"rhapsodic" poems
When his eyes first fell upon her
She was choosing avocados
In the fruit and vegetable aisle.
And he watched how her thumbs lingered
On the base of the alligator pear
And pressed, maternally.
He feigned interest in the cabbages
Whilst sensing her delicate architecture
Through his peripheral gaze.
He thought that somewhere,
In real or imaginary life,
They would soon bathe together.
And when they did,
They soaked for years in secrets,
Details suffusing through their lips and arms,
Water-hole satisfaction and moonlit deserts
To make them feel they might have transcended cabbages
And be pervading a rhapsodic realm
They forgot their friends watching in greenery,
Subsumed by each-other,
They felt no need
To live in a world of relativity and apples.
Their love-traced sphere tightened around them,
Until it ****** at the edges of their skin
And wailed when they parted.
Tighter it grew, elastic dug into their humid thighs
Contorting their once harmonic bodies
That used to fit like crosswords.
And they each became ugly to the other
As the seconds ingested their perfection
And they bickered like flailing urchins
In a deep sea soiled darkness.
Decisions were made and paroxysms detonated
And they were taken back by their
Fungal friends with tissue offerings
And ethanol.
Time passed, and memories were binned
Periodically on tuesdays
Until neither knew the other
And they would pass in the supermarket
With no more than a quickened gait
And a silent thud in each ribcage.
But neither could buy avocados.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
*she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive
satans *** nail
is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse
is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven
slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire
are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed*
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
rhapsodic pastoralism
as beguilingly bucolic as tempera gardens,
where nature’s wild beauty
is domesticated and made
into a safe space for dream and play,
reverie and revelry.
with the bright dawn
chatter of birdsong
it seems to reach your ear across distance,
like a girl singing happily to herself
while walking down the road
on the other side of your garden wall.
Jan 24, 2023
Jan 24, 2023 at 4:33 PM UTC
In the twilight zephyrs
under milky way skies
I stroll beside my peacock plumed God
Along the banks of the Yamuna river
with captivating charm
He teaches me
the Language of Love
Honeybees buzz around us
even though the coral pink
sun has melted into a
puddle of nectar at
His silken lotus Feet
and all the flowers have
folded their drowsy petals
raven heavens raise their
ebony veils and a
chorus of rhapsodic stars
chant Krishna's glorious name
I feel His raincloud blue face
close to mine
lightning from His eyes
strikes my Soul
...and We dance...
A trillion psychedelic umbrellas
whirling, dazzling Sufi circles
beneath the Golden parasol
of God's enormous
Love
Share/Save
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Watch me as I unwrap... passionate,
In the drench of our rain.....
And night falls...
A silent murmur
Where the heart pauses,
A malachite shadow
Penetrates fire,
Burning
A flame's fierce lick
Beneath pulse...
Somewhere....
His smile touches
Warming the red sea of my heart
Pulsating ripples, spread
Soliloquies upon my skin
Orated in Southern sighs...
Slowly...
Desire engages,
******* hardening
Under tongue's brush;
Moist ripe, swollen folds
Tempt his lips to kiss my yielding
Where breath catches,
And I ... smolder within each touch...
Drenched..
My scent quivers languor,
Rhapsodic,
Drowning pools, orchid petaled
Finger parted... tender;
Under sweet seduction,
Stirring the supple bloom,
Tasting the restless currents
That throb through my milky sea...
Small moans...
Electric blue hangs the air..
Primal lust etching curves,
Tracing dewy flesh,
Heating
Skin on skin,
****** scent….arousing,
Tongue brushed hardness
Between dampened lips...
Hot....
The scorching sear... stigmata
Sin licks along thighs,
Essence, dripping,
S W E E T
Sensory overload,
Breaking my binds...
Feed...
My appetite,
I am.. lashes soft, licking thoughts
No words
No words...
Just....
Feed the need that overwhelms,
Grow inside me,
Fill me once again.......
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
An amorphous cave hides behind a cascading flow of crystalline blue, sparkling and shining like radiant glass.
Inside the incandescent cave, an effervescent and ephemeral scent of dulcet cinnamon coalesces into the air of the inside of this seemingly halcyon cave.
The feelings, the emotions, the sights, all too inexorable in it's ineffable reality. It calls out, with it's mellifluous and beautiful, languid and sirenic voice, incandescent with epiphany,
"Come child of man, meet me, greet me, welcome me, me as the idyllic felicity some dare to even dream of, and then let me embrace you and enrapture you and encompass you in my incorporeal and frozen, evanescent tranquility."
This ephemeral and serene cave now even murmurs and sings a tranquil symphony suffused with rhapsodic zeniths.
It... It truly was ephemeral...
A horrible shriek, a shrill and a repulsive and repugnant and rancid smell. A decrepit cacophony of hollow, anguished wailing and screaming. Pain at my soul, and a harsh, hoarse and coarse voice filled with slaughter and cataclysm. A grotesque, hirsute maladroit leech, visceral and shunned from everything and everyone, even the Earth itself...
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Monsoon Rhapsody by Nishu Mathur
I am rain on a summer day
Drenching drowsy, lifeless buds
Stirring them to a dancing wakefulness
Washing leaves dull and dry with dust
Dousing fire in a desert ringed inferno
I am the drizzle on a pale moon night
Easing into the heart with music
The melange of water humming with the wind
The splash of puddles in fields of barley
Gently filling thirsty river beds craving for a flow
I am showers before monsoons
Impregnating the air with soothing droplets
The hint of life in an oasis of colours
Breathing moist on a farmer's bronzed skin
Tingling the world with shimmering emerald
I am sawan, the monsoons
Winding my way through a chorus of clouds
Thundering my presence into the sea of renewal
Cascading on sandy shores that glisten with light
Whisking away waves of gold with jubilant darkness
I drape the land in arrays of greens
Scent the soil in my fragrance
Dance with the rhapsodic dance of the peacock
Wreathe petals into flowers that vine
And curve in the soil of growth.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC
I am not sure who I am talking to anymore.
Your voice sounds like a stranger;
someone whose voice was never privy to the corners and edges of my heart.
Certainly, not the kind of voice that wisps the rhapsodic notes for my soul to ****** away with.
I don't even wish to know who I am to you now.
So,
hello
Mister Stranger.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Fate, the absolute tyrant -
Brings me to my desk,
And I sit down to vent
This infernal night,
As prose or verse,
Or utter hogwash -
My wasted emotions -
Which some termed rhapsodic.
I promised myself not to cry -
As the day would dawn,
And I'd wheel down the aisle.
Making myself fall prey -
To another trade
Of cash and silver and solid gold,
A car and bungalow and so much more
- Of which in detail, I wasn't told.
Though I was called a beauty
Who could leave people dazed,
With two curvy dimples,
That lit my pretty face.
People never touched me
And would look at me with shame
Tell me I looked fragile
Once they knew I was lame.
I grew within four walls -
Comfy cushions and space
And it wasn't my legs, feeble
That restricted my pace.
It was love from parents
Siblings' scorn and care
That kept me from the wisely world
To go outdoors, I never dared.
I grew up crawling on my limbs
And seeing people walk
I never wished for them to stop -
Only prayed that they wouldn't talk!
For it was not their legs, I longed for
I reveled for what I was!
I only hoped they applied thought
Before pitying, how crippled I am!
I grew up watching the world go by
Each day and night would fly
Fantasizing with what I had been blessed -
My free and 'abled' mind!
I dream of a world - filled with trust
And friends who would 'walk' with me
Who would talk to me for who I was
And not offer sympathy!
I wished for love,
And found mine, divine
In a fairy tale -
Ironic indeed!
I sang love songs,
Wrote mushy poems
Painted wild dreams -
All to him, which would eventually lead.
You must have known this little boy -
Though a flaw, he did make history.
"Pinocchio", he was fondly called
And was known as a puppet with zeal!
It was not his quest for love that struck
Nor his zest to live
For it was his gait with wooden legs,
In which I could identify me!
But my dreams were thwarted
When to a man, I was entrusted -
(Or rather, on me thrusted)
One - with no love, but legs instead.
Along with blessings
For him to take along
Ample gifts were bestowed -
To keep us betrothed!
And now I await
To be proclaimed his wife
In the presence of a world
Which always kept me deprived.
It will be dawn
And I will soon be gone -
Yet I will yearn
For my Pinocchio to return!
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
without thunder.....
shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
s and r
are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e. γλωßα -
to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
yes, sroka / magpie...
crow / kruk / crux
or the shadow of Golgotha...
toward us: the darkened hour...
to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
.
Hello **archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.
Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
cascading like salt on
an empty**
wound.
**With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;**
“Leave me,
lowly poet,
Your pity is unbecoming.
I am the 13th fallen sister,
so linger here
no longer.”
“Death is an old friend,
I fear not his company,
nor his demise.”
**I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.**
“I’ll **** you.”
“Darling, I’m already dead.”
**Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.
I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and** rhapsodic presence.
“Are you my friend,
poet?”
“No,
I am much more.”
**And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.**
“Poet,
why must the most beautiful
people die?”
**She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:**
“When you’re in a garden,
which flowers do you pick?”
“...The most beautiful ones.”
**I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,
from the house of god.
I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,
I ignored their tempertantrums
& discord.
That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.**
“What are these?”
“Wings.”
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
*an ethereal presence
felt long before ever being heard
energy flowing through space and time
resonant frequencies with dynamic effect
inducing within romantic chambers
a rhapsodic ocean of dance and song
a mountainous symphony of possibility
a delicate and gentle concerto of dreams
musical princess of harmonic evolution
melodic instrument for conscious healing
emanating perfect pitch whether sharp or flat
an athenaeum of inspiration and maternal lyricism
...oh, to remain in concert...*
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
Rhapsodic moments
Sublimely rising
Singing
Blissfully blending
Piano notes
Exquisite, sweet
Rapturously surging
Precise and pure
Tumultuous as the rain
Overflowing
Rippling, rolling
Thunderous drums
Effulgent, ecstatic
Crashing crescendos
Rising and falling
Passionate sounds
Exultant, blissful
Harmonious melodies
Serene and sensuous
Tender as a kiss.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
In a reverie of joyous thoughts
I take myself to other worlds
Where tinkling streams of crystal flow
And summer breezes gently blow
Where beds of darkness love to bloom
Beneath the cusp of a crescent moon
And stars that shine their light bright
Silver the paling ends of night
And when at dawn, the sun rises
To write poetry with rays of quill
The hills come alive with the scented ink
Of sunflowers and daffodils
Here clouds at dusk touch the earth
And drizzle rain on yearning trees
Nature's rhapsodic songs
Sing in unchained melodies
In this world of happy thoughts
Such sweet and joyous visions see
I linger there, longer to dream
In the solitude of a reverie
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
You think poetry's all sunshine and lollipops
Greeting card verses in fine hand by polyglots
You think it's all moon and june and song of the loon
And raining on plains in Spain and
Refrains in melodic whispers
waxing rhapsodic with Grecian goddess sisters
but it RANTS
and it RAILS
and it WAILS
flailing fists to punch out the night sky
leaving stars like scars as the clouds cry
weeping for anger steeping like
an overbrewed tea of loathing
while your clothing is rent in mourning
anger adorning you as
thoughts collude in a stew of
bitter brine of attempts and flops that's
not all sunshine and lollipops
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
Love is the root of missions
and sacrifice the fruit of missions
Glory to the anointed King
the creator of a chosen offspring.
Ever so delighted to be enlightened
by the ignited spirit that is heightened
from the light rays of a new dawn
til the warrior within is born
The essence of being radical
is the will of good
the conceptual of a root
rooted and built in God’s image
a fully-fledged seed of Abraham
As Apostle Paul’s spirit
overflown with thanksgiving
his objective was to implement change
strengthen our faith and live in peace
Pieces of greenpeace
misunderstood by malicious-minded creatures
I recall hollowness
dearly engraved in the
hearts of many
superficial increment in
today’s youth
often inferiorated from the truth
they’re spiritually pretendin’
to be naturally defendin’
Oh, lily of the valley
make their minds pure.
Do you ever wonder how God sees you?
A radical Christian who’s simply a quality
of a New Testament normality
it is in your core to be pure,
to be called by the Lion’s roar,
to not live but to live who’s in you.
Apostle Paul’s awakening
was radical
thought-provoking sensation
as being biblical
the words he spoke were profound
his temple so refined
yet his view on earthly living
was actively passive to godliness;
to live is Christ
and to die is gain, he said.
The ideology of being radical
is to live in the sense God created you to be
politically and socially,
its force is to make you philanthropic
boldly empathic to the notion of being rhapsodic.
I am artistic
poetic instincts in the fullness
of embodying metamorphoristic mystic.
Theology unfolds a mystery that
we should be the change we want to see
a generation that profiteth free
a ministry holistic as can be.
Be vigilant.
Be diligent.
Be practical.
Be radical.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
You kind of make my cheekbones hurt
from
all that midnight laughter
and
the little rhapsodic notes escaping
from
my
lips.
Such
a
lovely
hurt
has
never
tiptoed, danced
&
flicked
across
my
chest.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
Overcome by lassitude
I took out my typewriter
And wrote a letter
To
The rhapsodic songs
I kept singing all night
A resonant guffaw
For
150 words of poetry
On tessellated fabric
Written with thick black ink
In the memory of
The forgotten.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Her eyes were like the mirror reflections of all the cities he
wished
to
see.
He want to travel to all of them.
Every single street-light or star light
for that matter,
to
kiss
his skin.
Her lips & little smile creases held
the lines and angles
that
were
co-ordinates to
those
unspoken
wishes.
Those crimson cheeks were colours that reminded him of those days of balmy summer.
Rhapsodic notes of laughter finishing the hum of warmth.
Her words were undoubtedly the ones he traces on his wrists when skies are grey and black.
Her fingertips and hands gently reminded him
of
*g
r
a
v
i
t
y.*
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 7:54 AM UTC
(Old Lyrics referring to those heard from "vinyl" albums of the 1960s)
from dusty cardboard covers
and winged time that flew by
oh poetic ponderous parchment
you have become my sacrament
my sense and soul, my mind’s eye
my grandchild cries in the background
faux fighting to stay awake
while I sit in monitored light
distracted by her playful plight
penning lines for others to partake
some have scripture and prayer
to make their journey into the divine
I plunk rhapsodic rhyme on an electric page
inspired by what I read in a golden age
now seen by me in tragic decline
so I whisper words of the mystical muse
and let them be my guiding light
and weave me through this tangled dream
like some moonbeam on a trickling stream
flowing into my deepening night
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 3:35 PM UTC
night embraces my skin with a cool indifference
as the smoke pools in my lungs
i know with each passing breath i get closer to death
the earth digs into the exposed bones of my back
exhaling clouds of deathly toxins
that will leave more scars than him
forever torn with taking the next breath
and forgetting the invisible wounds on my skin
a requiem of self indulgence and longing for the past
he wandered the planes of my existence
foolishly uttering rhapsodic words
unaware that i absorbed them into the very fiber of my being
but as the soft red glow illuminates my diminishing irises
i can feel the threads of sanity that hold me together loosen
and the blade of the knife slice the ties that bond my heart to yours
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
above all the clouds
is a castle floating around
spectacular fireworks, enchanted lights
rhapsodic musicale during nights
flowers all over places
people with blissful faces
kindness swims in their blood
unionization always they had
talking ticking clocks
brave fighting ducks
a town of strawberries
bizarre carnivals with free entries
carefree lion, odd donkey
even a cookie can be a buddy
ladies with flying carpets
men's combat training with alive puppets
children running over their little magic tricks
stories told to them are not just mythics
freak witches, high wizards
with their wands that know the magic behind love
love that always outshine above
unicorns dancing their wings
as the princess begans to sing
astounding gown, crystal crown
hair was long soft straight flowing brown
gates have opened, soldiers are lining
as the prince started entering
knight in shining armor, princess' savior
all for the castle's favor
all hail almighty king and queen
I don't want to be mean
but these were all just a scene
in a little girl's dream
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
Too revolutionary for this square planet
Mind's body too curvaceous to fit within this world's average fabric
Man cannot live on bread alone
so I added wisdom and knowledge to my dinner
got fat in vocab to make the element of eloquent expression
effortless and clearer
Guard Your Ears!
I use my tongue as a weapon to spit rhapsodic
rapid rhythms
You call it poetry
I call it AK-47!
The National Guard can't quiet me down
just when they think they've surrounded me
I morph into sound
Not Clark Kent
but I change in a booth on 1 Samuel 16:16
become a lyrical musician
spitting smooth harp things that King David could not believe
I write
to be righteous
write just to expose the wrong
rid men of evil spirits as if all their names were Saul
spit melodic strings in stanzas and bars and lull them to calm with my psalms
Thunder slower than the light
so I let my voice rumble
while I speak the truth
Phat in delivery
but humility helps me float above stupidity
this creative remedy way more healing than chicken soup!
Uncle always said I had green hair and wasn't nothin' wrong with it
Ain't nothin' in this world I'd rather be than
eccentric
stylistic
funkadelic
complex yet simplistic
exquisite
efficient
effervescent
arT-Tastic
aRT-DICUlous
ART-RAGEOUS
FREE
&
UNLIMITED!
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
Last tendered lifeline sought as battered psyche under your bellowing wave rips
Final act of penance remitted from bleeding, parched lips
Hemorrhaging from bandaged sorrows that only strerile soul doth eclipse
A hollow stare from deserted strand harboring the wreckage of two, desolate ships
Posture now callous bearing the scars of your shallow, superficial preening grips
Disheveled hair, limp dividend declaring inferior complex that from each emotive strand drips
Pale, drawn face; vessel sunken from draining sinkholes as our relationship dips
Pensive smile revealing the fault line of each strained shock as chasm deeper slips
Shuttering ears filtering out the rehearsed, rhapsodic notes of your telepathic scripts
Token, parting gesture from arrhythmic heart erasing each beat as your radar blips
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC