"quilled" poems
Born to the night in the cry of wolves,
We are….inked lovers spilling secrets, under velvet skies,
Shrouding the night in silver spools;
The season of silver silence, hangs upon shades of silken soul,
This midnight offering, a white entice;
My hair shimmers brightly, a wet fleece of gold, of shadow and starlight,
And shimmering hues, emerald and sapphire breathe kindred embers into the bellows of passion;
Challenging the flame that burns; entwined....
Whispered intrigue lays in the crescent of moon,
In an eminent blaze of sweetest surrender
Unborn whispers lie entwined with heated petals, silken;
We shiver....I shiver,
I am warm arms embraced;
Your lips hard yet soft against my side,
The feel of flesh warmed to a rising flame...
The long moon steps into midnight;
My ******* full of your hands as candles, pour hard against the ebon fall,
Luscious to the hush of soft smiles
Steeled eloquence flows in ribbon ripples;
Winter sown, blood quilled, in midnights cast;
Cloaked in beautiful, shadow's bed a bouquet of lacy foxglove...
Eyes closed and deep of breath,
Moistness seeps the sugared flower, and longing surges deep;
Shudder me wicked, drench me quick;
The wildness swirls inside as he moves like a shadow over my heart
His tongue eager to swim the gushing urge;
Touching, slick-slide, the soothe of smooth fingers slip past softness;
Lips cross, moist to moan me quick, sliding to quivers.
Thigh's whispering and heart pounding ,
Soft, the wind blows, tapping walls, fingers dancing
And shadow sways to moonlight...
Velvet-soft, the sweet of tongue's mesh,
Fire burning,
The tips of breast's aroused by the touch of a slow hand lover;
Your tongue gently rolls, wet and burning hot,
Hungrily, it feeds diving deep, and sandalwood spires upon the malachite air,
And burning murmurs the silent song, pleasures
Your flame to touch me hot, softly hard,
Against the darting quivering rose, stokes sweet, the flame of conjure....
I weep as you strain to slay this huntress of indolent submission;
Descending into darkness, I squirm upon your touch, lifting my altar upon your hunger,
Eyes lost to ecstasy, the flow quickens from abyssal moans;
Overflowing with need, release bound by gold shattered stars
Suckling whispered thoughts;
With us, for us, in us, in dreams, in thoughts, in love
....And in....time my love..................
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia,
Opulent, flaunting.
Round gold
Flung out of a pale green stalk.
Round, ripe gold
Of maturity,
Meticulously frilled and flaming,
A fire-ball of proclamation:
Fecundity decked in staring yellow
For all the world to see.
They brought a quilled, yellow dahlia,
To me who am barren
Shall I send it to you,
You who have taken with you
All I once possessed?
3.6k
The vague temptation of your deliciousness
Is hanging over my head
And the sweet taste of your salty skin
Still makes me feel like I'm dead,
Killed by your mouth laid on my neck
Chilled by your hands sliding on my body
Thrilled by your fingers intertwined with mine
Quilled by your eyes, bright in obscurity.
I remember your barely visible smile,
And your shivering lips
I remember the tip of your breast
Getting harder every time I touched it,
With the fresh carress of night falling down.
I want to hear you panting again,
Watch your chest go up and down
As you were breathing heavily
Getting ready for the final knockdown.
I remember the burning light in your eyes
And your teeth softly biting your lips
As your hands hovered my naked body
Getting to know me, bits after bits.
I rcan still see your head slightly tilted back
And your open mouth, looking for fresh air
To cool down your own temperature,
And my hands tearing off what you had left to wear.
I can still feel your tense fingers
Vainly clinging the sheets of my bed,
Your hot, heavy breathing sliding on my skin,
The voices screaming inside my head.
Finally I remember your tongue slow dancing with mine
And the three words you said when I never asked you to,
Sweet, soft, quiet, light and almost inaudible
The magical, crazy "Baby, I want you."
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
once upon a time
standing high with you
i was taken to a cliff
and was pushed down
by you with the help of your band..
nothing left to hold on
but an extending hand
midway, i could hold
only to get pushed further down...
crushed to pieces when hit the hard ground
found myself alive
destined to survive
slim chances to revive...
the pain spilled
i quilled
and rebuild
myself on the heap of my write...
now i am standing high
stronger
safer and better
at my own....
now you are being thrown
hanging at the same cliff
by the same people
who helped you once to push me
should i offer my hand
or quietly bestand
or join the band?
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
*" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and
Illuminations from one End of this Continent
to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
John Adams – July 3, 1776.*
Webster Groves - 2016
The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling clown.
Philadelphia, July 3, 1776
Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
where resolute patriots
would turn the pages of history
and tell an unsuspecting world
that a new nation had given birth to itself.*
Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.
*Each crass insult from the British crown
had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
and revolution was the only course left.*
Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A pot-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.
*One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
knowing to the marrow that defeat
would spell certain ******* and death.*
We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.
*Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
Then surrender - all British claims
to American soil banished to the tomes of history.*
The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.
“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
The sleeping creature in my chest,
The curled up cuddly fuzz-ball,
Is feline, but no tame house cat.
Is soft furred in rest, and porcupine quilled in anger.
Her sharp teeth are usually hidden
Behind adorable whiskers and damp pink nose.
Sometimes her claws worry affectionately
At my ribs for attention,
Just so I don't forget she's there.
Today she is mad, frenzied,
Her proud cat dignity has vanished, she almost dances.
She chases her tale like the simple fool she is not.
She opens her mouth, not to bare her teeth,
But to mewl a plea for a mysterious something.
She buts her head against my heart again and again,
Knocking it off rhythm,
Rubbing it warmer with her fur,
Batting it and chewing it like her new favourite toy,
While I sweat
And stammer
And breathe too fast
And beat too fast,
And all for what?
You gave me your hoodie.
She caught one fragile whiff
Of your vetiver tinted catnip scent.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
' Tis day arrow depart'h Cupids bow
quilled feather aflame
Nay zephyr t'foil path
Nay sigh , nay wrath
'Tis day Eros took shine
Le Fille aux Cheveux de Lin
For beauty she doth bring
Betrothed by emerald ring
'Tis day St.Valentine
knight of amore
did taste'th our wine
Our blessed intertwine
'Tis day penned poem f'you
T'say our love bears true
T'promise and ne'er ask why
My love is guaranteed til death I die.
thank you
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
i am stuck in a
tangerine dream.
a breath of fresh air
or just air
that seems fresh
to me.
red face
quilled with ice cold
water.
there is only beauty
between the cracks
of contrast.
//
i cant call myself
a poet
if i dont tell you
that her lips
look soft.
they could heal me
like a bandaid
and hurt just as much
to peel off.
it doesnt feel like
virginia yet.
maybe only
vermont
or conneticut.
but im ready
to go home
if home feels
like it used to.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
Oh to live in a golden age
when a bard's quilled words
would feather a goose down bed
or get thyself royally laid.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
the buzz is a violent truth serum
that enslaves you as its quilled pen
it requires certain demands of you
things you cringe at upon waking
because suddenly
you've unraveled a beautiful scroll
and marked it with broken charcoal
and kissed it with a wine-stained mouth--
your stamp of drunken approval
to make sure that the one
who should never receive it
is exactly the one
who gets bit on the lips
by your alcoholic kiss
your inebriated, late night diss
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
Artemis is my godmother, but she might as well have made me herself.
not with anyone else; just her womb of stars and moonlight, and a love of open air and indigo sky. chase the horizon until it becomes a little less distant, and suddenly you just are. she taught me that. she taught me a lot of things.
whisper to the wind and talk to the trees; they'll listen. maybe, if you satisfy them, they might sigh back a response. notch your bow of silver bark and quilled arrows with the breeze in their feathers, and teach the deaf what they told you. she does it so often that it's instinct for her now. (I'm still working on my marksmanship.)
she taught me to run with the wolves, too, but neither of us expected that I would settle into the pack so well. I am cohesive; I obey the hunt. I know how to loose the same long, lonely howl. I know how to protect and guide and follow- mostly, anyway. the trouble is, I stray in my heart. I long for more than long nights and stray breaths between sisters.
I long for someone who will hold me, and that is the one thing my godmother cannot teach me. she does not know how to catch a man's heart with her glittering arrows, and she has sworn off the folly of trying.
I'm a little more foolish though.
she holds me close in my despair, and we are so alike that sometimes it becomes impossible to tell the two of us apart. but it always comes back, the stubborn truth: I can never join the hunt.
because my father's song is guiding my wanderer's heart, and I was born to chase. I just can't chase with Artemis.
I love too deeply to give love up.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC
tell me, what do they feel like?
satin on skin, silken and luxurious
gently brushed rose petals, their velvet caress soothing pain
maybe sandpaper, each syllable dripping with poison ivy, a deadly venom of voice or pen
stabbing you with ink quilled thoughts
chewing on stained letters, each a glass edged piece of
branded CAPITAL LETTERS on the page of your cranium
burning and scalding you as they spill off your tongue
quietly, shh, speak in soft shades of lavender
or bellow it to the crowds, in violent flames of vermillion
soothe or salt the wound of another with your pen
forgive or arm yourself with a battalion of frenetic artillery
or let silence frame your contentment
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
*she thought who am i
there are so many of me
am i not veils and masks
even to myself
like a locked box
am i not peopled
with miscreant brooding hordes
of shadow selves
whispering gods and demons
taking space up within
like a coffin attic bedroom
to be rented out
for some wayward spectral family
oh children of the night
arguing like
black quilled throwing porcupines
players of dismal warbled music
that sounds like nails scratching floor boards
in the cold dread dead of night
at Holiday Hells Inn
see me she thought
am i not
an icon of responsibility
bright light
sweet and good
engraving angels on silver
making all sacred in the marvelous calm
wouldn't hurt a fly
oh no
me oh my
showered and smelling like
Chanel
she the feminist
her favorite words
"thats disgusting
and no"
until her fingers sneak down her pants
feeling like a flowery beautiful woman
who weeps to be naked
raked over desires hot coals
and forced to worship
big cocked men
to be engorged voluptuously
like a stuffed butter ball turkey
until her eyes roll back
like white moons shuttering
where gratitude is met
with bay *** and ***** tongues
a celebration of thanksgiving
and thanks is really given
with a star performance
leg show
lubricated for the baking oven
garnished with pineapple
dripping
tipping head over heels
at dizzying heights
hanging from a swinging chandelier
bejeweled
upside down girl
doing butter **** splits
to be scraped off walls and ceilings
like whipping cream whipped
and subsumed in the perfect power and glory
of
NO MIND*
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Ah! Sweet moments,
Those often tiny vignettes of time,
Captured landscapes,
Life quilled upon passing seasons.
Gifts and treasures collected
Tucked into memory's
Dusty corners...
Filling the Soul's bookshelf.
But sometimes
There comes a moment,
Unnoticed and slipping quietly,
Into its' own silence.
It will have no tomorrows
No memory to ease the emptiness
Of regret...or words
To paint upon our bare
and introverted canvass.
Which avenue travelled
Rests with the toss of the coin,
For the realm in which we dwell
Is determined, primarily,
By chance.
[email protected]
3rd March 2024
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 11:53 PM UTC
Le Fille aux Cheveux de Lin
'Tis day arrow depart'h Cupids bow
quilled feather aflame
Nay zephyr t'foil path
Nay sigh , nay wrath
'Tis day Eros took shine
Le Fille aux Cheveux de Lin
For beauty she doth bring
Betrothed by emerald ring
'Tis day St.Valentine
knight of amore
did taste'th our wine
Our blessed intertwine
'Tis day penned poem f'you
T'say our love bears true
T'promise and ne'er ask why
My love is guaranteed til death I die.
thank you
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC
*
*a history, untold
a mystery to unfold
an eternal search
a perpetual urge
too ethereal to achieve
too surreal to believe
a desire, remaining unfulfilled
an epic, still being quilled
a moment stilled
in the veins, it instilled
O my beloved!
you're a dream too grand to be realised
a scheme, too ambitious to be materialised....*
*
Feb 14, 2020
Feb 14, 2020 at 5:47 AM UTC
I dip
my quilled pen
of a creative mind
into the well of heart.
It's golden ink
spreads
with visions to launch
a writers dream.
It's ink bleeds
spiraling
in waves of verse
that blossoms.
Its ink merges
with my soul blood
to becomes my
writers passion.
I dip
my thoughts
into pool of vibrations
where love lives
and words take a life
of their own.
I dip
into liquid gratitude
and torch-like plume to scribe
with heavenly ink of a writers heart.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
#*
A woman, she is
Runs her own boutique
Arts and artefacts
She sources from the farthest and deepest parts of the country
Lost in the urban lands
Antique
Precious eyes
She has a penchant for the lost treasures
Restores and redecorates
In her boutique
A life
Dedicated to her only son
Young, at nine
Detected with the dreaded ‘C’
He lived his life
With all the love
Showered by his doting parents
A young boy, with a talent for paper craft
Made unusually beautiful flowers and quilled earrings
Never ever did the pain
Show on his face
Gifted child, knew his time here
Was short
Taken away at sixteen
Made most of it
A happy child
Early, one morning
He left this world
At peace, in his sleep
She lives on
The mother of the child
Finding lost treasures
From the deepest parts*
🌿🌿
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 2:42 PM UTC
With flax-golden tales, I spin with voice
with quilled pen
and intention to sing in the magic of words.
With a moments breath, I connect with light,
with gentle breeze
and purpose to light fire under my phases.
With my dreams I awake with focus
with compassion and to echo in prayer with words.
Words that anoint a page and sends blessings outward.
StarBG © 2017
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC