"pulchritude" poems
i walked in a garden
i saw roses, daisies, bougainvilleas
pagoda and peonies too
and somehow they reminded me of you
the roses reminded me of your lips
how it's so red and lovely
how it curves whenever your smile along with your eyes
how it separates when you laugh
the daisies reminded me of your eyes
how it slowly blooms beautifully in morning
how lovely when it slowly closes at night
how chatoyant it was when touched by light
the bougainvillea reminded me of your being
how you stood strong despite everything
how you stayed lucent and beautiful
how you let yourself bloom in many colours
the pagoda reminded me of your skin
how it's yellowish and eternally beautiful
how smooth and soft it was
how selcouth it seems in my retina
the peonies reminded me of your heart
how it's still exquisite despite of its fragile figure
how it's still eesome even though it looks wrinkled
how it stays strong and pulchritudinous
walking in the garden felt serendipitious
it felt like walking
inside your existence
and i liked it.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Moons fall,
Eggshell snow,
Blurred illumination,
Dreary lights,
Twinkles disintegrate,
Blazed sparks fade,
Faint complexion,
Awkward tree,
Ornament shadows,
Fuses burn out,
Connection lost,
Spirit dies out,
Yuletide lie,
Imperfection.
My eyes are dark as Halloween night.
Suns shine,
White angel,
Luminous site,
Multicolored pigments,
Rosy cheeks glow,
Rays seep through,
Vivid hue,
Elegant she,
Majestic gleams,
Beams strike around,
Fascination found,
Neon dyes around,
Joyful cry,
Pulchritude.
Her eyes are bright as Christmas morning.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
I will never love you
Never believe that
I will write about you
Because of your pulchritude,
I will share every cliche and
Imagine constellations and blackholes;
I will not
Never believe that
I will think of you
In every cup of coffee
In every rainy day;
I won't.
Don't ever think that
I love you
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
**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 Hell ain't a woeful grave
But never doubt thy love I dost crave.
©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
28th January 2017
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 1:49 PM UTC
By serendipity's sake,
There mine eyes beheld her
Grinning with serenity about the lake,
Peeking from just around the corner;
Ineffably with a novelty luster,
Treading about wishy-washy skies,
Epitomizing all her ethereal grandeur,
That felicity exuded about mine eyes.
Alas! Only to turn around as to behold,
Vividly behold such novelty pulchritude
About her gown and crown of gold,
Than when it didst dawn upon me:
"She was discreetly decamping yonder,
Leaving me a desolate, in a vale of pain,
Down the dumps & a lonesome wanderer
Wishing to catch a glance at her again!"
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
My Darling's eyes:
Embers of molten gold,
An ocean of stars nigh,
Mine eyes dost behold.
My Darling's eyes:
A pulchritude cauldron
Akin to the skie's lanterns
Yet are but of chalcedony.
My Darling's eyes:
To be on the mark
Are but diamond dunes
If not a fountain of sparks!
My Darling's eyes:
Effulgent stars in a cluster
Swaddling velvet night skies
With celestial shore luster.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
20th September 2016
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Standing resplendent in a baroque topiary,
Under a florid arbour as an arched canopy,
Her pulchritude in moonlight, is the plenary
Picture of, the muse, the Goddess Calliope.
My heart’s reminiscence of our first encounter,
Like a fragrance in my mind wafts around,
Whose Pareidolia in every-thing sketches her
Face, to which it is entirely spellbound.
Were the Fates to keep us apart,
As the sculptor Pygmalion I would be.
But Aphrodite won’t breathe life into my art,
For not my Galatea, I love my Calliope.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
*Integrity over Popularity
Mystique over Physique
Wisdom over Education
Spontaneous over Meticulous
Patience over Anxious
Peace over Pace
Grace over Face
Elation over Frustration
Spiritualism over Materialism
Honesty over Secrecy
Passion over Fashion
Honey over Money
Poetic over Pedantic
Relaxivity over Productivity
Attitude over Pulchritude
Gaiety over Propriety
Intuition over Sophistication
Intimacy over Privacy
Devotion over Ambition
&
Love over Everything*
~ For my best friend, Piglet <3 ~
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
She kisses like the reading of an ancient poem
With lips clouded by their own sighs,
So too with all her mock moons, paraselenae,
Obnubilations over her luminous mind,
Her last desperate pulchritude of night,
Chaste labors of assembling unspoiled dew:
Just crumbs of breath at the Greek feast of wind,
New sun pouring in to the clay flowers of our lungs.
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 11:22 PM UTC
The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a "Whale Hail"
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.
Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.
They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.
Their ride started slowly,
but pleasant enough.
But then came a hill
and the going got rough.
He groaned and he struggled
as he trucked up the road,
but not even juiced Armstrong
could handle this load.
With two tubby tourists
ensconced in the back.
He slowed to a crawl
then stalled in his tracks.
Something had to give
with those two in the rear
The cab then turned turtle
chucking him in the air.
The two tubby tourist
were down on their backs
Their driver unconscious
and two tires flat.
An Ambulance came
and gave him first aide
The two tourists rolled off
and he never got paid.
If we banned too large colas
and sixty ounce beers
could we hope that these
land whales
might,one day, disappear?
Until then its risky
to pick such fares up
unless in a limo
or a truck thats Ram tough
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Lushly lustful exotically ******
Vibrant virile fertile vicissitude
Puissant terminus loquacity photic
Pique piquant poignant pulchritude
Lecherous visceral longevous cohort
Wanton licentious erogenous frolic
Lurid lascivious ****** cavort
***** lewd apomixes anabolic
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
#9 | 31 Poems for August
I can never visualise God without the pulchritude that is you.
Nothing compares to the love that you give out to the world.
No matter the train of thought, it all leads to you.
We meet in the pages of our story where the ink holds us together.
As I write, these words become intertwined in the veins of loving hearts.
In the rain of your presence, my words always form a rainbow.
Forever overflowing, God’s love will never run out on you.
Confidence, happiness and love look absolutely good on you.
With such pulchritude, who wouldn’t believe in God?
This is for the women who taught me how to embrace God’s love.
Ever since that day, my demons questioned the value of their existence.
This is for the women who don’t seek the world’s acceptance and validation.
This is for the women of a different status, 31 to be exact.
This is for the women who know the true value of trust, the ones that always have each other’s backs.
To the women who are phenomenal in every single way.
To the women who eat, live, breed, give and sweat love; this is dedicated to you.
This is written for you, and to all the women who are still trying to find themselves this is for you too.
Every woman is phenomenal in every single way.
Every woman should have poetry written about her.
Every woman with a soul like a library deserves a chance to fall in love with a world that loves reading books.
Every woman is God’s resplendent work of art.
Every woman is beautiful.
“There is nothing more rare, nor more beautiful, than a woman being unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection. To me, that is the true essence of beauty.” - Steve Maraboli
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
How do you sleep, eyes opened or closed? Ears listening or ignoring? Senses awoken or dreaming?
I have slept many times, and I've slept many ways. Dreams can be humorous, distant, terrifying, long, short; even beautiful.
Laying on grass, I can feel every single blade of it and the moist dew, I assume it's morning. I feel a gentle wind roll over my soft skin and hear the susurration of the wind, caressing my ear lobes tenderly in passing. I've yet to open my eyes, yet, I see countless possibilities in the vastness I Feel Surround Me.
Slowly, I stir from what must have been a deep sleep, my eyes open and I squint to assuage the pain caused by blinding sunlight.
It's too much to take in. A beautiful landscape. Mountain ranges that cover miles, rivers that flow with elegance yet viciousness, animals of every kind. It all lays before me. I'm humbled by the pulchritude of every little detail in front of these eyes...
I drift effortlessly to the nearest tree and softly place my palm on it, feeling the rough bark against my supple skin, taking note of the fragrance of fresh trees: the boon of mother nature.
Walking slowly down a steep slope and to the edge of a rather large drop, I think to myself, "I feel close," without warning, feeling the wind whip my face as the ground draws closer in an instant. The earth is hurtling towards me, I'm not scared. Impact is made and I bounce, the softness of my mattress telling me I've arrived, back in the real world; the comforting disappointment envelops me, as I realise....Yet another dream short-lived.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
You’re like a storm.
But in the best and most beautiful way.
The kind of storm that happens all of a sudden on the most average of days.
You’re like a hurricane coming into my life and tearing away the ugly grey buildings and leaving only the green freedom to overgrow my heart again.
Like a thunderstorm that pours out love filled raindrops to fill my soul and grow back the childlike happiness that's slowly been deprived of its pure ecstasy.
Like the tsunami-sized tidal waves that wash away my lost ambitions and filthiness.
A blizzard that whitewashes my view with your unmistakable perfection and pulchritude.
The flash flood that appeared into my life at the snap of a finger and since that death-defyingly moment my love for you has only grown.
You’re the faultless storm that has taken my heart, life, and soul into steady hands and locked them all within yourself.
Since then, I’ve never looked back and never will.
You’re the perfect storm.
~S.C. Kelley
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
**My life is foretold in every crevice of this universe,
in serene seas, and swaying sands,
in scorching degrees and holding hands,
with a lover in my longing arms,
fires raging, and yet i am sheltered from harm.
and throughout my journeys,
it is my deepest desire,
to ignite and set my ambitions on fire,
in the midst of euphoric dreaming,
with my lover on this late summer's evening.
and i shall be at one with the stars,
and my doors in life shall forever remain ajar.**
*Walk into this space it is endless
sublime congruence with the heavens
open is the third eye looking directly at abyss
i feel a divine hint on my skin
as if it were a celestial kiss
there is no need to travel in doubt
it is written across the evening canvas
open the gates of exotic awareness*
**It is writhing, it is gifting, entrusting me, and quaking,
yet I, within mine, remain still.
Fore be it told, and beneath footless form, it's subversive,
yet, I dance a sure tango, uphill.
I must be sure, so sure not to mind lone notches and disparity,
as crevices, you see, they arch to transverse.
Fearing but forging the depths of what is migration, we say,
from this hallowed tangle be my rise, my verse.
I’m floundering, I grant, when I think I hold discovery,
so, I tug at the rein of imprint and plan.
It is here my beloved reliance, my precious doubtless tread
is afforded the fair crossing of Pan.
So, although it contests and chides and outreaches,
I am in love and as love, an apprentice.
A conquest won, no never, but here, a concession, a regard-
I am, with no poet’s journey, amiss.**
Lilting ebulliently in ineffable fields of ecstasy.
Mellifluous waves, in life's voyage,
inure us to pulchritude paths, refined by old age.
Multifarious, nascent jubilant days, swaying in paint,
array the way as we sail away.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
*I'm tired of beauty
incessantly meddling in my affairs
luring me to venture outside myself
revealing hidden radiance within
disguising life's dismal undercurrent
reducing it to a superficial veneer
randomly appearing by surprise
stubbornly eliciting a smile
performing alchemy on the mundane
dousing my awareness in the elixir of life
beauty...
the pulchritude of spirit...that's all it is...*
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
My beloved angel
One with
Radiant hazel eyes
Chatoyant like clusters
Of stars
On a moonless night
My beloved angel
One with
A warm sultry smile
As to tempt wary kissers
Commit mischief
My beloved angel
One with
A pristine voice
So fresh
As to wake the dead
From their desolate
Silent graves
My beloved angel
One with a vivacious voice
So euphonious
As to elicit
The descent of angels
Down unto earth
My beloved angel
One with
A melodious voice
So harmonious
As to leave one
In a daze
Just mesmerized
Whilst stars scintillate
Athwart velvet skies
My beloved angel
One with
A dimpled cheek
Giving way for onlookers
As to be hypnotized
Whilst stars scintillate
Athwart velvet skies
My beloved angel
One with
Bona fide pulchritude
Which brings about
Myriads of creatures
From across all environs
Surrounding her
Gravitate towards her
As to crave
Such a ravishing queen
My beloved angel
One whose
Exuberant personality
Had me thrilled to bits
Vanished like whispers
In the wind
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Profoundness,
The spark of inspiration which drives forth the will
And the spirit of all those grateful enough to be touched
It is the symbol of great pulchritude in lasting words
It is the effigy of overwhelming power’s grasp over one’s mind
A single pause can have more meaning than any sound could attempt to demonstrate
And through silence, an understanding is made
It is complexity within simplicity; it is a message where there is none
Let it be treasured wherever it may be found
And last eternally as a memory so… profound.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 9:58 AM UTC
The golden leaves, ardent in their sheen and whisper
Their slender stems, crisp in their sway and grain
The long branches, graced by gold, hazed by willowy pulchritude
The trunk, straight, firm and glistening, exalting the golden
The hidden, outreaching roots, left to imagination
Suppose the tree is life, its leaves our time
Each falling in its own momentum.
Suppose the stems are relations, and the branches emotions
Golden, brilliant, each prevailing over the other.
Suppose the trunk is purpose, and the roots your belief
The trunk firm, exalting your life; the roots hidden but obvious to the light.
The golden tree for your golden life.
~Moniba.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
One strand of your hair,
one kiss of your neck,
one whiff of your fragrance,
one touch of your cheek--
all make me meek.
One brush of your lips,
one moment in your arms,
one moan of your arousal,
one cry of your pleasure--
all are my treasures.
One memory of your pulchritude,
one scintilla of your charm,
one taste of your sweetness,
one ineffable feeling of love--
all are heaven's doves.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
May 7, 2023
May 7, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
Spring blossoms from her delicate rest. Birds reform, coloured spirits fly back into their wings.
Little flowers rise and rejoice, for their sun is back to life; grinning, glimmering. Baby buds bow to the majesty of The Ritual.
Whispers from the wind's echoes of the seeds that dare to grow. Echoes that speak of the bravery that shells the seeds' gentle beginnings.
In this world of pulchritude, where fairness flags danger, the grace of Earth's Growth knows true beauty.
As though each cell carries a letter, that will soon become a story. Sweet writes, cursive romance, the Tale of Two Red Roses.
Mountains reach for the skies; green with serenity. Waves leap with loyalty to embrace the shores; an eternal love affair.
The glow of the ocean's soul lingers in the shortest night. The moon creeps in, to be closer to our hearts for they've all become warmer, flooded with affection.
The rains are kinder, a light drizzle if you will. Hear The Ritual, see it. Feel it, Spring is coming.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
#24 | 31 Poems for August
I need a sky to read from and a star to write on.
Traded in graffiti spray cans for poetry and a microphone.
People are often left in awe when they see me in my zone.
Ever since high school, I’ve been lost in the world and I often wonder if I’ll ever make it on my own.
I want to write my poems on the sun so that you can feel the magnitude of my love when it shines.
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I want my words to heal the wounds that never heal but always bleed.
My kind of love is kinetic, never stationary.
I’ve been blinded by love but still I remain visionary.
I want a sky to read from and a star to write on.
I want the splendour of God’s grandeur embedded into every one of my lines.
I could write poetry forever with the inspiration that life provides.
Maybe I could write you a haiku or two.
My mind has been thinking about you.
My heart has been asking about the pulchritude that is you.
You are the unforgettable muse.
I still marvel at how God’s love consists entirely of summer, autumn, winter and spring.
It can never escape me even when the seasons change.
Maybe I should write you a love poem or two.
My heart beats only for you.
I wrote my poems on the sun, you’ll eventually feel my love every time it rises.
I’m from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
I need a sky to read from and a star to write on.
Traded in graffiti spray cans for poetry and a microphone.
People are often left in awe when they see me in my zone.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC