"rosiest" poems
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree,
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbors mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.
Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.
Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.
Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.
So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!
I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.
1.8k
golden eyes.
honey sunshine smile.
espresso locks upon
chestnut waves
of warm beige hair.
almond skin tone
with a bit of sand.
ivory undertones
and porcelain hands.
nutmeg nose
and topaz ears.
rich caramel shoulders.
hazelnut arms.
caramel legs,
olive toes.
the rosiest of cheeks,
never as bright as
the perfect burgundy blushing lips;
they complete this:
unspeakable beauty.
k.m.c
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
The crisp air pressed to the breast of that dewy morn',
A piercing of the skin by the rosiest of thorns.
Thorn to skin, blood to air,
A soft ebbing of life from its lair.
Venous roads and capillarous tunnels,
A captured path in which life is shuttled.
That ****** thorn that interrupts its flow,
Allows life to meet that soft morning's glow.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
By now you know
Things don’t go
As you like them to,
The plans you make
Do easily break
Little you can do.
Your morn’s hopes
With the day elopes
Aspirations sink,
Your rosiest thought
Turns to naught
Loses the pink.
The patch of blue
Without a clue
Is painted gray,
The spot of sunlight
Goes out of sight
Before you make hay.
Sudden are the slips
Words from your lips
You don’t mean to,
You pick up a row
Turn a friend foe
Little you can do.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC