"pon" poems
*Sun flickered 'pon your eyes
scintillating as the seas,
dappled with the chemistry
of a thousand swooning moons*
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
*"This is but once an end to us,
A single blot upon our page.
There is still much we will discuss.
In another time; another age"*
**Her palm went weak within my grasp,
As her soothing voice began to fade.
And like the biting of an asp,
There was no bargain to be made.**
*"I cannot breathe this wretched air--
Made toxic by her extinguished breath--
And were I to feel I could not care,
I'd follow her into her death."*
**A plague upon mortality!
A curse 'pon all the gods!
And yet the binds of morality,
Will maintain all uneven odds.**
*"There is still much we will discuss.
In another time; another age"*
**It repeats and rolls--a cursed chorus,
Set 'gainst a melody that dances up a rage.**
**Nothing left to discuss; no other time or age.
No longer can I breathe her breath; there is no other way.
The world is not a picture show; we're not born on a stage!
Life exists for pain and loss; there's no grand scheme we play!**
*"I cannot live this wretched life--
Made empty by her extinguished flame--
I'd hoped that I could make her my wife,
But not all plans are laid the same..."*
**I drag myself into the street--
Away from the memories of her--
And fall 'neath the current of marching feet.
I try to forget all that we were...**
**Then I sense a figure there,
A silhouette among the crowd.
And all I'm left to do is stare,
With what little strength I'm left endowed.**
*"There is not but once to any end,
No singularity to the times.
Though it will not repeat, my friend,
The past works well in rhymes."*
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
.
***Ancient games
tell tales of dust. ||| A story drawn
from the lips of two poets.***
~~~~~
It's the wits that **** not Queens of ivory or ***ink. ***
Charged with coal strokes, scraping up the lies.
Pawns & Knights slip between the grasp of the sun, leaking into* lion jaws of Leo.
Shifting these granite plates, ignoring the Rooks common price of aslant.
Here we have slain kin, crescent traitors that backstab the night and battlefield.
Closed doors and trap floors, trade me a tie, swindling your tactic ruts.
Reality never got the noose around our necks, check turned into manslaughter, and kingdoms ripped asunder by the roar of Jupiter
Get up, get up, get away from these liars, they can't have your rank or your fire.
Peak a notion, this match is spared by a luft.
Toss away the pride buried 'neath your dusty skin, it don't matter no more if death has you by the lips.
Silence is a language too in our eyes of earth.
Take my hand, knott your soul into this downfall, and brace yourself for the wreckage in our bones.
The Sword of Sorrows will fall 'pon your shoulders, not to slay thee, but to dub thee a new day.
The drums of war will knit the lyrics in the sky,
singing:
"The mighty sharpen their fangs, the weak sharpen their wisdom"
~~~~~
I'm tired of your wishbones, and golden scales, give me the hard-earned truth.
Hot coals of honesty may you tread upon, shadow-bitten remorseful may you be, don't stray off the course of Ursa major.
The North star isn't the one I follow
It's the moon with all of it's phases,
Eclipsing and crescent, tipping the sky with it's beauty.
Now let this sink further than any soul has ever sunk,
no man could ever
*rule the moon.
~~~~~~
***Shoot on command,
C
h
e
c
k
m
a
t
e***
~~~~
You could drag me to hell and back and those words wouldn't mean anything.
Let this downfall become a downfell,
Because last I checked
"Wolves worship the moon"
and I have broke it's reflection in the water
*Just
by
throwing
s
t
o
n
e
s
.*
.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
..
Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its slope...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over
the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.
light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...
beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...
in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...
the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
"Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly" (2)
who needs challenges, commissions.
kicks~in~le butte~
when heaven heaves rains, one downs tall orders in
short shot glass verses, which glossed over at its
first communion(cation,
come back
months later
to subtract - another
poem from where it lay dormant
on the doormat
of my sub~sub~terranes
of my diluted subconscious au natured dry & rugged terrain
a favored poet,
a secretive admirer,
whoa~whose~her truthful name, I've yet to uncover,
but whose one true soul inspires me repeatedly,
ana~lyrically licks me into
dredging from me
un begrudgingly
and yet,
another love poem,
she herself wrote when elixiring (commentating (3))
'pon one of mine,
a long long time ago
Alas! Alack!
unnaturally immodest,
one concedes,
when obviously a Super~Woman!-cedes,
seeds in three verses, what I could never unknot
nor uncover
so I requite & requote with
unlabored pleasure
miz patty m's
primary terse verse,
neither secondary & never tertiary,
her absolut perfect mixed drink
defining, summarizing,
the essences of love
*"(Love) Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly"*
I concede, in deed,
and in writing,
I know nothing,
of writing
of only love poetry
and all the great predecessors,
elsewhere lyricized, named and tabulated,
by yet another women, (1)
I will take my weary words elsewhere,
and if
perhaps,
disguised as a woman,
(Natalie, Natasha, Natali
see note below)
perhaps my verbal herbal insides,
my turgid insights,
will be shorter, sweeter,
but never more completer
than those of,
who can syncopate it
in rhyme
and the naming of my
predilection,
by mid~initial,
will give a measuring
of solace, and
a kiss and hug from my mirrored selfie,
having been unsuccessful at
my one chosen endeavor,
only love poetry,
adieu,
I, due,
utter
Nevermore
M>
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:38 PM UTC
sweet an nice.mek mi mash a pum pum
Like a lizad pon lim a goin mash a pum pum.
Me can't. Feel sewwt relief les I mash a pum pum.
Peaches an cream.
Cunnamon dream
Rock and come in
Fi go mash apum pum.
Drive yu wild when I masha pum pum
Lone free style fi go mash a pumpum.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
Ebb and flow, back and forth;
A story six years told.
To and fro yet never settled;
This friendship's getting old.
He lies and teases all the night,
Though gentle is his heart.
She knows all this, but far too well,
And so decides to part.
He never gave her reason why,
But still he told her lie 'pon lie.
He chased her til the morning dawned,
And then the bird did fly.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
She lifts her head
She lifts her head
But a few inches from pillow,
Where head, a blonde mess,
Has night time rested
Is it dawn or day,
Sky or rain,
Time to rise, coffee make or time to lay
Back down.
I answer all,
For I've been up for h/ours,
(You know doing what),
Place my hand 'pon her head
and gentle it back down.
Pillowed, I thrown in a few kisses
To that tangled mess,
For my hands, my lips,
My writing utensils,
Write her poem,
This poem,
And answer all her questions,
never spoke, never asked,
N'ere a single word out loud passes.
At 5:45 AM, just now.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
.
Thy loveliness be fyne arte
powdered 'pon a velvet page.
Thy heart doth sing lullabies
penned in a lovers cage.
Thy loveliness be crystal jewels
studded 'pon a silver thread.
Thy breath doth fan the fyres
stitched in a lovers bed.
Thy loveliness be sweet dreams
strewn 'pon a meadow fair.
Thy nature doth perfume give
flowers in a lovers snare.
© Pagan Paul (14/06/17)
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
.
'*pon your voyages through my mind
mingling with memories cruel and kind,
amongst the shattered dreams that do lay
'neath darkened clouds so distant away.
Amidst the chaos of random thoughts
strands of discord forged and sought,
chasing nightmares you must flee
the ugliness deep inside of me.
Be you close or be you far,
Please think of Me,
wherever you are.*
© Pagan Paul (20/03/18)
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
behold
mine guilt be carved
'pon this furrowed brow
plainly writ
for all to see
i pray thee now
speak softly
fair an' sweet
an' brook no lie
to pass thine ruby lips
those serpent fangs
venom filled
'twould pierce an'
wi' their poison still
this wounded heart
that lay bleeding
lost an' dreaming
far beneath...
where mid-night forest
darkly flows
this raging torrent
swiftly feeds
black rivers
writhing coldly
thru my soul
as faceless voices
darkly speak
urging chaos
mindless screams
nightshades tearing
rending eat
the broken pieces
of this wounded heart
that lay bleeding
lost an' dreaming
far beneath...
where the sun
is but a myth
deep within this
dark abyss
an' the moon
faithless
fades
from memory
alas
speak softly
fair an' sweet
release me from
this dark abyss
that lay bleeding
lost an' dreaming
at thy feet
.
.
Pic Poem
http://oi60.tinypic.com/29kvqs8.jpg
.
.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
***She's an imp of a troublemaker fairy
they call her Heather Featherwand
she lives midst ancient ruins
'pon Saturn's ringlets
of ethereal ice & dust
you might get a peek at her
neath a summertide night's dream,
she wears lavender and tangerine
to blend in with the blazing cosmos,
her pale peachy butterfly wings
make sounds like katydids
singing in the treetops and
cicadas come to life at night
further adding to her mysterious flight,
she took off one day, they say
with the man in the moon
and they've been starstruck ever after***
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
.
*Gaze ye not
'pon the misfortune
of the Harlequin,
his dead eyes
will see nothing
of your heart.
Pity ye not
the clown 'pon
his misery bed
of Narcissus petals.
Emotion has thieved
its own fortune,
carrying the weight
of bitter experience.
The furnace, long cold.
Never the embers
glow in his soul,
trapped in a world
when life cares not,
nor matters to the afflicted,
who is mocked
by thy Gaze.*
© Pagan Paul (11/11/18)
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
Nodding, nodding 'pon thy stem,
Thou bloom o' morn; nodding, nodding
To the bees, asearch o' honey's sweet.
Wilt thou to droop, and wilt the dance o' thee
To vanish with the going o' the day?
Hath the tearing o' the air o' thy sharped thorn
Sent musics up unto the bright,
Or doth thy dance to mean anaught
Save breeze-kiss 'pon thy bloom?
Hath yonder songster harked to thee,
And doth he sing thy love? Or hath he tuned
His song of world's wailing o' the day?
Doth mom shew thee naught save thy garden's wall,
That shutteth thee away, a treasure o' thy day?
Doth yonder hum then spell anaught,
Save whirring o' the wing that hovereth
O'er thy bud to sup the sweet?
Ah, garden's deep, afulled o' fairie's word,
And creeped o’er with winged mites, where but
The raindrop's patter telleth thee His love—
Doth all this vanish then, at closing o' the day?
Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here,
And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets,
And of these weaveth garland for the earth.
From off his lute doth drip the day of Him!
3.4k
Slotting into geological time
"As a man thinks, so is he", ferillergood ye may
as well add as subtract.
Am i right or am I wrong?
Dexter, yeh, that'n
or Sinister.
Being left or right,
That's jest sided-ness, a sort,
a me-trick-able stackable thing,
with an in
side and an out
side and a top outside and a bottom outside
and a front inside and a front backside
and a back frontside with its own inside.
Like you.
Value pends 'pon sorts of things
into similarities of singularities,
if I got that message un occluded or
unveiled of sacred meanings.
There seemed to be no code
"if a man (voice) says a thing that is true, but
I did not say it: does that make it untrue?"
I answered, "Lord, you are truth."
Wow. Look what I said. truth you are lord.
Punctuated equilibrium humm white noise of wonder
can it be?
'Think so.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
#*Take my hand and let us go so lightly,
walking 'pon the lake of lovers dreams,
gentle ripples interlace our smiles brightly,
lighting the stars within romantic streams.
Making love as we sink beneath cool water,
drowning lustful in passions liquid embrace.
The dream shimmers, as the images falter
and the still lake reflects your delicate face.*#
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 9:28 AM UTC
“- Bacon sammich -”
Ahhh, liddle green apple 'pon my plate,
**** you ain't ever gonna satiate
my hunger, lust, for something more,
bacon sammich,,you know the score,
Home made bread, cut nice n thick,
full fat butter, ooh yea, that's the trick !
streaky bacon, with chewy rind
just cut off, from a pig's behind,
Fry it up, with a liddle oil
but steady now, or it'll spoil,
not too crisp, n not too brown
coz it's a little rough, when going down,
n to top it off, it's best of course
to maybe add, a splash 'o sauce,
So alas liddle apple, 'pon my plate
I'm afraid for you, the bins your fate,
at the risk of a liddle wife's disquiet
it's a bacon sammich,,,,,fuck the diet.
Alan nettleton.
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC
"I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed"
*her pale white arm,
back and forth,
flashes before my eyes face,
cutting my few blonde many grays,
she tumbles pieces of
now dead me,
to the floor,
in cut wet clumps
there, across her underarm,
placed there to be but
half-hid,
my Bostonian via Albania haircutter,
(I am a human explorer)
reveals a tattoo uttering
in Arabic
that cuts me
deeper
then any scissored blade
she metal possessed*
I suffered, so, I learned, so, I changed
*revelations daily granted me,
this one,
incomprehensible,
as she cuts,
I imagine,
my mused blood superheated,
clotting this poem
oh the words are readily understood,
but unknown is
the inspiration,
the event
so formative
it was deserving of being
transcribed, inked,
permanence earned by,
recording pon human flesh,
exposed
yet hidden
and I dare not inquire...even I...
who among us dare say
that they have not
suffered?
yet, you,
say the word slow
suf-fer,
hiss it
in two parts,
then ask yourself again,
have you experienced
the unimaginable
as real?
and needy to record it upon thy own
human flesh?
I have walked
empty mirrored hallways unending,
stood by rivers imploring,
begging me to join their current,
sleepwalked for days without count,
punishing penance for
acts of commission,
acts of fearful cowardice
I learned
I changed
better
for the betterment
of my united untied
bodied bloodied soul
*where?
my tattoo?
readily visible!*
in every word I ever wrote
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
She don’t have to say a word
Her body gives me all the signals
It’s more than a stop and go
When my hands are cruising down her skin
She knows how to speed up my heart rate
When she’s wining pon me
Our bodies sing the sweetest melody
We go to the point of no return
Where our passions burn.
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 2:33 AM UTC
~
Your beauty sings harmony
with a cantata sunrise,
euphoric melodies in viola
and piccolo lingering
‘pon a lavender haze
of periwinkle whispers,
symphonic poetry
afloat of dawn’s breezes,
ecstasy in tangerine desires,
wafting concertos of passion
as I listen quietly
to my day once again
beginning with the perfect
lyrics of your smile
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
*Cure me within the seize
of artistic rapture
capturing human spirit in
boundless creativity,
lay 'pon my ******* a sonata
written of affection's simpatico,
whisper me a sonnet
scripted 'neath my skin,
soar me to limitless grandeur
elevated beyond cloud vapors,
beckoning rhythmical renditions of
abstract layers in love, splendor & art,
amidst the harmony and lavish
poetry of a soulful heart*
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC