"skillfully" poems
What is the difference,
Asked the educator,
*Between being skillful,
Such as a **********
And being educated,
Such as a teacher?*
Well, replied a prostitue,
*One educates skillfully,
The other skillfully educates.*
Which is which?
The educator responded.
Depends, said the **********
On the pay and benefits.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
I peel back your skin
then I press my tongue
against the folds of your flesh
juices flow endlessly into my mouth
your flavors my soul savors as I skillfully finesse
my tongue, fingers and teeth in the depths of your crevasse
immersed in your sweet nectar, the scent stains my breathe
with a scent that is so unique, I can't wait to taste the rest.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 12:34 PM UTC
Mr. handsome stranger
He’s coming after
Desperate like a last request
Frantic delusional lunatic
Unhinged fragile losing what’s left
Self serving sadomasochistic
Easy on the eyes but doesn’t quite fit in
Playing it cool in social situations
His intelligent banter he claims as his own
With somewhat smart comebacks he practiced at home
Trying so hard that the sweat beads down
Onto his stressed wrinkled furrowed brow
the stories he skillfully misdirected
Carefully darting unwanted questions
Mr. Indiscreet can’t blow his cover
Disarm the girl of his unrealistic dreams
How quite average and normal he can be
Mr. Stalker walks over to the Girl
works up the courage and talks to her
Strikes up a witty conversation
With his movie star smile and education
Using the words that he pre rehearsed
Says all the right things and compliments her
Looking past his rather peculiar behavior
And when politely asked gives up her number
He rings her up the very next day
With a romantic scenic picnic date
Under the shade of a lush green tree
Upon a blanket with wine and cheese
Playing the part of the handsome boyfriend
Gains her full trust and faith in him
Joking in a effort to make her laugh
To put her at ease and follow his plan
Jealous of her ex boyfriends
Knowing their names and full address
And when he drops her off at home
Tracks and follows her every move
Knows all her weekly kept routines
Threatens and blackmails all her friends
Studies everyday mundane errands
Unaware of his decent into madness
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
This trumpeter of nothingness, employed
To keep our reason dull and null and void.
This man of wind and froth and flux will sell
The wares of any who reward him well.
Praising whatever he is paid to praise,
He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways
To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk;
To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk
By methods which no jury can prevent
Because the law's not broken, only bent.
This mind for hire, this mental **********
Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute;
Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact
And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked;
Manipulates the truth but not too much,
And if his patter needs the Human Touch,
Skillfully artless, artlessly naive,
Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve.
He uses words that once were strong and fine,
Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine,
True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen,
And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean.
He takes ideas and trains them to engage
In the long little wars big combines wage...
He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy;
Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy;
Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern
And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern.
He studies our defences, finds the cracks
And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks.
lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender,
And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender.
We who have tried to choose accept his choice
And tired succumb to his untiring voice.
The dripping tap makes even granite soften
We trust the brand-name we have heard so often
And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy;
We fools who know our folly, you and I.
11.1k
There's a dead tree connecting the earth to my heart,
And yet it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
One silver root, and four dark leaves.
A branch is at my neck,
whispering me secrets
Gently in my left ear.
My hand arches into a black widow,
Skillfully pulling the bow,
As if it’s spinning a web
Delicately crafting
A soft musical tone.
There are vines strung elegantly from trunk to my teeth
And I'll play them for you.
The rain is the beat,
It's the same as your pulse.
My blood runs cherry with every note.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Something caught me off guard, that hot day,
an unexpected thunder roared its presence,
violent...continuously rose in volume...
the throbbing...the thumping...the
pounding intensified...while swarms of red
and pink fragments simultaneously emerged,
and skillfully created arcs...becoming orbs,
multiplying, spreading...merging...then
shaping into rounds, like atoms...combining,
revealing...bearing a scary realization...
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
suddenly, arms and hands felt cold,
thunder softened...waned...arcs and orbs stilled,
chest started to rise and fall, peacefully.......yet, here i am,
anticipating a next time...when thunder roars anew...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 6:22 AM UTC
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
What a miracle life can be!
Even the trees all come from tiny
seeds. To find greater meaning in
our state of being, you must see the
beauty in the simple things...
Yet simple they aren't if you break
them apart. Our entire world is a big
piece of art. Skillfully crafted by
higher existence. It's such a shame
that so many have missed it.
Overlooking
all we have for what we don't need.
Stop and appreciate life, and
Let your soul be freed.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
the first drop of water
not ice
from the sky
signals the season’s
change
new england
so pretty
looking angelic
drew me in
a venus fly trap
locked in a prism
snow reflecting
back to me
eerie thoughts
shrouded in black
no place for a runner
where I can escape them
locked in by the fireplace
tattered ashes
mockingly laugh
i flee and i run
minus eight reads the meter
frostbitten
returning
trapped with my thinking
blocked in on all sides
the icy walls
fold in on me
forced to see the reflection
looking back at me
go away brightness
banish your glow
i need the shadows
where hidden feelings
quietly cower
another storm coming
madness engulfs me
searching for pen
grasping at paper
salvation
words spilling out
parts of me
buried so skillfully
long ago
finally see light
just for a moment
the respite’s exquisite
then longing for springtime
oh god,
why can’t it rain?
©2016janetaylor
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
TRIGGER WARNING
They met at a dance recital.
His eerie blue eyes watched her, stalked her,
riveted by sinewy skin and the way her legs stretched and parted
skillfully, seductively: she knew how to captivate her audience.
They had mutual friends.
Her curiosity thirsted for more, for she had been taken
over by an empty lust, broken by another, but the way he spoke:
she felt as pretty as his charms sounded.
They went on a date.
He kissed her, pinched her, and spread those legs
that comprised his fantasies, not caring about the bruises he left
when he took off her lacey coverings, pinning her to the floor.
They learned more about each other.
She saw the empty, carnal look in his eyes, but her pleas
and shoves were not enough to lessen the weight of him, to push
his hands or his hips away, as he broke her over and over again.
They ended the night with a kiss.
He grabbed her face like a starving man grabs his first meal,
forcing an intimacy she could never get back, but he said,
“You liked it, didn’t you.”
They kept in touch.
She tried blocking his calls, his messages, asking her if she’d
come over to his place. Like the continuous force he prodded her with,
the pounding in her head beat out a thumping heart-line of no’s.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
The quiet was nice before
But now it's starting to irk me.
It echoes with everything I've been avoiding,
this sinister road on the highway to everywhere.
Instead of no where.
At least no where I would be lost..
Infinite space, time and control.
Contradiction?
No.
Stuck in the void means there are no expectations.
Trapped in endless space with only your mind to fill it.
No outside voices, nothing telling you how you should be.
People empower you, want certain things for you, raise you on a pedestal
...You're not even sure you can keep up, to fulfill their desires for you.
But you say nothing...
Keep quiet...
Float to the background.
As you have skillfully done for years.
Take the situation and control it, own it, make it yours.
Force it to produce the outcome that you, only you wish to see.
Recognize that you desire and work to acquire.
Life is too short to make every body happy, but,
Too long to live alone.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
I hear a wind whispering from the hills
It comes down tickling the woodland rills
From far is heard the frightened murmur of leaves
As it pounces on them like wayside thieves
It shakes the branches of flowering trees
And their weak petals drop like confetti in the breeze
Over hills and trees it loves to skip and stray
Always in motion, never inclined to stay
It moves unhampered over streams and field
With no resistance to its might, they simply yield
Like a child, it romps over the sloppy meadows
In its gentle touch, dances the gleeful flowers
It skillfully pleats the blue chiffon of the ocean
Sometimes curling waves in electric motion
Over the sea it runs puffing up the sails
And over the sky heaping clouds in bales
Sometimes it steals furtively like a lover
And disappears kissing our cheeks under cover
Often it comes capering with a lilt and a swing
We feel delighted when we hear its merry song
Like a nomad, the wind roams from place to place,
Hiding its mysterious presence from our glance
From an unknown hide out it comes like a spirit
But always making us feel its vigorous might!
At times it gains force and roars like a beast
Felling trees and wreaking havoc with its twist
In rampage, it sweeps the sea and the ground
Triggering sparks of fear and horror all around
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
I try to sing this melody
Of my own fidelity
But I lack this morality
That tells me the reality
Of a life in harmony
With spirits heavenly
I am my own entity
And when I show this identity
It has no truth to humanity
So I speak in brevity
To hide the perplexity
That only few conceptually
Embrace with full integrity
To soar in the clouds joyfully
Like the eagles in serenity
And the gods of heredity
We are the truthful society
Yet know one knows it verily
I will continue transcendently
Like the lotus in her artistry
I will paint mindfully
The visage of prosperity
In all its beauty
So vividly
Until I rest solemnly
In my garden above the galaxy
Where all who truthfully
Flew with divinity
In utter tranquility
While this world unfaithfully
Decayed presently
In the lies of commonality
In this globe of duality
Don’t sing this parody
Avoid the practicality
Your song is skillfully
Hiding from the animosity
You will have your symphony
In a sky of pure unity
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
When you are attacked by boredom
You are invited by devil's kingdom
In case you yield to the pressure
You stand to lose Divine pleasure
Every job will bore one at last
We must with dexterity outlast
Fun may be absent many times
Expected joy, soul never claims
None can win ever or lose always
All have surely their glorious days
When failure comes and attacks
A shrewd soul, prayer alone backs
After doing a particular work or task
We must ask for more and not bask
We must derive peace and celebrate
The Almighty is there to compensate
Let us make up our mind to hard-work
Surely our life will never at all go berserk
If our motto is to do duty with sincerity
Our mind is given by Heaven true clarity
Today, make up your mind to do the best
Do your portion skillfully by being honest
Rewards and results will stun your life
God will rescue you from every strife.
mvvenkataraman
SEARCH mvvenkataraman IN GOOGLE OR YAHOO
TYPE mvvenkataraman IN URL
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 8:32 AM UTC
Monica,
she said her name was.
Of course I didn't believe her,
but it wasn't important.
What was important,
when she met me
with a cheery professional
smile
at the window
in the waiting room
of Anfu Massage,
was that she was
willing
to take me by the hand
and lead me
down the very dim corridor
into a dimly lit room
with a bed
where she and I shared
an hour of
******
pleasure.
She made me feel
like a great lover
and gave me her best
imitation of passion
so skillfully
that I believed,
because I wanted to,
for that hour
that I was
making love
to my lover.
I used to agonize
and feel guilty about it,
but in this solitary
autumnal season
of my life,
haunted
by the ghosts
of loves lost,
I am grateful
for even this
sweet counterfeit.
And, yes
I revel
in her gentle feminine
warmth,
her softness,
and in the primal
connection
we make.
Somehow, it
feels like
it is keeping my heart
alive.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
*How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flow'r!
How skillfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy, too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthy play,
Let my first years be passed,
That I might give for ev'ry day,
Some good account at last.*
~Isaac Watts 1674-1748~
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:34 PM UTC
She looked so happy that you can't tell
Under that smile was a hurricane;
She wore a mask that looked real to the eye;
But underneath it was the scars she hides;
Every pain she felt was hidden in her smile,
The more pain she felt the more she smiled ;
She laughed so loudly ,
That no one knew she was lonely;
She showed herself as whole,
Skillfully hiding the hole;
She never cried she never tried,
All she did was hide it and smile;
Her hurt was stronger than her smile ,
Her emptiness was deeper than her laugh,
She never moaned she never swore,
Cause she was strong and had hope
So all she did was smile.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
blank mind
stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.
stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:
automatic writing
OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.
Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!
during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.
where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:
meaningless gobbeldy-gook
I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.
Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT
[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]
We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push. You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.
Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.
The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit. The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half. Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.
The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.
The pray-ers drive on. The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.
The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses. Oh, that must have hurt!
But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.
This is a joy to see. The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise. But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
Flavored hukkas are passed around,
Alcohol and paan bring the mehfil alive,
The Ustad ji sits down and flexes his fingers,
He knows he’ll be working all night.
Dha dhin dhin dha, dha dhin dhin dha
Na tin tin ta
Ta dhin dhin dha,
Move the Ustad ji’s fingers on the tabla.
While with a veil on her face,
And feet dipped in and henna-colored,
Lips in cheap red lipstick covered,
She unfalteringly, gracefully enters.
Her steps are matched by the chhan chhan
of the ghungroos tied around her ankles so slender.
Eyes set on her, feast on her youth,
Just right for the taste of all her customers.
Bejeweled hands placed on waist,
She stands at the centre of attention,
She lifts a foot, readies to dance,
And begins the nightly convention.
Skillfully, perfectly, sensuously move
Feet well-trained since childhood days,
Harmonizing with the timbre
That the Ustad ji creates.
Tin tin na dhin na dhin na
On the tabla, experienced fingers beat.
Chhan chhan chhan chhan,
She dances, repeating the rhythm with her feet.
Metal bells strike against one another
And chhan chhan chhan-a chhan she goes,
Making breaths prance and jump,
As she strikes on the ground her heels and toes.
Then suddenly she stops and gasps,
Over disgruntled, impatient groans she tries
to hear the sound that flows in, only to her ears.
Several rooms away, a baby cries.
Naach! A voice booms,
Arey naach! More join in.
A glass of wine is shattered by an irritated one.
But she stands still, clutching her chest, frozen.
One sways up to where she stands,
For the veil covering her face, his hands dive.
He uncovers her, but is blinded by the sight of her beauty
And her tears that fill her kajal-smeared eyes.
She’s shaken back to reality as she looks all around.
Her sparkling pall is off her face.
She sees all those drunk men who’ve paid to watch her dance.
She knows she has to make the sound of the cries fade away.
So she stomps her feet on the ground till it hurts.
Hair flying out of braid, bangles clanging,
Anguish replaces her innocent loveliness,
The music in the air is now shrill, jarring.
Her steps match with the tabla’s rhythm no more.
But she dances, planting her feet so hard they weep.
She silences every sound with the noise of her ghungroos,
Praying that the night will lull her wailing son to sleep.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
You will not look at me.
Not even look at the brave face I practiced
Not look at the smile I painted
Not at the dry eyes I skillfully mastered
This mask I made for you to see
But still, you will not look at me
As if my fakeness, will mutilate the image you have of me
I can tell you, it will.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
You took a scalpel to me, my dear
Skillfully working your way through the layers
Epidermis to lipids to muscular tissue until
The bone
You carved your name on my radius
Lovers' initials on a tree
Marrow leaked across your hand
A gift of the broken
You tried to sew me up, my dear
Realising you had gone far deeper than first thought
Surgeons hands you have not
A hack job, bound to leave scars
You've left me with bumps
Burns
Itches inside my very being
Refraining from scratching
In fear of what might come pouring out
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
You can strikingly feel the magical migration of ions
Controlling the electricity you breathe
All the pleasant sensations of silken charges
Sharing in your sweet ecstasy
A very slight whisper of the purest sensitivity
Skillfully washes into your pores
Releasing a smooth rhythm of tempting delight
Promising your senses so much more
You yield in response to the rhythm of the migration
Cherishing sweetly the spellbinding sound
Of each breath as accepted by your willing spirit
Infused with the taste of the whispers you have found
Is this just a fantastic illusion, unhinging your mind
This migration you now find you embrace
You ask your spirit in a fit of rising rebellion
With a satisfied smile on your face
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 6:26 PM UTC
I stand before you naked and bare,
Vulnerable and scared
With trembling hands, and shaky breath
Because you gingerly stripped me
Of the armor I had long ago melded to my being.
You carefully untied the intricate knots
That had tangled my chaotic mind.
You skillfully unfastened the clasps,
Which held together my crippled heart.
You watched as my insecurities
Fell to the ground in a pile around my ankles.
I stand before you naked and bare
With trembling hands, and shaky breath
Because the impassioned stare your eyes posses
Pierces the façade that I had shrouded myself with.
The softness of your caressing lips
Comforts the exhaustion of fleeing love.
The heat of your searching hands
Melts the ice that encases my thoughts.
The pressure of your firm body
Pushes away the worries of acceptance.
I stand before you naked and bare
Because your love has set me free from myself.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
We rave, and hailed, all hail the King
A lord who’s lowed, n’ yet, supreme
The savior of wars and of many greed
To govern and yield the land of the free
For tis clear he knows how we became
A root, and a leaf; let’s all hail the king!
This is Liberia!
A chest to aggress with hunger n’ thirst
That fruitfully enjoy climbing the rates
And faintly encourage pointing the worst
To soak n’ appraise the young's of the freed
Whose lost in the land of which they came
A branch, and a leaf; a transparent cry!
This is Liberia!
We rave, and hailed, we want the king
A man who’s loved, n’ yet, disesteem
The sculptor of deeds, and of many glee
To seize n’ dictate the land of undeveloped
For tis loud his assets are well developed
A leaf, and a root; let’s all boo the king!
This is Liberia!
A quest to possess the likeness of Christ
That truthfully enjoy the gees of versed
And skillfully encourage the act of digress
To juiced and yield off the land of the free
Fo tis clear he don’t know how we became
A leaf, and a branch; a transcendent lie!
This is Liberia!
Inspired by: Falz song- “This is Nigeria”
Childish Gambino Song- “This is America”
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthen me”
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 6:54 AM UTC