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"styled" poems
Teamwork Solves The Problem They say “two minds are better than one.” Nothing could be truer. As I watched a friend and his relative, patiently, take apart and fix a broke appliance. I relaxed and observed. The two had the item repaired and figured out quicker than one whose questions are the parts in which the other can answer when there, with him, aiding in the battle of winning the war to piece together a needed tool , that needs mending. Through answered questions from a partner well answering problems, the other had faced, piecing together the problem, through help and sweet and strong reliance. Upon another to help in rougher times. I remarked on such, the phrase, as they smiled. In agreement…it wa voted unanimously. That :”two minds are better than one” Simultaneously….we all nodded. It was a new motto on which we have started to have styled… Even more so, even a “ton” of minds wishing to achieve the same goal - to fix a broken moment… or even a city that is in disrepair. such, through unity, the item was finished and the conversation had ended…. It is alike war and conflicts…… …. Having people, ready with you, voluntarily by your side… Is better than being too tall for one’s own good…or even better motives… If he fails to see that “one is not an island…” “Nor is one an army…” Common Sense tells him to ask for “brother’s in arms” which overrides any strong form of blind pride..
0
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
kevin-michael-kappler
Teamwork Solves The Problem
Teamwork Solves The Problem They say “two minds are better than one.” Nothing could be truer. As I watched a friend and his relative, patiently, take apart and fix a broke appliance. I relaxed and observed. The two had the item repaired and figured out quicker than one whose questions are the parts in which the other can answer when there, with him, aiding in the battle of winning the war to piece together a needed tool , that needs mending. Through answered questions from a partner well answering problems, the other had faced, piecing together the problem, through help and sweet and strong reliance. Upon another to help in rougher times. I remarked on such, the phrase, as they smiled. In agreement…it wa voted unanimously. That :”two minds are better than one” Simultaneously….we all nodded. It was a new motto on which we have started to have styled… Even more so, even a “ton” of minds wishing to achieve the same goal - to fix a broken moment… or even a city that is in disrepair. such, through unity, the item was finished and the conversation had ended…. It is alike war and conflicts…… …. Having people, ready with you, voluntarily by your side… Is better than being too tall for one’s own good…or even better motives… If he fails to see that “one is not an island…” “Nor is one an army…” Common Sense tells him to ask for “brother’s in arms” which overrides any strong form of blind pride..
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24
Once, long ago, An old man took me into his shop And showed me his snowglobe collection. Every one, spotless, No trace of dust lining the rims. I paused to gaze, No, Marvel, At each scene: Two children ice skating, A milkman driving his truck, Ladies reading magazines while having their hair styled. Every one, spotless, Until I lightly shook one, Just enough so the snow sprinkled The ice skating children, The driving milkman, The reading ladies. But each scene was still, frozen in time, Still, perfect. I slumped to the floor, Heartbroken and tears trailing down my cheeks. I wanted their life so bad, But all I could do was marvel, No, Gaze, And lightly sprinkle the tiny figurines.
0
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
ashlyn-kriegel
Perfect Snow
Once, long ago, An old man took me into his shop And showed me his snowglobe collection. Every one, spotless, No trace of dust lining the rims. I paused to gaze, No, Marvel, At each scene: Two children ice skating, A milkman driving his truck, Ladies reading magazines while having their hair styled. Every one, spotless, Until I lightly shook one, Just enough so the snow sprinkled The ice skating children, The driving milkman, The reading ladies. But each scene was still, frozen in time, Still, perfect. I slumped to the floor, Heartbroken and tears trailing down my cheeks. I wanted their life so bad, But all I could do was marvel, No, Gaze, And lightly sprinkle the tiny figurines.
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27
it seems we live in times when helping hands extend only reluctantly to those in dire need who had to leave      the ruins of their devastated homes      not waiting for more bombs to fall to those who had to save their lives      from the barbaric rule of self-styled prophets and those whose simple love of education      was met with inane terror and oppression why is it that so many people      are afraid of them and think      these desperate refugees are perpetrators           not the victims why is it that the nations most responsible       for chaos and destruction in these countries            far from their own safe shores       are the least willing to accommodate       those they have driven from their homes good Samaritans have become scarce only a few today share their possessions      with those who are in greater need our humanity has been outsourced to NGOs and sundry other institutions to whom we donate so they feed the hungry   poor   and the displaced it makes one wonder whether shameless greed has indeed       and without any saving grace become the only goal of our race
0
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
wwhoelbling
cold world
it seems we live in times when helping hands extend only reluctantly to those in dire need who had to leave      the ruins of their devastated homes      not waiting for more bombs to fall to those who had to save their lives      from the barbaric rule of self-styled prophets and those whose simple love of education      was met with inane terror and oppression why is it that so many people      are afraid of them and think      these desperate refugees are perpetrators           not the victims why is it that the nations most responsible       for chaos and destruction in these countries            far from their own safe shores       are the least willing to accommodate       those they have driven from their homes good Samaritans have become scarce only a few today share their possessions      with those who are in greater need our humanity has been outsourced to NGOs and sundry other institutions to whom we donate so they feed the hungry   poor   and the displaced it makes one wonder whether shameless greed has indeed       and without any saving grace become the only goal of our race
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29
Bravery I thought I was brave with the scars to prove it. My legacy - broken bones, split knuckles, black eyes and loose teeth. Adulation and respect. I fought both man and isms Never backed down. But a black man, driving an Uber taught me the truth of true bravery. Harassed, insulted, threatened by a low-life passenger, white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie, he refused to take the bait. He denied himself the pleasure of justified violence. He told me his story - and anger for him, righteous indignation, crashed over me in furious waves. I admonished him for not confronting that mans ignorance with a closed and determined fist. Never back down, right? Gently, he spoke the truth of black men in America. His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty. Protected by a system that oppresses me. I am guilty - period - and would be lucky to be arrested, not killed, in a confrontation with that bigot. So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie off at his destination, and drove on - leaving that pig to wallow in his hate. His bravery earned him nothing. No adulation. No respect. No recognition. Nothing except another day of life. Another day with his family. In contrast - my lifetime of bravery. A pale reflection, when set beside his truth. He was brave, not I. My self-styled bravery, forever tainted by my privilege.
0
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
ron-sparks
Bravery
Bravery I thought I was brave with the scars to prove it. My legacy - broken bones, split knuckles, black eyes and loose teeth. Adulation and respect. I fought both man and isms Never backed down. But a black man, driving an Uber taught me the truth of true bravery. Harassed, insulted, threatened by a low-life passenger, white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie, he refused to take the bait. He denied himself the pleasure of justified violence. He told me his story - and anger for him, righteous indignation, crashed over me in furious waves. I admonished him for not confronting that mans ignorance with a closed and determined fist. Never back down, right? Gently, he spoke the truth of black men in America. His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty. Protected by a system that oppresses me. I am guilty - period - and would be lucky to be arrested, not killed, in a confrontation with that bigot. So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie off at his destination, and drove on - leaving that pig to wallow in his hate. His bravery earned him nothing. No adulation. No respect. No recognition. Nothing except another day of life. Another day with his family. In contrast - my lifetime of bravery. A pale reflection, when set beside his truth. He was brave, not I. My self-styled bravery, forever tainted by my privilege.
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48
There, she lies on the altar Almost held the sun she— almost in her hands Opened up, a rose-bud chaste petal by petal by blood, with a sting, so sweet and sweet, as sunset reborn a bee; she was gold and silver and black at once. Almost held the sun she— and no wax wings used Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky, — yourself a light-licked doom   as your father cried, Your father cried for you. A veil as simple sour starlight she wore as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled Icarus, flew that you —and with tongue-tied elation too Icarus, she rambled on for hours long. A letter she held in spring kissed hands —I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn. The sun—and a sun he was, child of the sea, some sword in honey dipped; now her awaiting. And blushed she did herself a dawn The altar, on the altar. Almost held the sun she— Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin. Icarus, tell me of the plummet. Tell me of the greens you saw, of blues, of whites, of the whirling world— Men go around around her their soles all ready to crush lost skulls an empty moor. Twirling, the dust, like may have her hair before the wedding day Strands and strands, gently styled— Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors, to lakes lifeless Armors and ships laden with life, with sails, the fluttering doves; As the winds dance once more— as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as She still lies. Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in as down into dark's slick throat you slid? Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth, Surely soft or true She lies on the altar a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell, how does one say— the valley of lilies, she grew it inside. Spilled out on the stones, they are fed to the flies. Almost held the sun she— Icarus, must you know You did not sleep a wretched silence within the womb of war. No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat— She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon — for metal upon bone for blood, for blood, for blood. A father’s green promise— Seasoned to rust before the king Icarus, on the altar she lies— a ripened land far, far away lures her king to another rosy worship. Icarus, Icarus, on the altar
0
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
Ayesha
Iphigenia
There, she lies on the altar Almost held the sun she— almost in her hands Opened up, a rose-bud chaste petal by petal by blood, with a sting, so sweet and sweet, as sunset reborn a bee; she was gold and silver and black at once. Almost held the sun she— and no wax wings used Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky, — yourself a light-licked doom   as your father cried, Your father cried for you. A veil as simple sour starlight she wore as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled Icarus, flew that you —and with tongue-tied elation too Icarus, she rambled on for hours long. A letter she held in spring kissed hands —I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn. The sun—and a sun he was, child of the sea, some sword in honey dipped; now her awaiting. And blushed she did herself a dawn The altar, on the altar. Almost held the sun she— Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin. Icarus, tell me of the plummet. Tell me of the greens you saw, of blues, of whites, of the whirling world— Men go around around her their soles all ready to crush lost skulls an empty moor. Twirling, the dust, like may have her hair before the wedding day Strands and strands, gently styled— Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors, to lakes lifeless Armors and ships laden with life, with sails, the fluttering doves; As the winds dance once more— as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as She still lies. Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in as down into dark's slick throat you slid? Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth, Surely soft or true She lies on the altar a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell, how does one say— the valley of lilies, she grew it inside. Spilled out on the stones, they are fed to the flies. Almost held the sun she— Icarus, must you know You did not sleep a wretched silence within the womb of war. No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat— She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon — for metal upon bone for blood, for blood, for blood. A father’s green promise— Seasoned to rust before the king Icarus, on the altar she lies— a ripened land far, far away lures her king to another rosy worship. Icarus, Icarus, on the altar
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72
For Connie, a Friend Indeed There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs! The health certificates make for dull reading And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs! Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut Children and grandchildren in cute little frames And lovely young girls all styled for the prom There are flowers and scents and catalogues But – There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!                                                            Woof!
0
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
lawrence-hall
What's Wrong at Connie's Beauty Shop? A Shortage of Poker-Playing Dogs.
For Connie, a Friend Indeed There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs! The health certificates make for dull reading And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs! Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut Children and grandchildren in cute little frames And lovely young girls all styled for the prom There are flowers and scents and catalogues But – There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!                                                            Woof!
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13
Writing for me is simple.. Lyrically ready to maximize my potential.. I have something to say I don't blow hot air like a inner tube... Tell them liars they need to relax.. I am the type to push it to the max.. Switching gears and lanes until the governor snap .. I cannot be contain.. Like the green hulk fighting the thing I wish you could take a walk through my brain.. You would see different things depending on the time of day... Like dead people, relatives that passed in my memories they live... Times of my youth when I was a kid... I didn't smile much. I was a good kid I didn't wild much... Pops sold crack so I styled much ... Gun shots in Baltimore, my pops  died once... In my mind I question a ****   Like are they always ready to **** Or does life have them Close to the edge.. Of a cliff a jagged hill   And they don't want to die in this dog eat dog world.. So they let blood spill.. I wonder if I was a G would I bang. Red or blue claim a gang.   Be like Larry Hoover... A young shooter... In and out of prison I maneuver Run the block like a ruler... Be part of the the trash like manure Be a coke runner a drug mover.. Corrupting the body of drug users.  .. Would I be known as a survivor Escaping death more than MacGyver Embrace the streets as truth knowing that's it a liar... Nickname my gun human torch cause it fires I wonder cause honestly I don't have a gun This poetry is my weapon.. I am only gangsta through my lyrical aggression Day 1 down...I am up to the challenge. A poem a day ..to test my talent...
0
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
corey-christ-lyrical-worship
Day 1: No Gangsta
Writing for me is simple.. Lyrically ready to maximize my potential.. I have something to say I don't blow hot air like a inner tube... Tell them liars they need to relax.. I am the type to push it to the max.. Switching gears and lanes until the governor snap .. I cannot be contain.. Like the green hulk fighting the thing I wish you could take a walk through my brain.. You would see different things depending on the time of day... Like dead people, relatives that passed in my memories they live... Times of my youth when I was a kid... I didn't smile much. I was a good kid I didn't wild much... Pops sold crack so I styled much ... Gun shots in Baltimore, my pops  died once... In my mind I question a ****   Like are they always ready to **** Or does life have them Close to the edge.. Of a cliff a jagged hill   And they don't want to die in this dog eat dog world.. So they let blood spill.. I wonder if I was a G would I bang. Red or blue claim a gang.   Be like Larry Hoover... A young shooter... In and out of prison I maneuver Run the block like a ruler... Be part of the the trash like manure Be a coke runner a drug mover.. Corrupting the body of drug users.  .. Would I be known as a survivor Escaping death more than MacGyver Embrace the streets as truth knowing that's it a liar... Nickname my gun human torch cause it fires I wonder cause honestly I don't have a gun This poetry is my weapon.. I am only gangsta through my lyrical aggression Day 1 down...I am up to the challenge. A poem a day ..to test my talent...
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40
i like to turn into a girl once in a fortnight after i just washed my hair... and take a selfie! then i read the fashion magazine alongside marquis de sade... and it makes perfect sense to **** beauty like that... well according to the marquis it does. how's my hair? styled properly brushed to the side long against anti-clockwise curtains of lock that was propaganda with ****** adopting the charlie chaplin moustache and people after ****** ensured confusion whether to split it to the right rather than the left? i’m right-handed, i need the power base of keratin on my cranium hanging to the left!
0
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
fortnight hygiene
i like to turn into a girl once in a fortnight after i just washed my hair... and take a selfie! then i read the fashion magazine alongside marquis de sade... and it makes perfect sense to **** beauty like that... well according to the marquis it does. how's my hair? styled properly brushed to the side long against anti-clockwise curtains of lock that was propaganda with ****** adopting the charlie chaplin moustache and people after ****** ensured confusion whether to split it to the right rather than the left? i’m right-handed, i need the power base of keratin on my cranium hanging to the left!
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13
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ that which used to take ten minutes now takes an hour or two something's that used to take an hour or two, now take ten minutes, give or take, (mostly I do the taking) (or as the little voice whispers, the mostly faking) betcha you'd like to which is what and what is which being bewitched, I ain't spilling no beans cause I value my insanity's privacy, and I don't got to give that up just yet but if you want the worst of what little I got left, unhappily I will approach the old muse begging me giving me something to use, bad she turns away bad she say *"You all tricked out, you wares worn, ye old styles from yester last month you been styled by   H&M; 30 days max, then ring in the new, and if all sold, or none-at-all, too bad for you* then you gotta decide: wear a watch or watch the wearing with  small pleasures sighed, confirming, night-moves, gonna Keep On Keeping On Living
0
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
left-foot
that which used to take ten minutes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ that which used to take ten minutes now takes an hour or two something's that used to take an hour or two, now take ten minutes, give or take, (mostly I do the taking) (or as the little voice whispers, the mostly faking) betcha you'd like to which is what and what is which being bewitched, I ain't spilling no beans cause I value my insanity's privacy, and I don't got to give that up just yet but if you want the worst of what little I got left, unhappily I will approach the old muse begging me giving me something to use, bad she turns away bad she say *"You all tricked out, you wares worn, ye old styles from yester last month you been styled by   H&M; 30 days max, then ring in the new, and if all sold, or none-at-all, too bad for you* then you gotta decide: wear a watch or watch the wearing with  small pleasures sighed, confirming, night-moves, gonna Keep On Keeping On Living
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39
Life could be easy - Oh, no please me I got it good We **** around - I **** her down She takes my wood like she should Wild, yeah - Styled, yeah Loud while she wears my crown and I ain't coming down again Till the ******* *** blends Make her bend - I know no end Notice noted we ascend I know she know we more than friends I ride her like a ******* benz ******* find it all the while I ain't stopping till the bed breaks I smash the whole cake Legs shake on my dinner plate - We hit it so hard - never going to stop All in the cards - never going to drop it She's in the cockpit - locked it, popped it Launched my rocket - oh my goddess I'll be back in couple of days Riding that wave - we give and we take it All of this time she's slaying my **** Hard as brick - I'm all the way the way in it Living in sin one hand on her neck We ******* she bucking I'm ******* her next She want it so bad she tear up my back I handle that *** I'm on the attack Bust in a magnum busting my cap Busting from ******* call it a wrap I'm up in lab we doing the bad Yeah, I'm finishing last
0
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Tussy_Lambz
I_Finish_Last
Life could be easy - Oh, no please me I got it good We **** around - I **** her down She takes my wood like she should Wild, yeah - Styled, yeah Loud while she wears my crown and I ain't coming down again Till the ******* *** blends Make her bend - I know no end Notice noted we ascend I know she know we more than friends I ride her like a ******* benz ******* find it all the while I ain't stopping till the bed breaks I smash the whole cake Legs shake on my dinner plate - We hit it so hard - never going to stop All in the cards - never going to drop it She's in the cockpit - locked it, popped it Launched my rocket - oh my goddess I'll be back in couple of days Riding that wave - we give and we take it All of this time she's slaying my **** Hard as brick - I'm all the way the way in it Living in sin one hand on her neck We ******* she bucking I'm ******* her next She want it so bad she tear up my back I handle that *** I'm on the attack Bust in a magnum busting my cap Busting from ******* call it a wrap I'm up in lab we doing the bad Yeah, I'm finishing last
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33
Growing up, There was no "newest form of technology," no "stylish clothes," no "little puppy". Never a collection of Barbie dolls. Realizing She was surrounded, a plastic society, choicelss. Simple figures. Thoughtless taste. Molded forms. Unseasoned cuisine. Unrealistic ideas. Unsalted frenchfries. Styled hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks. Growing up normal, No distinct collar bones, permanent bags, big feet. Brainwashed convinced of being un-proportional. No first picks. No invitations. No turn at princess. Whispers about "that girl" Not listening, but hearing every word. Lesson learned Chained to the plastic society. Barbie dolls as examples, imbalance of body image expressed. No "styled hair," no "big eyes". Chained; foolish concepts. Attempting to escape the prison worse than death: alienation. Bring it on. Darkest places, broken rules, done being molded, through being fooled. Always considered "that girl. Breaking free from this brainwashed, plastic society.
0
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
byjustjess
Unsalted French Fries
Growing up, There was no "newest form of technology," no "stylish clothes," no "little puppy". Never a collection of Barbie dolls. Realizing She was surrounded, a plastic society, choicelss. Simple figures. Thoughtless taste. Molded forms. Unseasoned cuisine. Unrealistic ideas. Unsalted frenchfries. Styled hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks. Growing up normal, No distinct collar bones, permanent bags, big feet. Brainwashed convinced of being un-proportional. No first picks. No invitations. No turn at princess. Whispers about "that girl" Not listening, but hearing every word. Lesson learned Chained to the plastic society. Barbie dolls as examples, imbalance of body image expressed. No "styled hair," no "big eyes". Chained; foolish concepts. Attempting to escape the prison worse than death: alienation. Bring it on. Darkest places, broken rules, done being molded, through being fooled. Always considered "that girl. Breaking free from this brainwashed, plastic society.
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33
Sultry. Heavy lidded. Beckoning him in. Parted lips in invitation. Whispered promises behind red smiles Perfumed wrists to draw them in. With styled hair to keep them senseless A subtle swing to the hips they love. And finally a kiss to chain their thumping hearts. But a promise made is not one kept Hearts on a chain can be snapped Suddenly, the whispered promises are gone. Love never seemed so black Easy give, easy take. Beckoned him in. Then left. Broken.
0
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
sonja-eliason
Seduction
Sultry. Heavy lidded. Beckoning him in. Parted lips in invitation. Whispered promises behind red smiles Perfumed wrists to draw them in. With styled hair to keep them senseless A subtle swing to the hips they love. And finally a kiss to chain their thumping hearts. But a promise made is not one kept Hearts on a chain can be snapped Suddenly, the whispered promises are gone. Love never seemed so black Easy give, easy take. Beckoned him in. Then left. Broken.
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17
Blessed  with matchlessly magical Parents, Their supremely good, serenely happy raising, design our thought processes. Their loving, comforting storytelling skills, leave indelible footprints  and heartprints. Thankyou God for this Benedictory Love!!! Blessed with a bombastic Brother, self-styled natural, perennial itinerant, Sentinel of sisters life-long. Sentiments flow unabatedly, for our illustrious, boisterous beloved younger. Thankyou God for this Blissful Love!!! Blessed with delicate darling Sister, who wears expressions benignant perpetually. Wiitty, gritty, easy-going habitually. Evident protected favourite of all surely. Fondest moments born in her queenly company. Thankyou God for this Harmonious Love!!! Blessed with solicitous Husband, His silent romanticism, macho protective ways, smoothen tumultuous paths. Terribly correct and sober better half, Brokers peace, plots life's happiness graph. Thankyou God for this Angelic  Love!!! Blessed with an endearing Child, Whose arrival, auspicious, momentous and miraculous, Rearing the divine and sublime born, definitely, a definition for the guardians. Our child, our panacea, promise of better tomorrows. Thankyou God for this Supreme Love!!!
0
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
gapretos
WHOM WE LOVE AND LIVE FOR !!!
Blessed  with matchlessly magical Parents, Their supremely good, serenely happy raising, design our thought processes. Their loving, comforting storytelling skills, leave indelible footprints  and heartprints. Thankyou God for this Benedictory Love!!! Blessed with a bombastic Brother, self-styled natural, perennial itinerant, Sentinel of sisters life-long. Sentiments flow unabatedly, for our illustrious, boisterous beloved younger. Thankyou God for this Blissful Love!!! Blessed with delicate darling Sister, who wears expressions benignant perpetually. Wiitty, gritty, easy-going habitually. Evident protected favourite of all surely. Fondest moments born in her queenly company. Thankyou God for this Harmonious Love!!! Blessed with solicitous Husband, His silent romanticism, macho protective ways, smoothen tumultuous paths. Terribly correct and sober better half, Brokers peace, plots life's happiness graph. Thankyou God for this Angelic  Love!!! Blessed with an endearing Child, Whose arrival, auspicious, momentous and miraculous, Rearing the divine and sublime born, definitely, a definition for the guardians. Our child, our panacea, promise of better tomorrows. Thankyou God for this Supreme Love!!!
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29
Tattoo Promises Read these words now inked of a passionate verse From miles away, beneath clouded silver linings Far beyond every enchanted moon glow vista Phrases of undying devotion in eternal fonts Styled by a hand now longing your touch Tattoo promises melodically whispered Breathless devotion in sonnet sighs Forevermore holding tightly your Affectionate kisses dripping Of sweetest pure honey Unto my wanting lips In poetic phrasing Written entirely Upon the walls Of this my Beating Heart
0
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
jack-3
Tattoo Promises
Tattoo Promises Read these words now inked of a passionate verse From miles away, beneath clouded silver linings Far beyond every enchanted moon glow vista Phrases of undying devotion in eternal fonts Styled by a hand now longing your touch Tattoo promises melodically whispered Breathless devotion in sonnet sighs Forevermore holding tightly your Affectionate kisses dripping Of sweetest pure honey Unto my wanting lips In poetic phrasing Written entirely Upon the walls Of this my Beating Heart
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18
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).                                        ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;                                        or at least an exfoliation curbor. i write honey, honey honey honey, i write honey, honey honey honey p'ooh bear droned in on it. when i write, i write honey, honey honey O'Milee. from serving in the US and A navy, to a beach-buggy accident. when i write, i write honey -        *** e - Atilla styled liquorice -   lee co reesh - not liquidated rice - ghosts of latin almost everywhere; quadruple that. convene and converse - contrary             collective. some say this might as well be the famous goldberg sardines; when i write, i write honey, i write: honey honey honey...       will you be my Duracell bunny? honey, will you be my    ******** par excellance? i see... no, you won't be. the museum of Greek sculpture was vandalised!     guess what they took, the ****** fiendish crooks! with a wet splash of colour comes the cold marble artifice - a bit like the cool-mouth refrigerator of a woman during felatio... still don't know how she gets that gob down below room temperature.     (heresy input, never start a sentence with an)          and there you have it,                   writing, catering for abstractionism, just after he said: they're on a diet.
0
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
five croutons and two pieces of sushi
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).                                        ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;                                        or at least an exfoliation curbor. i write honey, honey honey honey, i write honey, honey honey honey p'ooh bear droned in on it. when i write, i write honey, honey honey O'Milee. from serving in the US and A navy, to a beach-buggy accident. when i write, i write honey -        *** e - Atilla styled liquorice -   lee co reesh - not liquidated rice - ghosts of latin almost everywhere; quadruple that. convene and converse - contrary             collective. some say this might as well be the famous goldberg sardines; when i write, i write honey, i write: honey honey honey...       will you be my Duracell bunny? honey, will you be my    ******** par excellance? i see... no, you won't be. the museum of Greek sculpture was vandalised!     guess what they took, the ****** fiendish crooks! with a wet splash of colour comes the cold marble artifice - a bit like the cool-mouth refrigerator of a woman during felatio... still don't know how she gets that gob down below room temperature.     (heresy input, never start a sentence with an)          and there you have it,                   writing, catering for abstractionism, just after he said: they're on a diet.
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50
The fearless ones are fanning out into the woods. Others are huddled in smartly constructed camouflaged blinds. These self styled eco-warriors brave the cold and the discomforts of inclement weather. They keep a watchful eye over the stale remains of Dunkin Donuts, bagels and bacon grease they cleverly scattered outside their deadly bivouac. These bold ones eagerly finger the barrels of their high powered rifles, palming the smooth wooden stocks with warm naked hands. They itch to squeeze the trigger but discipline and fortitude inform the vigilance of these sentinels of sustainability. They philosophically muse about restorative balance and the paradox of killing in order to survive. Another day has broken over the New Jersey Highlands. The hunt for bear is on. Let the mammalian cleansing begin. jbm Oakland 12/6/10 Music Suggestion: Radiohead, Hunting Bears
0
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
Mammalian Cleansing
The fearless ones are fanning out into the woods. Others are huddled in smartly constructed camouflaged blinds. These self styled eco-warriors brave the cold and the discomforts of inclement weather. They keep a watchful eye over the stale remains of Dunkin Donuts, bagels and bacon grease they cleverly scattered outside their deadly bivouac. These bold ones eagerly finger the barrels of their high powered rifles, palming the smooth wooden stocks with warm naked hands. They itch to squeeze the trigger but discipline and fortitude inform the vigilance of these sentinels of sustainability. They philosophically muse about restorative balance and the paradox of killing in order to survive. Another day has broken over the New Jersey Highlands. The hunt for bear is on. Let the mammalian cleansing begin. jbm Oakland 12/6/10 Music Suggestion: Radiohead, Hunting Bears
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46
Uniformed in creative black Marlboro scented Wonderstruck Deliberately Deliberate Random Pixie haired Angel eyed & brave Daring herself to be Enchantingly urbane Zeitgeisty Considerably Considered Aware Pale skinned Quaintly styled & risky A portfolio perfectionist Absorbing influences Ferociously Delicate Delicately Persuasive Scarlet lipped Crystal tipped & scared
0
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
paul-goring
Wonderstruck
Uniformed in creative black Marlboro scented Wonderstruck Deliberately Deliberate Random Pixie haired Angel eyed & brave Daring herself to be Enchantingly urbane Zeitgeisty Considerably Considered Aware Pale skinned Quaintly styled & risky A portfolio perfectionist Absorbing influences Ferociously Delicate Delicately Persuasive Scarlet lipped Crystal tipped & scared
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27
Our souls are patterns Intricately  woven  and  styled Unique in their colour  blends and hues Each  soul telling it's incredible tale In the sharp  curves  and  soft  dips Imprinted on their thin  vibrant  canvas. Carefully detailed without a stroke amiss These delicate fabricated masterpieces Could rip in hands too careless to admire The aesthetic beauty of the canvas In areas magnificently simple or blank.
0
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
the-silent-catastrophe
The Soul's Canvas
Our souls are patterns Intricately  woven  and  styled Unique in their colour  blends and hues Each  soul telling it's incredible tale In the sharp  curves  and  soft  dips Imprinted on their thin  vibrant  canvas. Carefully detailed without a stroke amiss These delicate fabricated masterpieces Could rip in hands too careless to admire The aesthetic beauty of the canvas In areas magnificently simple or blank.
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11
Nag, nagging, Finger wagging, Shoulders sagging, Victim slagging. Oh beration, Flagellation, Irritating Castigation. Cutting hemlock, On her chopping block, Innuendoes Spawning ad hoc. Super-intending, Condescending, Never ending, Insult fending. Pointless rounds Of empty double-talk, Wife, your name is Self-styled wise hawk.
0
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
david-r
Ode to Trouble 'n Strife
Nag, nagging, Finger wagging, Shoulders sagging, Victim slagging. Oh beration, Flagellation, Irritating Castigation. Cutting hemlock, On her chopping block, Innuendoes Spawning ad hoc. Super-intending, Condescending, Never ending, Insult fending. Pointless rounds Of empty double-talk, Wife, your name is Self-styled wise hawk.
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20
Reading the other day, an article about some, Renowned fellow's notion, On the study of "Human, Productive Locomotion". A reputed Authorty, of "Time Management", His main proclivity being, The belief in his increasing, Other peoples productivity. Modulating their all too, common Human tendency, For naturally wasting time, and non productive energy. Him asserting himself to be, a self styled know it all, Bonafied Expert in Efficiency. Now I can see, How it might be, That this type of study, Offers some relevancy, For the Barons of Industry, What with them regulating, The flow, While streamlining, and furthering the advance, of all things, relating to commerce. A purely Scientific belief, For the primary benefit, Of the Time Clocks sake, And all those Bosse's Emotional financial betterment. But what on earth, did that have to do, with an old retired, fool like me?   What matter that, I merely sit and think, for hours at a time. Read the paper, or a book, Computer chat, or cook? Putter in my garden, Or gratefully just stare, at big billowing clouds, or rainbows in the air. Or perhaps I choose, to hug my wife, Or chase my Grand Kids up a tree, Maybe grab a nap, Or even take a *** Pet my dog, Or have a Beer. Watch the Tube, a little bit, Or congregate to meditate, with a convivial group of friends. Maybe take a walk, Down by the river. Get out my old, Bow and Quiver. Wash my car, Cut some grass, Go to my writing class. Slip on down, to the " Red Dog Saloon" Where I'll promenade, A little Texas Two Step. Come home in time, To unwind and, watch some David Letterman. What's efficient, and what is not? Clearly, that interpretation, Is completely up to me. No Efficiency Expert needed.
0
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
stephen-e-yocum
Efficiency
Reading the other day, an article about some, Renowned fellow's notion, On the study of "Human, Productive Locomotion". A reputed Authorty, of "Time Management", His main proclivity being, The belief in his increasing, Other peoples productivity. Modulating their all too, common Human tendency, For naturally wasting time, and non productive energy. Him asserting himself to be, a self styled know it all, Bonafied Expert in Efficiency. Now I can see, How it might be, That this type of study, Offers some relevancy, For the Barons of Industry, What with them regulating, The flow, While streamlining, and furthering the advance, of all things, relating to commerce. A purely Scientific belief, For the primary benefit, Of the Time Clocks sake, And all those Bosse's Emotional financial betterment. But what on earth, did that have to do, with an old retired, fool like me?   What matter that, I merely sit and think, for hours at a time. Read the paper, or a book, Computer chat, or cook? Putter in my garden, Or gratefully just stare, at big billowing clouds, or rainbows in the air. Or perhaps I choose, to hug my wife, Or chase my Grand Kids up a tree, Maybe grab a nap, Or even take a *** Pet my dog, Or have a Beer. Watch the Tube, a little bit, Or congregate to meditate, with a convivial group of friends. Maybe take a walk, Down by the river. Get out my old, Bow and Quiver. Wash my car, Cut some grass, Go to my writing class. Slip on down, to the " Red Dog Saloon" Where I'll promenade, A little Texas Two Step. Come home in time, To unwind and, watch some David Letterman. What's efficient, and what is not? Clearly, that interpretation, Is completely up to me. No Efficiency Expert needed.
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77
What is he buzzing in my ears? “Now that I come to die, Do I view the world as a vale of tears?” Ah, reverend sir, not I! What I viewed there once, what I view again Where the physic bottles stand On the table’s edge,—is a suburb lane, With a wall to my bedside hand. That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, From a house you could descry O’er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue Or green to a healthy eye? To mine, it serves for the old June weather Blue above lane and wall; And that farthest bottle labelled “Ether” Is the house o’ertopping all. At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, There watched for me, one June, A girl; I know, sir, it’s improper, My poor mind’s out of tune. Only, there was a way… you crept Close by the side, to dodge Eyes in the house, two eyes except: They styled their house “The Lodge”. What right had a lounger up their lane? But, by creeping very close, With the good wall’s help,—their eyes might strain And stretch themselves to Oes, Yet never catch her and me together, As she left the attic, there, By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether”, And stole from stair to stair, And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, We loved, sir—used to meet: How sad and bad and mad it was— But then, how it was sweet!
0
2.4k
Robert Browning
Confessions
What is he buzzing in my ears? “Now that I come to die, Do I view the world as a vale of tears?” Ah, reverend sir, not I! What I viewed there once, what I view again Where the physic bottles stand On the table’s edge,—is a suburb lane, With a wall to my bedside hand. That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, From a house you could descry O’er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue Or green to a healthy eye? To mine, it serves for the old June weather Blue above lane and wall; And that farthest bottle labelled “Ether” Is the house o’ertopping all. At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, There watched for me, one June, A girl; I know, sir, it’s improper, My poor mind’s out of tune. Only, there was a way… you crept Close by the side, to dodge Eyes in the house, two eyes except: They styled their house “The Lodge”. What right had a lounger up their lane? But, by creeping very close, With the good wall’s help,—their eyes might strain And stretch themselves to Oes, Yet never catch her and me together, As she left the attic, there, By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether”, And stole from stair to stair, And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, We loved, sir—used to meet: How sad and bad and mad it was— But then, how it was sweet!
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36
Ten years old again, In a tree ten feet high again, In scuffed shorts with tangled hair, And with the boys I longed to be. Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills, Boredom and constraint personified, Stare up in incredulity As I heave myself over mossy branches. “Girls don’t climb trees.” I do. I roll in mud, play racing games, Never brush my hair. “You’d be pretty if only you tried.” You’d feel alive if only you tried. The wind on my bare arms, Dirt beneath fingernails, Scrapes on my shins Red and out of place Like smudged lipstick On children’s faces. I’m not you. I’m me. Boxes serve to keep us in, Deliver us neatly packaged To a society which cannot cope With fluidity, Individuality, Uncertainty. Boo! She says those two misguided words: “Make over”. Impossible. One cannot start afresh. This is the result of every waking moment, Of every word heard and spoken, Each memory joyous and painful, A piece of art nineteen years in the making. Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise. Yet curiosity is my mistress. She leads me to boundaries I never knew existed. Up goliath trees, Into foreign beds, To the brink of reality In mind-bending worlds Of parallels. Like a mannequin, devoid of identity I give my image to you And you place yours jarringly Onto my reticent body. The obliging cheers At my transformation Into an eloquent femininity Feel hollow and worthless. I have done nothing of merit. I totter like a toddler Uncomfortable in my own skin. I’m on stage, an act, A project. Not a person. How bizarre it feels To wear a stranger’s façade Of dresses and frills, When you know you belong To a different world Of dirt, and treetops, And freedom.
0
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
grace-tahiti
As styled by my antithesis
Ten years old again, In a tree ten feet high again, In scuffed shorts with tangled hair, And with the boys I longed to be. Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills, Boredom and constraint personified, Stare up in incredulity As I heave myself over mossy branches. “Girls don’t climb trees.” I do. I roll in mud, play racing games, Never brush my hair. “You’d be pretty if only you tried.” You’d feel alive if only you tried. The wind on my bare arms, Dirt beneath fingernails, Scrapes on my shins Red and out of place Like smudged lipstick On children’s faces. I’m not you. I’m me. Boxes serve to keep us in, Deliver us neatly packaged To a society which cannot cope With fluidity, Individuality, Uncertainty. Boo! She says those two misguided words: “Make over”. Impossible. One cannot start afresh. This is the result of every waking moment, Of every word heard and spoken, Each memory joyous and painful, A piece of art nineteen years in the making. Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise. Yet curiosity is my mistress. She leads me to boundaries I never knew existed. Up goliath trees, Into foreign beds, To the brink of reality In mind-bending worlds Of parallels. Like a mannequin, devoid of identity I give my image to you And you place yours jarringly Onto my reticent body. The obliging cheers At my transformation Into an eloquent femininity Feel hollow and worthless. I have done nothing of merit. I totter like a toddler Uncomfortable in my own skin. I’m on stage, an act, A project. Not a person. How bizarre it feels To wear a stranger’s façade Of dresses and frills, When you know you belong To a different world Of dirt, and treetops, And freedom.
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63
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope. Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope - She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope, And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope - The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope. Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire: “The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire. Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require; Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar, Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire. Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her - Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire; Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.” Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene. And now she’s dead, the rumours spread:  “her age? a sweet 16, With child, ***** her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.” A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes, In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens; And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens. Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod “In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod, Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade - “She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god. Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire, But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir: “The clueless search within the church to find what they desire - Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier” And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
0
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
terry-oleary
A Pregnant Lass
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope. Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope - She casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope, And stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope - The stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope. Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire: “The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire. Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire Where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require; Where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar, Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire. Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her - Whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire; Though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.” Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene. And now she’s dead, the rumours spread:  “her age? a sweet 16, With child, ***** her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.” A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes, In limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens; And all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines Which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens. Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod “In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod, Neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade - “She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god. Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire, But Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir: “The clueless search within the church to find what they desire - Beyond the nave, a gravelled grave, the final Rectifier” And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
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30
I remember the first time I saw you. You had this light gray shirt on and your dark brown hair was styled to the side. You wanna know a secret? Gray looks exquisite on you. You have these dark brown eyes and freckles that adorn your cheeks. You know, I never even knew that I liked freckles until I met you. I remember the first time I talked to you. You're voice was the right kind of deep. It wasn't too high or too deep. It was just perfect. I remember the first time I hugged you. Your long arms wrapped around my small figure, and for those few seconds, everything felt complete. I remember the first time you called me pretty. For just a second, in that moment in time, I actually believed it.
0
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
acrylic-stars
Memories.
I remember the first time I saw you. You had this light gray shirt on and your dark brown hair was styled to the side. You wanna know a secret? Gray looks exquisite on you. You have these dark brown eyes and freckles that adorn your cheeks. You know, I never even knew that I liked freckles until I met you. I remember the first time I talked to you. You're voice was the right kind of deep. It wasn't too high or too deep. It was just perfect. I remember the first time I hugged you. Your long arms wrapped around my small figure, and for those few seconds, everything felt complete. I remember the first time you called me pretty. For just a second, in that moment in time, I actually believed it.
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15
she waited discreetly checked the time continued to wait patiently and impatiently flashing a smile at what felt like appropriate moments a stunted laugh or an "oh" "really" or "yeah" if she felt she'd been wordlessly quiet for too long hours had been lost to the smallest of talk the bane of real conversation of truly meeting a person all that effort of getting ready the makeup meticulously applied the hair styled and restyled the outfit chosen then doubted then changed to be put on again all of that for this
0
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 10:02 AM UTC
MeanderingWords
amour propre
she waited discreetly checked the time continued to wait patiently and impatiently flashing a smile at what felt like appropriate moments a stunted laugh or an "oh" "really" or "yeah" if she felt she'd been wordlessly quiet for too long hours had been lost to the smallest of talk the bane of real conversation of truly meeting a person all that effort of getting ready the makeup meticulously applied the hair styled and restyled the outfit chosen then doubted then changed to be put on again all of that for this
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30