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Third Eye Candy Feb 2013
you cannot finish need.
it fiends in wretched globes of dwarf
swelling to tremendous  steam
a Bacchanal of vineyard borscht
a moonlit morsel of demolished dreams...
we serve at the pleasure of the absurd
gilding shadows with clay confetti
and the nictitating membranes of blue crocodiles.
and blank verse.

felling the Yggdrasil, by all means; you maraud the larder
in the night kitchen; nicking blackbird-pies and pinky-russet salamanders
[ the loose farthing ] and the hard liquor... all gone now
your potato sack, rakishly slung from the shoulders of an Atlas, entitled ' Promised Land; betrayed '.

a new map shrugging off old kings from dead valleys
revealing the hour of your worthless estate,
in-lieu of the boundaries of your lost holdings. unhappily -
you inherit the unripe peach
in a hound's mouth.
you slouch rough,  slowly
to your beast
of a couch:

there, to remain unholy and due South.

there, to remain unknowing
by all account.
SøułSurvivør Mar 2016
~~~<☆>~~~

fuchsia garland sits
rakishly upon a
platinum blonde head
of close cropped spines


sun glints in her curls


SoulSurvivor
(C) 3/8/2014
rewritten  (c) 3/4/2016
Mammalaria are cacti.
They grow in little clumps
which look like heads, or *******.
Hence the name.
My father has several.
When this poem was written
one of them was blooming.
As it is now.
It looks for all the world like
a blonde head with a
garland set at an angle upon it!
So I decided to repost this.

~~~<☆>~~~
SøułSurvivør Mar 2014
Fuchsia hat sits rakishly
upon a platinum blonde head
of close cropped spines.

Sun glints in her curls.


Soul Survivor
Mamalaria are cacti.
They grow in clumps of little
Heads that look like
*******.
My father has one.
Theres one large
Growth that looks for all the
World like a head.
And it has only one fuchsia
Blossom...

Hence the poem.
Maryanne M Jan 2013
You came to me a morning star
You offered me infinity
I, bedazzled,
took your hand
We revolved around the sun
You ushered me to
an endless sea of possibilities
That was how you called it
That was how you used to tell me

You held me,
playing careful defense
A paladin
A sparrow to her nest
I, affected with great wonder
Mindlessly bathed the silken water
Drowned myself in the soft
bubbles of the crashing waves
Not bedeviled by troubles
nor disturbance, nor distress

You walked ahead of me
As if protecting me
from the swelling crests
or from the cold, or
from the salt that filled my chest
I, spellbind
influenced by your charms
and your incantations
Moved rakishly along
your convivial course

Unto your heavens
Unto your hell
Into your fire
Into your soul
that was what you said
That was how you used to tell me
I believed
I accepted in veracity

And I watched, a sentinel
As you moved in rhythmic steps
and playful gestures
Until I was confounded by
your intricate motion
I, caught in a whirling sensation
Imperiled by a tendency to fall
Was carried into your
nauseous complexity
I, paralyzed by my perplexity

You venerated me, you said
Or that was how you used to tell me
Yet, I was disconnected and
I, an amazed audience,
stood enthralled
Or was I merely standing in stunned silence?
Stupefied
Yet disconnected?
Ayeshah Mar 2010
Lady & Lord Dawson

presumably

lived quite

peacefully,

until one day-

Lady  Dawson announced ;

" Forsooth"

Thy Lord Husband

Ti's heavy a heart I bear-

I spied

Thy self without powder or wig,

Not in thy house-

Betwixt an-others arms

Thy Lord Husband

& thy

Scullery Maid in

thy own barn"

Betwixt looks

on thee tempestuous

pocked face

Never rakishly looked to

Thee own Lady  

Wife the same

Not

Thee be sad  

Thy heart never break

For

Thy love never came.

Marriage  of  

Thy

Parents wishes

&

Thee inheriting

Thy gain!

Lady & Lord Dawson

" Lived"

Quite

Peacefully.............

(possibly 2 be continued)

Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright ©
Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved
Bohemian Mar 2019
"I"
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.

A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.

Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.

I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.

The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.

To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.

Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.

To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.

Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.

I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
My mother’s second cousin
went to a fine university,
majored in anthropology,
and wore Italian wingtips
and a black fedora pulled
down rakishly over one eye.

I hear he was a handsome man.

He joined Toastmasters
and spoke extemporaneously
to small crowds of strangers.

He packed a leatherette
bag and went bowling
every other Sunday night.

He took his children camping
and taught them to catch a fire
with magnesium and tinder.

He mowed the lawn
with lapidary precision;
neighbors admired
his yard: brilliant green,
sharp as an emerald.

He played the spinet piano
in the hallway after dinner,
the metronome clicking out time.

His black suits—
immaculate skins
of a domesticated
creature—smelled
of cigarette smoke
and fountain pen ink.

But, according to my mother,
something went wrong along the way.
He began to hunger for something that clawed
just beyond the evenly trimmed hedgerows.

He smiled at night, listening
to malevolent creatures leaping
from rooftop to rooftop.

He began to hate his wife’s
brown dresses: brown is
the color of compromise
,
he seethed to himself.

His voice became quieter;
bowling became a bother.

Eventually,
he left his fedora hanging
on the coat rack in the hall.
His neglected wingtips gathered
dust in the bedroom closet.
The pockets of his favorite suits
swelled with cryptic notes, written
to himself with stolen fountain pens.

One night, when the children were sleeping,
he set the table and killed his wife with a spoon.

I hear he was a handsome man.
Part two forthcoming.
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2021
Jutted out square jaw,
horse gruff voice,
Smoky Bear Campaign
Hat pulled low almost
covering his intense
glaring eyes. Hat Brim
slung rakishly low,
three regulation fingers
above the bridge of his nose.

Criticizing profanities
hurled from his mouth
like exploding grenades,
tongue lashing orders
and corrections his
stock and trade.

Everything about
him is tight and
fully squared away.

Gets in your face
so close you can
smell what he had
for lunch, barking
spraying projectile
spittle that standing
at rigid attention you
cannot wipe away.

Hard earned lessons
taught and learned
that last for a life time.

Tormentor, teacher
mentor, hated at first,
respected and loved
by the end.
Perhaps every young dumb
aimless 20-year-old should go
through Marine Corps Boot
Camp, have the soft metal of
their backbones shaped and
pounded into hardened steel.

Dedicated to Gunnery
Sergeant D.L. Dolan
USMC. My Senior Drill
Instructor in Boot Camp.
Long ago passed away but
still fondly ever remembered.
Along with my father and
a football coach or two,
the most revered mentors
in my life. "The things that do
not **** us, make us stronger."
Whit Howland Jul 2020
it's really about the hat
straw with a farmer's brim

we got them for free
at a baseball game

and made each other laugh
tilting them rakishly on our heads

it was the first time we had talked to each other
in days

Whit Howland © 2020
Sappy! But that's what sells around here.

— The End —