"trysts" poems
If you see the wonder of a fairytale
the midnight trysts of the snail
the laughter of the whale
the hammer being hit by the nail
The elephant afraid of the mouse
the cuckoo burgling a house
the old woman who lived in a shoe
the ghost who couldn’t say boo
The giraffe who hated the smell of his feet
the hyena who’s laughter was like a drum beat
the ant-eater who didn’t eat ants
the day Donald Duck forgot his pants
These thoughts made me giggle
I hope it gave a funny bone a tickle
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
*Endearing is the moon tonight
and through its silver glow,
She whispers secrets of the things
that only she could know.
Of lover's trysts on summer nights
of kisses ‘neath her smile,
Of secret murmurs begging "friends"
to stay a little while.
Of sweet caresses cherished
in the fog of memories,
Of moonlit walks in arbors sweet
'neath swaying groves of trees,
Of shadows cast by clasping hands
of hearts that feel desire,
and unrequited love
that feels like death
from friendly fire.
Of promises in passion made,
with no chance to fulfill,
Of loneliness, of happiness,
of parting's bitter pill,
She whispers of the romance,
of the love that's hot and cold,
Like love that loses passion
but sustains us getting old.
She passes in the evening sky
and frolics with the stars,
And leaves this mortal on the porch
to mend life’s wounded scars.
Yet, never does she realize,
the secrets that she'd shared,
Are common knowledge
here on earth,
where love has all ensnared.*
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
When it comes to strong form
When angles are always precisely norm
Grows an alluring mathematically touched creation
Inspired by pure calculated scientific divination
Such an alluring symmetry to behold
Causing the circle’s envy to unfold
For this angled beauty’s strength enforced
Its sold core mass equally divorced
It’s rigid looks captivating us all
Luring architects to its enchanting call
Ancient Greek hands carving stone shrines
Securing their beauty for all times
Its slight outer angles enduringly tease
Yearning us to brush with ease
Who came up with such design?
Was it indeed a gift divine?
However it did come to be
We all can enjoy with glee
Well all but rectangle and square
As they sulk with envious glare
Murmuring curses over hexagon’s slight curve
Endlessly plotting to mathematicians they serve
Scheme upon scheme developed to suppress
The sheer allure designed to impress
Despite all this the hexagon persists
Engaging us all in mathematical trysts
Never will we lose an eye
No matter how hard we try
For the beauty a hexagon reigns
Over the kingdom of geographical gains
Forget not what you see here
Our ancestors have made it clear
Line upon line attached in twine
Measured precisely from sips of wine
The hexagon is a wonder indeed
Allowing us our own mounted steed
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Forgetting about that uptight blight.
Emanate apathy
Unapologetically.
Cheers to you Baby Jesus,
I'm all jacked up on pink Moscato; by noon.
Without a clue of what to do
Retreat to a beach
For a gala beset by an erubescent sunset.
What marry monarchs,
All clinquant, in gold light
All turn to heathens, in the night.
Perpetually transfixed
By a curious mix of
Rhythmic eruptions & fevered delight
Like fairies & nymphs
Amidst the moon of misbehaving.
Wondering eyes are tantalized
You are luxurious, feral, **** boy personified.
I was mystified by the wild & eroticized by the style.
A Huckleberry Finn identical twin, ohhh but of course
— You had a Porsche.
But we were far from bonafide.
All is well,
Who really gives a **** about a relationship cuff…
I was inherently drawn to the effervescence, of your soul.
Together in disconnected bubbles
Like a glass of champagne,
Sparkling to the surface effortlessly.
Daytime friends and nighttime lovers;
Nympholepts in retrospect,
Carefully tip-toeing around
Blossoming curiously & compromising cantor.
Over winsome side-long looks
The burgundy hardtop drops down
Into my body & out of my mind
Tipsy daze were just foreplay
For the passionate midnight sexcapades.
A midsummer’s night moonlit dream
Manifested midst the trysts of Spring.
Every Sunday
Drinking champagne,
Not practicing self-restraint
Sneaking into private estates
Dive into the grotto pool.
Worshiping the Sun, not the saint.
My late night lover show me your wicked pagan birthright.
Two lonely hearts bonded over confessions in the dark.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Why poets are overcome by the need
To scatter words across the universe
Many wind-blown seeds.
To splash their sadness on paper
Paint black their rage,
A sea of raw emotion
Where melancholy rules as queen
I often wonder
If they ever desire to escape
From the fantasy worlds
Sometimes willingly created.
Relaying their loves, dreams, and trysts,
Oblivious to the reality
That in truth they don't exist
They are after all only a projection of light in the dark
Simple words of the poet.
The artist of thought.
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby 2/3/2016
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
In day's prime, in summer's sweet eyelids,
Two lives arc, their eyes struggling to break a stare, sharing trysts through dulciloquent exchange,
After the deep blue blossoming lake. To avenge time, we sought it and drove our pupils
Down through the bluff and the green trees, limping past the arenose and albicant sands
Into it's quivering- I must say.
Hey fancy. You make me smile regularly,
I need you to know, because I don't always say so,
but if I didn't read what you write about
your interactions with life,
I'd definitely be not the half that I am of alive.
So thank you, from the perfume of my heart,
and the plastic that is my legs,
the opossum hair that makes me who I am,
and the light of my malaise.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:30 AM UTC
Perhaps unrequited love
is so much better than this--
This love behind bolted doors
and peppered with midnight trysts.
Drunk with these stolen moments,
you will never know my pain.
I’m just your ***** secret;
Maybe I’ve no other name.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
It was a small bit of freedom
Stolen under the dark desert sky
It was counted out
Not by minutes or hours
But kernel by kernel
Of delicious forbidden fruit
Eaten slowly
Like a lover
Savoring every sweet drop
Nothing else existed
For the moment
But the wide open night
And sweet rough skinned fruit
Torn open bit by bit
Slowly anticipating every ruby orb
That would burst it’s sweet juice
In wet pleasure
The nights were hot and dry
The smell of dust
Still hanging like a veil
And it was it all was about the dust
That freedom giving dust
Not from the dry desert
But the dust left on the window sill
Tended in soft careful piles
Next to the bars
To be carefully packed back into place
So they could lie
Lie about the night
Lie about the fruit
And the forbidden trysts
Under the outstretched arms
Of the small twisted tree
But the rough red peels
Left carelessly strewn about
By small unwitting fingers
Eventually told the truth
That the bars wouldn’t
And they started counting the fruits
Every day and every morning
The bounty now left untouched
But the night was still there
With stars close enough to hold in your hand
The hot desert breeze gently breathing
And every moment
Free
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Oh, where the fair sun's light glistens the sand,
and the crystal waves of the sea so blue,
A paradise, caressed by nature grand,
my freedom, whom I have loved before you!
Its calm mountains of beauty incarnate
to a thousand fortunes I would relish!
Trysts with knowledge, ideas passionate,
with life, liberty, shall I not cherish?
But when you, oh darling of my vision,
are ****** to the hell of mundanity,
I cling to light that darkens my mission,
drowned in the abyss of iniquity!
Dreams, awakened and fulfilled at life's cost,
Memories, future of bliss, all is lost!
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
she reads meat
eyes in a meeting
persistent of the trysts of leather
her steady trap-door arose
in her deposition
the latitude of her nubile degrees
Procrastinates his step,
Subtly overdubbing the scrawny pallid ache
In the etch'd skin, her color-by-numbers comes undone.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
how can we know where lovers go
or when they take the notion
to stop the flow and try to slow
the rhythm of the ocean.
we cannot seek to reach this peak
or lift above that sea,
we are too weak to mug the meak
of their sincerity.
we are alone, together and free.
and here's some stream of thought (that just so happens to rhyme, kinda)...
loopy arousal.
lofty appraisals.
disabled and taken for granted.
in the eyes of the dead,
instead of the usual red,
we decided on green
to dress the scene.
the sound man listened.
the light man leered.
the chef was cooked.
i'm hooked.
heaved on to me like voyeurism
and sought like publishers.
distasteful? yes.
useful. yes.
knowledgeable? sometimes.
lurid trysts and poltergeists
expounding.
multiplication escapes me.
pen and paper **** me.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
an eerie song that sings of secret trysts,
of long lost love, of desolate despair
that climbs upon the ghostly midnight air,
where winter seas are bathed in cloudy mists.
and i am captivated by the cries
of melancholy winds and stormy waves
that sing around the lonely ocean caves
and drown the heavens with their lovelorn sighs.
a voice that whispered; "once i loved her so
that the wide sea could not keep us apart,
the sound you heard the beating of my heart,
or murmur of the tide, you'll never know."
as if the sea was haunted by a ghost,
who called my name along the weary coast.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger ******* Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
O Word of green and shafts of golden
sun; of nightly, silent silver moonlight;
and the strange songs of gentle winds!
O Time of dreams, and trysts, and
olden memories come to life! Sweet summer,
may I sing as thou, for every leaf
of thine is pregnant with music in the soft
winds, and every rose inspires the
tenderness of song. I yield myself to the
thousand enchantments of sky and
field and wood, and play again like a child
on the soft green of the earth.
And as the God of the universe has
made thee to bloom in tenderness, so also
may my heart be made to bloom again.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
If you see the wonder of a fairytale
the midnight trysts of the snail
the laughter of the whale
the hammer being hit by the nail
The elephant afraid of the mouse
the cuckoo burgling a house
the old woman who lived in a shoe
the ghost who couldn’t say boo
The giraffe who hated the smell of his feet
the hyena who’s laughter was like a drum beat
the ant-eater who didn’t eat ants
the day Donald Duck forgot his pants
These thoughts made me giggle
I hope it gave a funny bone a tickle
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
I've been caught up
Devouring book after book.
Words have become my drug,
Fables, fairytales, and fiction my high.
Lyrical portraits painted in black on white.
Flawed heroes and heroines,
Wise master elders,
And the love-to-hate villain,
Have become more familiar to me
Than a close friend or relative.
And when I turn the last page,
My heart breaks a little
With the thought that their story is done.
But in the next breath
I cheer up again
As I plan my next affair
Full of stolen glances,
Secret rendezvous,
Discreet touches,
And late night trysts
With a well-written work of literature.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
His life, he’d been frequently told,
Was a stepping stone to
Something better. His growing religious convictions
Taught him about the different levels
Of god.
The innocent child, sacrificial man, distant father,
Steadfast sister and mother.
It taught him not to lust after his pretty neighbours,
Man or woman, nor to daydream
Of unlikely trysts with all the inherent dangers
Involved but to expend his energies
In religious ecstasy instead
Agonising inwardly over the beatitude
And the internal landscape of the soul.
By the time he was forty, he reckoned
He’d got a raw deal. No money, no career,
No friends, just a lot of ****** prayers.
They put her coffin gently in
And he cried, watching it disappear
Unable to think of heaven.
He was not consoled now
By thoughts of
Infinite life.
The slow sounding of a repetitious tune
Amongst cloudy vistas of
Over egged benevolence.
He’d missed the boat, through
Worshipping too much. A rotund
Middle-aged man
With a sagging mind, brown teeth
And old fashioned clothes.
All he had now were his church
And his mother’s dying friends.
He threw dust over his mother’s grave
And walked softly away.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
Dreams of working with little objects,
but my fingers are grotesquely fat,
bloated with self worth.
Such frustration,
as the small metal ambiguity falls,
again
between my clutches to clang helplessly on the whitewash table below.
A growing discomfort that is oddly angled and
it’s hard to look away lest someone end up mangled.
Filled with the certainty of a dying man,
I race against the biological clock.
These clichés are sticking to me and
your black thoughts are wicking,
can't you see?
This task is meaningless,
teeming in seemingly endless trysts of error and visitation.
Your mask is bleeding from this,
streaming and adorned in nameless anger,
your own manifested creation.
So I stare with unyielding disquiet at your unhindered disdain,
and make elastic confessions of comparable pain.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
My moirai has cursed me for bumping into you on late,
albeit it is a curse,I texture it as a mot blessing,
as my experiences now shall be blossomed with our confluences,
and my fantasies shall emulate our trysts......
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Days like this, clouds twist
round languid trysts and linger
through each billow -
how a breath of smoke forms shadows
or a swarm of midges gather -
growing tangible as tuffets
of pubescent body hair.
If I had studied clouds
and all their undercurrent slip
streams, then my memories
might emulate
their dissipating shrouds.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
This is the tale, too often told
Of the idiots and the bums
And why those silly fools applaud
Whenever the apocalypse comes.
When things get good for common folk
Those in power get extremely worried.
They fear people will discover where lies
All the freedoms the rich people buried.
They were aware, while the populace isn’t
Of the changes they made in the laws;
That the elite put in place corruption
Where opportunity so recently was.
The poorly-named Conservatives
Quietly un-conserved the truth
In order to tie the hands of men
And proselytize our gullible youth.
They vilified and imprisoned those
Among the un-bribed journalists
And went right on stealing from us
And having their illicit trysts.
Those who knew they could not rule
Unless they made villains of heroes
Bought their way to power with
Wiith numbers and many zeroes.
The populace was fed huge lies
About how horribly poor we all were,
Implying we were no better off
Than cavemen wearing only fur.
They taught the stupid among us
All of the idiots and the bums,
That they had the only answers,
That they could reverse the sums.
The idiots are easy to understand
They are looking for some answers.
The bums sit back and let it happen
And never get their stuff together.
The bums decide everything is fine
Until they lose their jobs and houses
And then the *** and idiot both;
What to do? He whines and grouses.
Meanwhile even more of the wealth
That it would take to fix our land
Rotated even more back and forth
Between the same few hands.
This is what happens every time,
This is the cycle that repeats here
Defeating progress and smashing hope
Year after Conservative year.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
*the enfeebled voice spoke of hopelessness
the inflamed flesh told of a spirit subdued
shrunken and felled by a creeping weakness
her sightless eyes were a sign of approaching demise
yet she said she would see me in the morning
and next day under the winking sun i was at her mourning
keeping a promise made a long time ago under a cork tree
to sing about the beauty of a true heart that loved well
and how there was a place and a time for sundown trysts
in the world of articulate shadows beyond the endless blue
and there an enigmatic silhouette she waits in expectant vigil*
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
Like stars upon the faded rim
Flowing faster, much colder, and worn thin.
Every cold, enveloped word spoke much quieter than this,
Hidden thoughts kept buried with each kiss
Hesitation slewn atop meticulous counting
Of seconds, and minutes, and hours surmounting
Every single day that has passed
Since the very moment I saw you last
Like slim and slender finger wisps
That sings like smoke that burn the lists
That sleet like snow that summer does miss
That slide like tongues into our trysts
That scars like cuts upon our fists
That slips like hands and palms on wrists
Do all my ears and eyes feel this.
Dissonance in cold maurauding sleep,
Announce the world the queen's to keep.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
Bruised wrists
****** trysts
throbbing lips
thrusting hips
burning desire
***** on fire
What’s that noise?
another surprise
over the precipice
drowning in bliss
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
Just wait
Laughter
That presence within your catharsis
Jezebel
Jumpstart your
Heartache
Liberation
Fabricated Materialization
J... J…J…J…
Just wait.
Time will tell when
William Tell will attempt to shoot an arrow
through your heart.
If he misses,
you are doomed
to a life of solitude and faithless trysts
trust is a hit-or-miss.
If it pierces through,
you are condemned to a life attached
like a leech to
some being whose
too tight embraces
take your breath away.
Wait….just…
Listen.
The wind is blowing
sweeping you
off your feet.
You’re head-over-heals
in over your head
falling into a pit of
broken promises.
Only to rake them up again.
Just w….why?
Realizations that
****** should
be punished
even if its
metaphorical.
For hearts can die
and are just as hard
to resurrect
as burning stakes
which were once *****
Wait….
all hope is not lost
for loss cannot be
everlasting
unless…
Bill’s arrow was
tipped with
what is never blessed
that which makes
all mortals quell.
But one can never know
in certainty
until that day
occurs
Just witness….
til then
dear friend
my sustainer of life
I’ll feed you
elixirs to save you
from bleeding
out your memories.
For sewing you up,
is merely temporary.
I’ll force-feed you
vitamin D until you
agree to be blissful again
and I’ll be able to tell when
your artificial smile dresses your
sorrows
in brighter colors.
Justice wades
in deeper waters
but once you reach it
it’s worth all the effort
in the world.
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC