokey'.

In rejectionslip braille hail, papercut rain
of masterpiece confetti do we live dangerously,
in mastertape conshreddi of 99 bandnames.
But headliner suicides win poetry lottery.

Shelley stunt of dying strangely, strangely young
cures a vocabullinachinashoplairy,
becomes Voynich manuscrap of Symbolist shantung.
Full circle: silk wormfood determines vellumworthy.

Vicious circle: rosa rosa razor est est.
Vicious Coriolis: life plugholing w/ the hoary
sullage, balneal bisnatchizzle, a stringvest-
al Virgil's dregs refresh t'highwater Dante.

For what BBQpid matchmakes man w/ Beatrice,
Stonkahontas tormeting an odd 'n' furry
berk, poet whose amrita is thridace
strain of th'infidelity toxin, Beauty.

Which is how the risky Manic defined the
entartete source of fishy fiances,
la beaute du diable. But hybristophilia
to scorpions of Venus, to **** on a tray,

is flipbride of poet wailing to be her DWEM lover,
a foxynoxynihilipilification proxy
for transfiguration by association w/ bete noir
of Beauty: beta noir bards are Death's humerus candy.
bisnatchizzle = a *****'s ***** hair
over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

businessmen
remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *
The sun never shines
in downtown
Theres no merry go round
Nor the sweetest sound
in downtown .
There's no pleasant air
And nobody cares
lifes so unfair
  in downtown.
Such an unwelcoming sight
When your out  at night
Walking the streets brings no delight
Your caught in a trap and can't take to flight
in downtown.
There are no bars or  sound of cars
All you have are many scars
  in downtown .
Now this is the news
That can help you through
There is a way out of downtown
For there's not such a place  
you need not fear nor dread
Its just those thoughts inside your head.
If we are honist with ourselves I feel we all have
been in that town sometime or another if not often.
Aditya Roy Mar 27
Walk this way
Take it from the river down in the east
A place down the west
Taking the troubles of my mind
Johnny has gone south
With his guitar in the wind
The hearing's tomorrow Summer
Where's the bride
She's in court for the hearing
It's Bonnie And Clyde
And the sea of dreams
Turning upside down
There representation of something unique
A pleasant hook
Of reality
There is a pressure to create
And develop the time, I **** and feel
I know and breathe
Among Murderers And COnvicts
As one person among the dead
As many in dread
As many dread my exorcism
The hollow breaths
The ghastly sharp sensations
The terrible tools of simpletons
These ghosts just sift through your river Styx
Like me
Here's a song, my trending candidature.
Timothy Apr 2017
To–day is waning now here comes the end,
     Of all those dearest hours that shone so bright,
     Now darkness reigns stars appear on my sight
Cold winds blow long and shiv’ring trees do bend.
No moon to glow, soon black-night shall descend,
     Erasing faded pastel sunset light
     Inevitable sleep tucks us in tight
Until dawn breaks and new day light ascend.

But memories shall hold this day in mind
   A pleasant thought to dwell upon indeed,
      Such golden hours that sped on angel wings
Shall be retrieved at moment’s notice kind,
   And relived fresh—a germinating seed—
      A soothing lullabye which gently sings.
( Petrarchan Sonnet )
17 March 2017 6:28am EDT
At least with Solemn Differences sing
Honouring Friends of Great Cheer celebrate
Your arm on her lap; The other on him
And with a Flash these Blue Knights consecrate
Jolly, so Potent turn Tan into Red
That pleasant alarm Blue Oracles see
And guess which Debate your Incarnate fed
Whether you are or whether not to be
Ready for Cause to the Next Big Event
Telling yourself to Inspiration run
Foresaw this Scope: Friendship and Teamwork's meant
But all of this time it was just for Fun.
Seriousness Adore, Someone licks the Tip
In your Patron; Which was really your lip.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Qweyku Nov 2016
Moe
Spirit of pleasant memory told me;
(to) keep writing
So
sweetly fell her words
to the crests of my shoulders
she lifted me with a breath...
"the world was waiting".

Selfishly I seek that soul of a day,
such that creation no longer tarries
save at least one precious moment,
sooner, than what was writ afore.
Thank you
Anecandu Jun 2014
Waiting for me after a long shower and shampoo

I dry my bronze silky skin and come to you,

Your smiling sweetly sitting on the edge of Marble countertop,

waiting while your loving gaze at me never drops.



I reach out my moist hands, we brush,

You shake nervously and seem to turn to mush.

Your wondering really how innocent are my fluid motions,

I'm smirking, while grasping a scented lotion.



You sit there amused blushing from Pink to rainbow,

Each angle gives you a new mellow, a glow, wow!

I'm missing something , something I pretend to forget,

You look impatient now with sighs of regret.



You sulk as I glimpse with a lean of my head,

through the frame of my door from my now made up bed,

I pull up my slacks, your sunny smile fades to dreary,

I put on my shirt, your turning the evil fairy.


I know you feel there's someone else,

Some disappearing genie or magical elf,

because you sense but never see,

Me happy in other pleasant company.



You want to be all over me that much is clear.

I want to take you too in my arms dear,

But today will have to be just that touch,

Your lingering smell on me makes others ****.


But silently you understand,

Your sealed mouth is as dry as sand,

I blow a kiss as I pick up my key,

I know in the dark you'll wait for me................


Because your MY perfume
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes past along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps twenty-one,
long brown ***** legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
Her radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Once in a great while those days and that
young maiden of Moorea do yet visit me,
in dreams as real as can be. She never grows
old, nor does the beauty we shared for that
one brief moment in time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her late fifties, most
likely a Mother, even by now a Grandmother.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
I'm no poet, you all are poets. I'm just an old guy
with memories and little stories to tell.
It's rather long for a poem, but some memories
are longer than others.
Thanks for letting me share.
Doubt thou the Earth doth spin,
Doubt the skies not to be Heaven's chin.

Doubt that Heaven's green and gold,
Her pulchritude is a fairytale told.

Doubt thou we'll meet the Lord,
At the other side of life's road.

Doubt that in Heaven's pleasant glade,
Life shall dare never to ever fade.

Doubt thou the sight before thy eyes,
Infinite not to be the coyly sinking skies.

Doubt that a pulchritudenous flower,
Akin to any other flower loses her allure.

Doubt thou **** ain't a woeful grave
But never doubt thy love I dost crave.


©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
28th January 2017
Corey Apr 2017
Religion has such power. It guides in a
certain direction while allowing the followers
to take on their own life. They are submissive
despite its controlling ways.

I worship you, and you worship the moon.

It has such control over you. It allows
your tides to rise and to fall. Yet, you are
not forced, you prefer to adhere
to it's gentle push and pull.

I have no religion but you.

Perhaps the moon is as unknowing of
its control over you, as you are unknowing
of your control over me. It is pleasant
to allow you control.

For you, I am tidal.
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
May all your dreams come true
Like the Cubies
May you not strangle yours
Upon Thanksgiving;  for  you’ve gotten
Your new stadium
And there will always be next year’s
Children’s Cup;  where are your dreams
Wherein’ are thy child’sland of delightful realms
Can I not grasp you?
All for thy pleasant hands you have trenched
And these are God’s.
Eric of the Cross
Muted Jul 2018
i long for pleasant days.
days that feel like new beginnings,
days when i feel as if i am floating,
when each and every
fiber of my being
feels content with letting go,
tying loose ends,
shedding dead skin.
when my body no longer
feels unworthy of
occupying a space in this dimension,
when my brain no longer
allows toxicity to occupy a space
within it.
i long for moments of silence.
solace for my soul,
a place for the skeletons
in my closet to
rest their dust-covered heads.
i long for happy summers.
when i no longer fear
the thought of love.
when i no longer imagine love
as an **** ****,
devouring a flower bed.
when i no longer imagine you
resting in someone else's.
A raggedy old doll,
all ***** and dusty,
lying on the floor of old cabin.
When snuggled at night,
he sat up and sang,
a verse of the spellbook
of Sabians!

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“My heart warmed of her presence,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Her flowering scents so pleasant,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“My mind about a treasure,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“My fortune is her pleasure,”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Lost I am you see?”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Sun-ray crowned was she!”

“Golden-haired the raven!”

“Oh golden haired my raven!”

Just before dawn,
he sat up in bed,
to look upon his
new little girl.
Shined-up his button eyes,
and tilted his head…
then snuggled back into her curls.
Poetic tale
Umi Apr 2018
Down like an anchor,
Vision is shrinking as your eardrums burst through the grusome pressure, increasing the deeper you go in the deep, blue, merciless sea
A match unwinnable, a fight to the finish, to ones very last breath,
Tackled something so much greater, it has pulled back, after capsizing we made the decision when it came to swim or sink, that we drown,
Swallowed by the ocean,  these great unfathomable depths, taken away our last breath of fresh, salty, stinging, yet very pleasant flavour
Our blanket is a billow, a stormy night which caused this tragedy,
Darkness under darkness, where light upon light once ruled supreme
Until our bodies have been taken apart, by this greedy sea and its desire to take us in, make us a part of it's glorious wide spread self,
Never to see the glassy surface once more, or will we be ship ghosts?
All lies and all sin, all dreams and all majesty, are swept away by swelling waves of the expanse someone may call the pacific ocean,
All ego and all deception, all freedom and all light is lost in its dephts
But we quietly, gently rest with pride in our hearts.


~ Umi
Amy Irby Jul 2012
My
heart
feels 
warmer
when you are around.    
Not quite a fire,
more like the gentle warmth    
of the spring sun    
melting into my skin.    
pleasant and peaceful,    
I close my lids and could believe    
for a moment, there is    
no enmity in the world.    
    
Your
movements
are
strange;    
fluttering hands and slow,    
nearly stomping strides.    
And sometimes, you sprint    
in parking lots.    
It's dire to get somewhere!  
But you usually get about    
six feet then stop.    
    
    
Your presence 
is 
mighty.    
    
So mighty that many times I can    
Know your feelings    
when words fail you.    
But your words are not always easy to read.    
When you're in a closet,    
a scream only tells me where    
you are, not how to get to you.    
    
Small children, tucked in beds a bunk.    
The clouds' tears would patter on the windows    
and angrily bang pots and pans.    
But the clouds did not wake me.    
I woke to the feeling of small,    
cold hands and feet, wriggling their    
way under my blanket in the top bunk.    
I'd meet the gaze of little tear filled    
eyes, then watch them close waiting    
for them to dream again.    
      
    
You have my blood, my eyes, my promise to be present.    
And without doubt, you lovingly robbed my heart.    
Any stranger could see you smile,    
and hear you chuckle, and you    
would steal theirs too.    
No, they would give it to you.    
How could you not give your heart    
to the source of its warmth.
- this was for my younger brother

Thanks so much for reading friend
Joie Yin Aug 2018
Lovebirds

An old man sat with patience
On the bench he waited for her
He smiled sweetly on her appearance
Hand in hand they walked together.

In the garden full of greens
The lovebirds chatted with laughter
As if they were in movie scenes
The way they looked at each other.

He ****** her hair gently
Her hair clip he'd bought years ago
Still intact she placed it neatly
That is the little pink flamingo.

Pleasant breeze they enjoyed
As they continued walking
Her fragile nature shivered
In her thin floral dress clothing.

He took off his outer layer shirt
Naturally putting it on her shoulders
She joked about wearing a skirt
He thought she was full of wonders.

He recalled her bravery
She reminisced his sacrifices
They've come far in life's journey
Counting their little happiness.

As I watched from a distance
I felt a pinch of sweet jealousy
Witnessing true love's existence
Yet wishing them to stay as lovely.
Joie Yin
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