"smarting" poems
Lady of Silence
from the winsome cage of
thy body
rose
through the sensible
night
a
quick bird
(tenderly upon
the dark’s prodigious face
thy
voice
scattering perfume-gifted
wings
suddenly escorts
with feet
sun-sheer
the smarting beauty of dawn)
20k
My Arwen lies over Belegaer
Beyond the Straight Road, lies my Evenstar
Across the Endless Sea, in Aman she lies
She wouldn't stay here just to love, but to die
I remember her here, here in Endor
When the beacons of Gondor burned bright.
I remember her here, once beside me
In the days before the long night
In Imladris fair, as Estel I was raised
In ignorance there, I spent by blissful days
I lived, and I learned, and yet never yearned
For she from whom I now feel so spurned
I've had my Éowyns, but none quite compare
To She, my lady, so radiant, so fair
At Cerin Amroth we pledged our love
To all, ourselves, and the Ainur above
But the Darkness again spread
Morgoth's mission again led
The Fellowship was wrought
The battles all fought
The Age of the Firstborn was ended
The Age of the Hildor ascended
Our world together was split
And really, that was just it
She could stay here, forever, be mortal
But ever so closely lay Mithlond ,the portal
To a life without end, I can blame her hardly
I guess Barahir's tale was never to be
What’s this? You say she’s not yet set sail?
But how can I stop her? Our parting was so stale!
Sure Elrond's presence and Galadriel's glare
May have done oh so much to damper our parting
But as she goes afar I know I can't go there
And her expressed frigidity, that wound is still smarting
What should I do for her I adore?
Run to the Grey Havens and stop the White Ship?
But so much I must do, right here in Gondor,
A King I can become, as my Queen give me the slip
And the spirits are howling,
The white tree is burning?!
My power, my people
BUT I CAN'T STOP THIS YEARNING
Oh what shall I do? TO ERU ABOVE
I have so much work, but I so miss my Love
The tears, they are welling, the Ship has set sail
In all my adventures, in truth I have failed!
For what am I worth? No King has Returned
And without Hope is Gondor, and the Stewards have burned
Denthar departed, the mighty horn split
The mighty White City left here to sit
I could let it fall into disarray,
Again a Ranger, I could slip away
To die like the Ents, forever, no Wife
Is there nothing to save me from this strife?
A new dawn is rising, a new age begun
My hopes might still clear
with the new rising Sun
I see its my duty, as Arathorn's son… what Isildur started, I must see done
but still I mourn my loss… that beautiful star, which now like all others, I must admire from afar.
~D. B. Guy
09/02/2007
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?
That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
4k
click clack, sound of the track
busted lighter, jilted firefighter
****** mosquito bleeding blighter
coffee cup, record stuck
panicked post boom stuck in a rut
had you'd never seen her, been her
watched her fly by
is it a plane, wonder bush, brick lane spy
fallen tree, dropped whispers ina wood
shoulda, woulda but never could
pushed by the wind, running around
set off faster, harder, leavin the ground
seen more war than a nu-rave punk
hit the pavement harder than a skool boy drunk
deeper, lower than before
been round the world 3 times over
prayed harder rollin around in clover
teemin, screaming anticipation, panick buy
obsessed with cuckoo, escape with a sigh
darker, lighter, tougher, cornered and lame
call my breath, take my name
shame, dusted, glory be no more
music drags me back from the shore
vacumn packed, culture vulture sister
pierced hot poker, stoke her, twist her
throwin pieces, jigsaw puzzle in the grass
pull my hair, bit my cheek, slap my ***
shorter, tighter loved a whole lot longer
pushed behind, throw back 80's stronger
straightened, heated from a blue rinse dude
i am sitting her 3 minutes from rude
throw me away from here, take a stand
eating raw from inside the hand
ruined, borken levelled tiger print sweater
20 marlboro, 2 strokes and its better
dangermouse, grotbag loved forever
tether me, feed me, clothed in dried leather
Bowie, polka dots, illuminated lights
star brights, fist fights, just rights
scuffed my heels on your broken walk
shut your mouth when you talk
broke you, stalked you, wounded you down
turn away from rain as we run thru town
just like a fire
black crow eating berries from the briar
sacred high, dancing beauty
eyes black and smarting, ****** up cutie
batman, she-ra, Holy ****** Cow!
Look at me, **** me
I'm a big girl now
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
In my yard stands a tree
tall and sturdy
lone like a hermit,
regal like an empress
her roots dug deep
her branches touching the heavens
peeking behind the skies veil
She has a coy dalliance with the Wind
Sometimes he comes tickling
her tender parts, whispering
sweet nothings in her ear
Overall she is still
Still....................
like waters without ripples
She stands upright
brooding over the saga of struggle
from a sapling to a towering giant
Indeed a tryst with destiny!
Under the summer sky
braving the smarting beams
she remained uncomplaining.
Below the thundering clouds
bearing a thousand needle ******
she stayed nonchalant.
When the wind swept across
bending her branches in all directions
she stood on firm feet unwavering.
She tells a tale of struggle and survival
She had stood there before I was born
Now she displays every scar and every stripe
on her knotted bark as a proud trophy
Sometimes I feel her pain
when wet and dripping in pouring rain
or scorched in the sun’s fiery rage
Yet she holds an umbrella over all
who come to her in sun and rain
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
I like to bite,
not overly hard,
just enough to make one wince,
perhaps, a sharp intake of breath,
showing that my bite is hard enough.
I so desire feeling soft flesh,
tensing between my teeth,
especially when rounded and firm.
Neck first, working downwards,
nipping into the shoulder,
chewing that succulent muscle,
with tight, tentative nibbles.
I am even bitten in return,
my pressure gauged by intent,
taken from the one biting me.
If teeth come hard and sharp,
trust me, then so do mine,
if they are loving and gentle,
once again, so are mine.
I work across the *******
delighting in the ***** *******
chewing drawing responses,
tongue sliding over her stomach,
lower, lower, down to the hips.
Biting very hard into thighs,
making her cry, back arching,
bringing writhing gasps to die for,
reaching her vulnerable centre,
soothing with deep, heavy licks,
tantalisingly teasing, so sweet.
Suddenly, flipping her over,
rough as you like, choice slaps,
smarting on her plump bottom,
before biting, biting, biting,
taking in every curvaceous part,
devouring, chomping, so yummy!
I part her legs, diving between,
my tongue lapping in a frenzy,
deep, deep, tasting the juice,
before rising, pinning shoulders,
entering, gliding, slowly, surely,
giving long, languorous strokes.
Hips grinding, hard and deep,
circling round and round,
momentum building, building,
firm hands gripping her hips,
flesh slapping against flesh,
as we match our rhythm,
lunging, pounding, thrusting,
exploding, on and on,
more and more, until,
we are spent, trembling,
slowing, easing.
A final twisting whip,
circling the very edge,
bringing smiles,
a playful giggle,
it tickles, so nice,
I lean forward, so good,
nuzzling, caressing,
ah, all because,
I like to bite.
©Paul M Chafer
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
The regions’ magic carpets are a-beckoning
The brassware in the back bazaars aglow,
Exotic spice is nice
For a very reasonable price
And the camel market’s just the place to go.
But…
Afghanistan’s dark Muslims are scheming
The women folk are sharpening their knives,
When foreign troops depart
The bloodletting will start
With collaborators screaming for their lives.
The children of the Ottoman are smarting
For their neighbours are showing them disdain
By peppering with bombs
Along with Syria’s pogroms
And I wonder why the local folk complain?
Oh the sun comes up with glory in old Egypt
As another national leader meets demise
And old Nasser’s bile will burn
As from his grave he will return
To try to rectify his children’s Holy lies.
There are whispers of a strike at the reactor.
There are reactionary reactions from Iran
With annulment of the bomb
The region should resume aplomb
But I have my doubts this mixture really can.
And it never rains on dear old dusty Cairo,
Here, you never feel the chill of falling snow,
You may stalk the back bazaars
For the rare blue water jars
But you should really buy protection when you go.
And they whinge that all the tourists here are dwindling
That the middle Eastern charm is all but spent,
When the red blood flows like wine
In the good old Bhyzantine
As the peace of night, with gunfire, is wrent.
But…
The dates are really sweet
And the carpetry so neat
And the music is exotic in the night,
And with the flash of Asian eyes
I can guarantee surprise
As you flee for very life…with ****** fright!
Marshalg
From the dark Bazaar
23 October 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
The shoe won't fit...the shoe won't fit...
Cinderella sits on the velvet stool.
My toes won't fit...my heels won't fit...
She desperately crams her foot into the shoe.
The glass it burns...cool against my blood...
Her curtain of locks mask her scrunched-up face.
Just a little longer....just a minute more...
She holds back the tears smarting in her eyes.
It fits...it fits...I'll make it fit...
Slowly, she gets on her own two feet.
A better life...better future...
She grits her teeth, walking forward, step by step, scarlet tears dripping from her mangled feet.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
2.2k
Robin Hood,
Has clearly changed with the times
Giving in to the rich
As they steal the poor blind
Doesn't much care
How today's money is spent
With his dead end job
At the government
Robin Hood,
Works like a slave
With hours of overtime
On most holiday's
Spends after hours at the bar
With his merry men
Telling tall tales
Tossing back Tonic and Gin
Robin Hood.
Then goes home to his wife
Dreaming of better days
Of a better life
When he stole all he saw
Out smarting the law
Instead of tied down
To the ball and chain of his job
Robin Hood,
Figures he'll never retire
Like all the rest of this world
He'll one day just expire
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 7:09 AM UTC
You said I miss you.
You hang in my head.
Missed me beside you in your empty bed
In front of my eyes like a carrot.
With love he teased.
She teased too.
Now he's deceased.
Totally dead.
Probably not.
For forgot.
So sorry,
But he is not.
Truly sadly madly dead.
Can't make his spirit leave my head.
Hits me between my eyes.
Smarting flirting.
He lies and dies.
In my hell.
You are not dead.
In my heaven.
You'd still be there.
You scratched my surface with your wit.
You my love.
The drunken twit.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:18 AM UTC
Peter windowsill had a one track mind,
crystalline thoughts vexed him
a suede fringed woman had him smarting, but he's not the worrying kind.
Oh to be a Postman the best things come as future vermilion diaries
but birth mother's never recall their clams,
she's as attentive as a Cuckoo
sounding her new hatchling.
Peter window shop resounding
a chip off the old block
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
And so, they ran as far as 7 year old muscles would let.
Cutting across the softened hues of green and pinks on the end of a day.
Where skinned knees were kissed with the warm promise that the smarting pain would be gone.
Pinkys said shy hellos under bed-sheet tents,
their hair haloed by the sunshine
Eyes brighter, and cheeks crimson and freckled,
all ready to take on the
great big world.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
Bedsunk, hair in eyes, coughing the haunt of a 9 o'clock cigarette, she resigns to sleep.
I'm edges -- rough and looking to let the blood out.
Handful of skirt. I just want to cuddle. But her lips smell like her crotch tastes. Bubbling salt bog water. I'm doing the math. It's basic.
Under the shirt and pulling back the bra, lapping at her sunken breast, ouch.
Red. Smarting. And I never bit it.
"What did you do after work today?"
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Seated high on the throne of infamy
His smarting embrace envelopes pure desire
From the water you drink to the air you breathe
From the riches of kings to the rags of beggars
Your freedom, your mind, your possessions, your obsessions
Craving greatness and gall, everything and all
Senselessly slaved to the poisoned yearning of his core
He is avarice absolute, he wants the world and more.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Titans clashing
In writing classes
Sessions
To profess progression
Or
Progress to professions
Blessings
Brought through the lessons
Learned
In College
A student as truant
As undeserved triumph
In the form
Of a form
That says what he’s worth
Diplomas
Handed out
To show
You’re on the road
To success
The rest are asked
The ultimate question
Of “Why not?”
Embarking on the quest
When the ultimatum
Is failure
Fail lures in
Those with no ambition
Men *******
About getting papers
To show worth
Working with no
Apparent purpose
Versus
Being apparently worthless
Pairing the two
Against the view
Of a *****
Who stares at the moon
And gives a ****
About the bull
The one
Whose wit
Could split
The tightest knit
Brain
And undue the sutures
Of skulls
To undue
Their mundane
View of success
The *****
Who calls himself
A *****
With more pride
Than Aryans
Carrying his opinion
Higher
Than the mass vision
Just to show
How low
They truly are
Arrogantly ignorant
Ignore rants
Of others
And smother them
With the truth
Of knowing nothing
And understands
They’ll never understand
Overstepping the boundaries
Without
Diplomatic immunity
Yet immune
To the qualities
Of the Hippocratic views
And sees
To seize the future
You must
Tackle the present problems
You must blitz
To get you’re quarter back
If you want
To make a change
And sport all the qualities
That seem to them
Strange
Deranged
In the range
Of misunderstandings
The illusion of progress
For humans
Are usually
Said in words
And never
Set in stone
So I will throw
Sticks and stone
The stupidity that’s grown
Words hurt
But actions hurt worser
For example:
Worser
Isn’t a word
Until I worsen the
Worst situation
I’m waiting
For my chance
To blow up
So I can dumb down
Your intelligence
And smarting up
Your ignorance
If you can’t understand
You’re either too smart
Or too **** ignorant
If you’re offended
Then you’re opinion is unneeded
Because the truth
Will tear your *** to pieces
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
I could toss my cares over a rainbow
Let it hang there a while and dry out its sorry behind
As I squeeze some slices of brackish time to research the deliberate contours of your patience
Swerving its way past concealed match sticks
Bend at the so definite behest of none.
Slurring backwards
Tentative graphica
Huge baskets of winding fun
Sketchy image pencilled in, for now
Details come later in -------- a terminal
(hopefully)
Charcoal drawings offer the sweet sound of breaking cumulus and sudden wax of orange
come to life on a sullen bed of love apples
shapes are p-p-p-pulled to painstaking proportion
deep lines stippled drastic
dragged along on unwieldy wagon strokes
Art never really tastes ink but celebrates ephemerae
yet trapping half understood and beautiful pictures
beneath mocking glass panels
smudged with such deep knowinggggg
You can do something to stop this **** blood impasse
beset more so with counterfeit decline
blind bull rage too ready and bloodthirsty acts bay
half crippled and on its knees, how your land cries
see the (over)spill of rightly invective remain unresolved
See the deprivation at the lake
all gall thirsty, yet none to drink
just a hapless event smarting
On a downward cyclic turn
no more will sing voices when old gripes unheard
scream in the long, red lines bulleted across that holy floor
albeit the wicked general holds the trussed up cards
he won’t bother scraping the dried salt of kin later
it grows ever more in sad mounds on the little green book
awaiting missing miracle
inflections of a restless mind
within the ***** creep
retorts from peerless craft forge
entangled moans in briars and sundry
resort to savour within disyllabic silence
Can you but count the ways in which these coins of seeking do ****** across
an afflicted floor of red lines to an exculpated heart, un(cor)rected ?
Unprocessed miracles are items of constant bewonderment in duress living
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Beggar It!
Hair drenched hung at her neck.
Cold, bedraggled.
Left on the stone cold stairs.
Beside the house of the holy.
Fingers purple.
Blue, pink.
Fingertips smarting.
Fiery red inside.
Holly was her name.
Her visage as red as cherry ripe.
Tears her only friend.
Old enamel mug in turquoise.
Waiting to catch stray nickel coins.
Holds only pennies of memory.
Locked in her cold brain.
She cannot sing.
Nor play a note.
Busking is no option.
She wrote a poem of her own,
A kind of begging note.
She wrote it in bright colours.
In letters truly bold
Cry is all that she will do.
In hope's desperation.
That all is not lost.
She hopes someone will read her poem.
And,
****** her from the winter cold!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
the will's pliable--
trafficking with
liquid forces that
find and flood
the chinks of chains.
the smarting gold of
the vast return.
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 1:32 PM UTC
A squeak in the night
the molasses sky muting the silver stars
As they fell
one
by
one
onto the hard packed earth where we lay
unspoken words smarting in the darkness
lips flushed red with promises broken
and lies spread as thin as lip balm.
Their ungainly flight to escape
became a sharp distraction to my muddled emotions as they woke
one
by
one
to the smothered chirps of the baby birds.
Alone and abandoned
they mirrored my cries for help
and gently with hands accustomed to flesh not feathers
We gathered the small bodies in cacoons of towel.
A small barrier from the stalking squirrel
prowling the midnight branches.
Small ******* fluttering in panic
We soothed
and spoke in soft utterances
in contrast with our wheeling minds
and the rescue of three little lives
cleared the garbled words we choked on
until we could meet
clear gaze
clear hearts.
The soft whisper of the wind
carried away our pain.
And as the baby birds pleas faded to contented humming
our bodies settled into peace
and our minds into laughter
and love was once again
a precious gift
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
Somewhere, in me.
I am hurting.
Tiny splinters of pain, flicks of tears here and there.
Little untitled somethings smarting my everywhere.
My lips.
I can't speak.
Beneath my eyelids.
I don't want to see the world just yet.
The wizened and creased edges of my heart.
Odd thing is, I cannot even
whisper
it
in your ear.
Even if,
you are the only one who will ever know.
Simply because I know
you
are
hurting
too.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
you look a little lost drunk toylike demure
stumbling doll pretty i peer you cutting
through gnashing heaped throats i spy
your gangling figure ungainly miniature
legs tottering deftly sensual upon your
hips
you slice stupidly through the tiny
hot music and you look so eatable you
look so nice and pristinely garbled perfect
unkempt ***** pleasant uneasy
i'll catch you by your languorous laxing
limbs i'll ****** you from falling hard
into the smarting wet floor i'll bring your
feverish nonsense Redder mouth
to mine and we'll do something perhaps
hotter
something, perhaps, louder
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
The waterlogged lands have long gone dry
The soil is lying cracked and parched
The frogs that crocked in shallow pools,
Nowhere on land or water to be seen
The once full river has thinned and narrowed
Into a greasy smudge of faded stain
On the long yard of brown earth
The road is a burning stretch of black
Sure it can make the water steam and sizzle
Quicker than in an electric ***
The sun is seen a flaming ball in the sky
Darting down spears of smarting beams
Heat like a spiteful scorpion’s sting
Burns the flesh and the bared scalp
Watermelons or chilled buttermilk
Cannot douse the midday heat
The fiery tongue of humid summer
Licks up the last residue of green
The woods dread the fall of a spark
That can ignite an inferno, anytime
The cattle stay still with frothy foam
Dripping down from their drooping tongues
A thirsty crow beside a dried up pond
Looks around for a drop of water
(But alas, not as lucky as the parable crow
That finds a jar of half filled elixir)
A line of black ants carry a carcass
Clambering up the cracked stump of a tree
The brown grass sings
And the Etna seethes!
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
You are a snake, with many layers.
I would peel them all away,
Discarding, one by one,
Revealing smarting, pinkened skin.
Shocked pores gulp alien air
Stinging, then relief,
At being vulnerable, and bare.
In some other ago, before you betrayed me,
You flayed me,
Left me tender, raw, aching, sore,
Trembling, flinching at the kiss of the breeze,
The warmth of your breath,
But you are still resistant, unwilling to shed.
I’ll rip away those doubtskins,
Grip you, tear apart hesitation,
I need you naked, soul and body bare,
I have to know you’re really there.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC