"stile" poems
Your flame glows
And flame throws
Insane vibes
Than makes my viens flow
My body over heats
To temperatures Celsius unknown
our bodies taking measures
Heighten pleasures
Too bad to be a miracle
Too good to be forgotten
Memories clone
Yet, it's heaven sent
by principle
Our bodies quake with sensations
Unbelievable
Reaching heights without ******
unachievable
Take loving making to the next decimal
Feeding our appetites until we are plenty full
And our eruptions stop exploding
And we lay there motionlessly stile
Calm as a lonely
lake as satisfied as ice is chill
Cooling each other down
like the wind does the sun
Looking at each other like our work
here is done
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 11:40 PM UTC
Doll’s boy ’s asleep
under a stile
he sees eight and twenty
ladies in a line
the first lady
says to nine ladies
his lips drink water
but his heart drinks wine
the tenth lady
says to nine ladies
they must chain his foot
for his wrist ’s too fine
the nineteenth
says to nine ladies
you take his mouth
for his eyes are mine.
Doll’s boy ’s asleep
under the stile
for every mile the feet go
the heart goes nine
13.9k
As I pulled out,
some slides out.
sticky white cum,
stile spilled from the tip,
soaking the bed sheets.
your bashful smile,
mets my devilish grin.
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 9:02 AM UTC
70
“Arcturus” is his other name—
I’d rather call him “Star.”
It’s very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day—
A “Savant” passing by
Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”!
“Oh Lord—how frail are we”!
I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a “class”!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits ***** in “Cabinets”—
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was “Heaven”
Is “Zenith” now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time’s brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I’m ready for “the worst”—
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed—
I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of “Pearl.”
4.8k
Mayday: two came to field in such wise :
'A daisied mead', each said to each,
So were they one; so sought they couch,
Across barbed stile, through flocked brown cows.
'No pitchforked farmer, please,' she said;
'May cockcrow guard us safe,' said he;
By blackthorn thicket, flower spray
They pitched their coats, come to green bed.
Below: a fen where water stood;
Aslant: their hill of stinging nettle;
Then, honor-bound, mute grazing cattle;
Above: leaf-wraithed white air, white cloud.
All afternoon these lovers lay
Until the sun turned pale from warm,
Until sweet wind changed tune, blew harm :
Cruel nettles stung her angles raw.
Rueful, most vexed, that tender skin
Should accept so fell a wound,
He stamped and cracked stalks to the ground
Which had caused his dear girl pain.
Now he goes from his rightful road
And, under honor, will depart;
While she stands burning, venom-girt,
In wait for sharper smart to fade.
4k
318
I’ll tell you how the Sun rose—
A Ribbon at a time—
The Steeples swam in Amethyst—
The news, like Squirrels, ran—
The Hills untied their Bonnets—
The Bobolinks—begun—
Then I said softly to myself—
“That must have been the Sun”!
But how he set—I know not—
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while—
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray—
Put gently up the evening Bars—
And led the flock away—
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She’ll make you use the good Lords name in vain.
One looking in her; no star gaze is ever the same.
Body turning, legs spin and frail,
Socks red as a fox stripped, swirling like a candy cane.
Exotic stares, confident; she can’t be tamed.
She so fine, Whine, might be your name.
With her smoking body; rough on the edges
Burning with passion, pushing me over the ledges.
Let’s call her Mary Jane, like the tattoo says.
Her lyrics stuck in my head, the way she turns and bends.
Leaves much to be said.
She whispered in my ear;
When on stage, close her eyes; so she can disappear.
Her stile there; so it appears.
In her own mind; the picture is clear.
Dancing in bedroom mirror; no one else there.
The gin and tonic, make it clear.
The chasers, chase her fears.
The different pills, keep her sane.
It’s the need for money, keeps her here.
But the fast money, is quick to disappear.
Along with looks; it is part of this atmosphere.
While tattoos fade and wear;
Yet, dark enough to hide her fears.
The Exotic dancers; that nobody hears.
Some will listens, many pretend, nobody cares.
The music playing; more than music to her ears,
The lyrics screaming, making her point clear.
The dark nails, scratching the surface,
She crawl’s near. Matter of fact,
Between me, her, and the beat
There is no one else here.
All eyes on her; squawk and stare.
Longing for attention,
didn’t want it all there.
But talk is cheap; the truth, dare.
Searching for hope, won’t find it here.
All this attention, lacking care.
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 11:00 PM UTC
I walked along the mountain stream
Where dancing sunbeams shone and gleamed
It was such a peaceful place
The gentle breeze carressed my face
I came across a country stile
Where I could sit and think awhile
Far away from this dangerous world
The natural beauty just unfurled.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2016.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
"Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
And he beside another love."
And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.
2k
I had forgotten the way to the hut that I had traveled to so many times,
so many days. So many moons, I would say. But no one marks moons anymore, except hunters. And I am not one of them. Nor a gatherer.
I listen to old men tell how they felled the stags. I do not believe them.
I am a wayfarer, to use the archaic words I used to love, the words
I had forgotten, the words of time in eternity, the words of orange leaves
on towering pin oaks, the words of circles of shadows settling on Gavarnie, of snowfall in the Pyrénées. Sever Spain from the Continent.
I had lost the language of the ***** spray-painted sheep scampering
over gray-bouldered cirques on mountaintops, boulders turning into mountains in the shadows, in the fog, in drifts of snow. There are no words for this now. Bleating sheep drown them out, and yapping dogs.
There are no words for the radiance of transcendence. “Climb higher,”
I hear them say. Higher into the haze of clouds. Cirque: circle, circus. Acrobatics on hillsides, balancing acts on rockslides, skimming streams in hard-toed boots. I had forgotten the way to the words, far behind me.
I have come to a gate, a steep stile in shadow. No sheep can pass. Nothing looks familiar; nothing looks strange. I saunter in a cloud
of unknowing. I had known the words: worn, smooth as stone unscuffed by hard-toed boots, slick as snowmelt. Slide from France into Spain.
This is the path of Santiago de Compostela, the route of St. James, who said, “Do not be double-minded, brethren.” I cannot remember if I have been double-minded in my travels. I had forgotten the way. If the words do not come, which mind sees the threshold; which mind circles the fog?
What passes, what begins when we travel? I do not look backward.
The way lies ahead, waiting, wandering away from the words. Splotches
of lichen sprout orange and green. “Go no higher for safety.” No higher.
They do not mention exile or ecstasy or the straight path of radiance.
The cirque circles my words in mountain shadows. I must unlearn
the art of travel, adrift in broken fields of stone. I had forgotten the way to the hut. Rocks obscure the path. Light ensures the path leads upward. Nothing is lost. Words hold their weight. Stags dance above me in fog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
I saw her crop a rose
Right early in the day,
And I went to kiss the place
Where she broke the rose away
And I saw the patten rings
Where she o’er the stile had gone,
And I love all other things
Her bright eyes look upon.
If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree,
The whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.
I have a pleasant hill
Which I sit upon for hours,
Where she cropt some sprigs of thyme
And other little flowers;
And she muttered as she did it
As does beauty in a dream,
And I loved her when she hid it
On her breast, so like to cream,
Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone;
Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.
There is a small green place
Where cowslips early curled,
Which on Sabbath day I traced,
The dearest in the world.
A little oak spreads o’er it,
And throws a shadow round,
A green sward close before it,
The greenest ever found:
There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove,
Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.
1.9k
Along the field as we came by
A year ago, my love and I,
The aspen over stile and stone
Was talking to itself alone.
'Oh who are these that kiss and pass?
A country lover and his lass;
Two lovers looking to be wed;
And time shall put them both to bed,
But she shall lie with earth above,
And he beside another love.'
And sure enough beneath the tree
There walks another love with me,
And overhead the aspen heaves
Its rainy-sounding silver leaves;
And I spell nothing in their stir,
But now perhaps they speak to her,
And plain for her to understand
They talk about a time at hand
When I shall sleep with clover clad,
And she beside another lad.
1.8k
I climb the hill: from end to end
Of all the landscape underneath,
I find no place that does not breathe
Some gracious memory of my friend;
No gray old grange, or lonely fold,
Or low morass and whispering reed,
Or simple stile from mead to mead,
Or sheepwalk up the windy wold;
Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw
That hears the latest linnet trill,
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill
And haunted by the wrangling daw;
Nor runlet tinkling from the rock;
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves
To left and right thro' meadowy curves,
That feed the mothers of the flock;
But each has pleased a kindred eye,
And each reflects a kindlier day;
And, leaving these, to pass away,
I think once more he seems to die.
1.6k
and she spoke,
and her lips were myth;
her tongue, song:
forehead scar shone
lodes of rune
re-membered ember
of yesteraeon soot cooked
sitting fire in ashen ire re-sired
without him
her self
felt, *********
clod alive
tooth of skull
culled forth
bone spoken
tomes uttered
and i felt her light enter
this dilating space
of ebb and ruin and alone
stile of mine
thresheld, again
footfall of wynd,
blown open
into dope field sprung swim
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 8:46 PM UTC
When I was five, and you were eight
You took my hand and said, "come with me"
Over the stile and on the floor, lay a pile of slate
Forgotten.
Together we built a little slate village
For non-existent people to do non-existent things
And within that architecture of simple stone,
We built our sibling dreams
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
The dream last night had seemed so real… But it was just a dream, right? Those shadows, the messages on the mirror, the walls, all the groaning and the shuffling of feet… That was all just a dream, right?
This is all just a dream, right?
Fairly ridiculous question to be asking yourself as you’re being chased through the halls by this… this, this thing. Whatever this is. Its neck is limp, head resting on its shoulder. Its grin is huge, its face coated in blood.
Have you ever heard the children’s rhyme about the Crooked Man?
*There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
Upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat,
Which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together,
In a little crooked house.*
This… thing, you’re being chased by, that you’re fighting off with a fruit knife, that you’re setting on fire and pushing into holes and still won’t die…
This is the Crooked Man.
I wonder if this is all the Crooked Man knew?
His crooked house, his crooked relationships, his crooked… crooked body…
His body’s only crooked because of the rope, though.
Maybe he couldn’t handle being crooked anymore? All he knew was a crooked life, all he owned were crooked things.
I wonder why he’s chasing you.
It could be to drag you down, to slaughter you, to make you feel his pain… More than you already have… To make you end up like him.
Your pasts are so similar…
Or maybe it’s to warn you. To say, “Don’t end up like me.” To make sure that you don’t die the way he died. The way he staggers, his limp neck, head hanging loosely, his unrealistically large grin…
Why did he make you put that gun to your head, then? Why is he trying to drag you down?
That’s a problem for you to figure out on your own. But you’d better hurry.
By the way, I noticed earlier… Your neck is a little crooked.
(This one was based off the video game, The Crooked Man. Yaay, video games.)
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
XI
A Book was writ of late call’d Tetrachordon;
And wov’n close, both matter, form and stile;
The Subject new: it walk’d the Town a while,
Numbring good intellects; now seldom por’d on.
Cries the stall-reader, bless us! what a word on
A title page is this! and some in file
Stand spelling fals, while one might walk to Mile-
End Green. Why is it harder Sirs then Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,
Hated not Learning wors then Toad or Asp;
When thou taught’st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.
1.2k
matrimoni tradizionali sono un fantastico modo per dare il via alla settimana .non credi ?Soprattutto un matrimonio tradizionale bella come questa vicenda Perth catturato da DeRay \u0026Simcoe .Perché questo è un matrimonio che è tutto prendere il fiato con i fiori splendidi e uno stile
di Rebecca Grazia .una cerimonia mozzafiato e attimo dopo attimo di tutti i tappi FELICI .Vedi tutto qui .
ColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsChurchEvent VenueStylesTraditional Elegance
Dal DeRay \u0026Simcoe .What a wonderful affare !Il tipo di giornata neanche un po 'di pioggia potrebbe smorzare .
Tina pianificato la sua sorprendente matrimonio di Shannon con una splendida pesca morbida e fuori schema di colore bianco .Si guardò raggiante nel suo vestiti da sposa abito abiti da sposa corti Pallas con bellissimi fiori di Rebecca Grazia .
Hanno tenuto una cerimonia tradizionale cattolica.fra cui una ***** piena in una delle chiese più belle di Perth .San Giuseppe .Abbiamo fatto le foto al Palazzo del Parlamento fino a quando il tempo era vestiti da sposa freddo e bagnato.quindi abbiamo cercato un po ' di calore in un bar contemporaneo - George .
Dopo alcuni cocktail la festa nuziale erano felici di sfidare il tempo .camminando per le strade piovose di St Georges Terrace in Perth CBD conseguente foto romantiche con un'atmosfera vecchio Hollywood .
La loro accoglienza è stata assolutamente incredibile.tenuto alto le cime degli alberi con vista sulle luci della città brillano .L'arredamento classico bianco è stato accompagnato da centinaia di candele .
Tina e Shannon erano così delizioso .prima .durante e dopo il matrimonio .siamo stati così fortunati da parte di questa magica giornata .
Fotografia : DeRay e Simcoe | Floral Design : Rebecca Grazia | Abito da sposa: Pallas Couture | Cake: Elegance Edible | Cerimonia Luogo : San Giuseppe | Banco Luogo : Centro di Accoglienza Stato Perth | Scarpe : Badgley Mischka | Anelli : Ross Ezechiele |capelli : Shane Dias | Auto : Limousine Impressionante | Sedia Covers : Touched By Angels | Trucco : Lauren legno | Banco Styling : Rebecca Grazia | Video : Inception VideoBadgley Mischka è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
There was an Old Man who said, 'How
Shall I flee from that horribke cow?
I will sit on this stile,
And continue to smile,
Which may soften the heart of that cow.'
992
<p><p> matrimoni tradizionali sono un fantastico modo per dare il via alla settimana .non credi ?Soprattutto un matrimonio tradizionale bella come questa vicenda Perth catturato da DeRay \u0026Simcoe .Perché questo è un matrimonio che è tutto prendere il fiato con i fiori splendidi e uno stile <p><a href="http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=686" target="_blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/images_ld/td//t35/product_thumb/1/4466435353535_395665.jpg"></a></p> di Rebecca Grazia .una cerimonia mozzafiato e attimo dopo attimo di tutti i tappi FELICI .Vedi tutto qui .<p>ColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsChurchEvent VenueStylesTraditional Elegance <p> Dal DeRay \u0026Simcoe .What a wonderful affare !Il tipo di giornata neanche un po 'di pioggia potrebbe smorzare .<p> Tina pianificato la sua sorprendente matrimonio di Shannon con una splendida pesca morbida e fuori schema di colore bianco .Si guardò raggiante nel suo <b>vestiti da sposa</b> abito <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49"><b>abiti da sposa corti</b></a> Pallas con bellissimi fiori di Rebecca Grazia .<p> Hanno tenuto una cerimonia tradizionale cattolica.fra cui una ***** piena in una delle chiese più belle di Perth .San Giuseppe .Abbiamo fatto le foto al Palazzo del Parlamento fino a quando il tempo era <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-c-1"><b>vestiti da sposa</b></a> freddo e bagnato.quindi abbiamo cercato un po ' di calore in un bar contemporaneo - George .<p> Dopo alcuni cocktail la festa nuziale erano felici di sfidare il tempo .camminando per le strade piovose di St Georges Terrace in Perth CBD conseguente foto romantiche con un'atmosfera vecchio Hollywood .<p> La loro accoglienza è stata assolutamente incredibile.tenuto alto le cime degli alberi con vista sulle luci della città brillano .L'arredamento classico bianco è stato accompagnato da centinaia di candele .<p> Tina e Shannon erano così delizioso .prima .durante e dopo il matrimonio .siamo stati così fortunati da parte di questa magica giornata .<p> Fotografia : DeRay e Simcoe | Floral Design : Rebecca Grazia | Abito da sposa: Pallas Couture | Cake: Elegance Edible | Cerimonia Luogo : San Giuseppe | Banco Luogo : Centro di Accoglienza Stato Perth | Scarpe : Badgley Mischka | Anelli : Ross Ezechiele |capelli : Shane Dias | Auto : Limousine Impressionante | Sedia Covers : Touched By Angels | Trucco : Lauren legno | Banco Styling : Rebecca Grazia | Video : Inception VideoBadgley Mischka è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui</p>
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Voi ch'ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
di quei sospiri ond'io nudriva 'l core
in sul mio primo giovenile errore
quand'era in parte altr'uom da quel ch'ì sono,
del vario stile in ch'io piango et ragiono
fra le vane speranze e 'l van dolore,
ove sia chi per prova intenda amore,
spero trovar pietà, nonché perdono.
Ma ben veggio or sì come al popol tutto
favola fui gran tempo, onde sovente
di me mesdesmo meco mi vergogno;
et del mio vaneggiar vergogna è 'l frutto,
e 'l pentersi, e 'l conoscer chiaramente
che quanto piace al mondo è breve sogno.
1.1k
My art
My passion awakes
My fingertips
From your tailpiece
Your tailpiece
To your neck
Pulsating change
Change of pitch
Rigorous vibrato
My fingers
On your strings
In an extreme tremolo
My hands
Are bewitched
By your slender auburn corpo
Your firm belly
Twitched
In a perfect falsetto
I pluck
You whisper
Bisbigliando
Your fingerboard
Wildly opens
In stile concitato
I play your chord
Your nakedness
In a gentle adagio
You whimper in a rich
Sonorous
Pianissimo
In my warmth
You arouse
In intense crescendo
Swollen, overwhelmed
By our wonderful
Concerto
You rest
Satisfied
In a climactic finale
Crafted
In good music
By an ******** play
My little secret
My little piece
A jewel on my chest
You are my cello
I am your
Cellist
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Oh how my spirit longs to go to the oft remembered hills
to listen to the tinkling brook a dancing down the rills,
where Curlews soar majestically on high,
and soft green folds hold up a golden sky.
There in dusty lanes and scent filled air
the weary spirit flies oblivious to care,
where nature spreads her bounty over all,
and summer rains like blessings gently fall.
Come with me and we will fly
to the land of golden sky
and tread the lanes to climb the stile
and there know sweet contentment
for awhile.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
******* are so proud, of their sin so black and vile
Abomination! Is the word, for their habit and their stile
-
They march in a parade, their perverted pride they flaunt
Lick each others ***** and God Almighty taunt
-
God will not be mocked, ******* will find out
They'll be sent to Hell, this without a doubt
-
Tisk-tisk oh ****** Fruitcake, don't you like my rhyme?
Soon you'll burn in Hell, you'll be there for all time
-
Will you be proud in Hell? Will you march in a parade?
You'll have a red-hot dildow up your *** and your "pride" be so displayed
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC