"winsome" poems
Lady of Silence
from the winsome cage of
thy body
rose
through the sensible
night
a
quick bird
(tenderly upon
the dark’s prodigious face
thy
voice
scattering perfume-gifted
wings
suddenly escorts
with feet
sun-sheer
the smarting beauty of dawn)
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Faces painted with colors that make girl's skin pop out.
Eyes large and done up with circles around them
Coverup hiding the blemishes that grew out of stress and fear
Legs shaved and exposed under the beautiful gowns
Smiles grow on their faces when they see their date; dashing in suits and winsome smiles.
Small flower pins added to their beautiful dresses
The night is ready.
Legs spin around and around as they twirl, smiles in motions and hearts race.
Sweat lingers down their faces as their laughs grow more.
The night is ablaze.
Everyone is smiling.
But only one question lingers,
"May I have this dance?"
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of quietude
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~ Author Unknown
~~~~~~~~~~~
It rain heavily on the river in Kerala the next morning
I think it was a sign of things to come,
I remember our walks by the water
The warmth of the sun as it dampen your hair
this brought out your winsome boyish smile
as you playfully tossed a small pebble into the water
It became an instant Kodak moment for years to come:
We were so in love with nature that summer
I remember every moment how we held each other hands
Your loving touch, your kiss, your blue eyes
So trustworthy was I: Your lies were accumulating.
and my foolish heart was pumping harder and harder
Like a gallon of water in the desert heat: you made me fell in love with you
your love for me was like a battlefield and I were the unexpected enemy
I am still very fond of my captor, I smile from ear to ear- each time it rain heavily in Kerala
If you know your enemies and know yourself then you are on top of things:
Until death leaves a headache no one can heal: Quote:
And love no matter what: leaves lasting memories.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless
then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus
please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen
Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all
i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre
i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
The crash of the waves ,
the Stillness of the sand ,
Life at the Ocean is a contrast grand.
The depth of the sea ,
the high and low tides
The ocean gives positive vibes.
The school of vibrant fish
each with a distinct wave swish .
The bright , shining Sun ,
the cool Breeze over the Ocean.
The vastness of the aquamarine that nestle,
The diminutiveness of the cruising vessels.
Small ,thatched hutments under the tall green coconut grooves,
In tranquility here the day moves.
Smell the sea , feel the sky
A postcard perfect mixture ,
The beauty of the Ocean has a Winsome contrast picture !
© Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 12:49 PM UTC
When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grass
The little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,
They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;
And the sight of their white play among the grass
Is like a little robin’s song, winsome,
Or as two white butterflies settle in the cup of one flower
For a moment, then away with a flutter of wings.
I long for the baby to wander hither to me
Like a wind-shadow wandering over the water,
So that she can stand on my knee
With her little bare feet in my hands,
Cool like syringa buds,
Firm and silken like pink young peony flowers.
4.5k
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
You will not miss me
Oh you, she kills him every day
Being good is not hers style
She is grumpy
Cause money can't buy happiness is like the biggest lie ever and forever
Slow dancing in a burning room
Are you thinking about me?
Oh yes, everyday!
But you know, I'm bad
I'm falling in love everyday with every winsome stranger
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
I remember when I dreamed that boy
My body was shivering like a hurricane
I'm trying to live in the real world
That's why I love summer
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Morrissey whispers in my ear:
I was happy in the haze of drunken hour, but heaven knows I'm miserable now
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil
Lady gangsters, vixens and spies
Feeling pretty, staying young
He is my rosy, rosy, rosy boy
Trying to make my eyes look like a deep ocean
Atlantic blue eyeliner and party dress
He is my hero, hero, a mad hero
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
Oft, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl's shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.
A winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the 'big dark' brings no dread,
And a baby's boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.
A fearless little ghost it is;
Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
Shines a sun that never sets.
A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl's shrill call.
A thoughtful little ghost if is;
And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
Shine before those baby-eyes, -
Endless fields of dandelions,
Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.
A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father's shoulder laid,
Its head on mother's breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings its own soft lullaby.
Then those who feigned to sleep before,
Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower -
Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
'God bless our little ghost!'
3.5k
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
3.6k
Why can't I be as pretty as the little girl
that sits next to me at work, she seems
all long legs and golden skin,
20 long years younger
thin body poured into size 6 jeans
Why can't I be pretty like that?
I wish I was as pretty on the beach
next to the bikini clad lovelies
all long haired and impressive assets
Why can't I be like that?
I wish I was as pretty as my friend
sitting next to her on a barstool
crowded away from her, male backs
facing me, surrounding her, I'm a fool!
I wish I was pretty
or even attractive
or even winsome
or cute
or
or
or
I wish, I wish
Oh, how I wish
I could be an entree
even if I'm not
the main dish
or
or
The fish
caught on the hook
an acceptable catch
not to have the hook
ripped from my flesh
just to be thrown back
I wish I was pretty
I'm positive I was one day
Someone loved me once
and my children say
Mummy, you look so pretty
when I decide to make an effort
but no matter how hard I look
in the mirror
I just can't make their words fit!
I wish I was pretty
a beautiful disguise
I wish I was pretty
in my eyes
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?
Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?
Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.
I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,
but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.
Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.
Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning
nothing ever. I shall not want,
I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,
Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.
true? fair? goodwill? wait
if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?
from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,
then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.
From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,
George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,
thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.
Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so
many, many more.
Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.
I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,
winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
Tis a grand vocation
to be an inspiration
Tis a winsome aspiration
may be an oblation
May take some time
along with perspiration
Along with dedication
may come a solved equation
Tis a winsome aspiration
may come with some elation.
Tis a grand vocation
to be an inspiration.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 2:42 PM UTC
**To the girl with the alluring melanin...
skin the enticing & mouth-watering color of caramel
To the girl with the enigmatic mind,
subliminally affixed to mine**
ॐ
To the girl with the beautiful heartbeat
that coexists as one with mine.
To the girl with the winsome name
...my lips feel so much better when it's your name leaving.
To the girl with the mollifying voice,
your voice is the strongest tranquilizer I've ever encountered;
It apprehends all negativity I'm engulfed in
and brings me back to sanity again.
To the girl with the broken heart
shattered into a thousand pieces,
I'll spend 1,000 days putting each piece back together
and on the 1,001 day
you'll see that not only did I mend your heart
but I gave you remnants of mine.
To the girl who was at war with herself,
I've seen your battle scars.
To the girl who constantly goes back to war,
you are not alone and I won't ever allow you to be.
ॐ ॐ ॐ
**To the boy with the perfectly sculpted face...
if you were to ever leave, I'd spend forever recreating it's beauty.
To the boy with the beautifully structured mind,
which never fails to unravel every mystery within mine.**
ॐ
To the boy with the wavering heartbeat
that coexists as one with mine.
To the boy with the voice of a symphony of my favorite melody
that never fails to leaving a distinct sense of perfection in the air.
It scatters positivity throughout my body
reminding me of the purpose of my existence.
To the boy with the faltering heart
which never falters enough to give up on me.
And even if it did, I'd spend all my days
as a cardiovascular surgeon.
To the boy with the artistic fingers that paint with fire,
igniting every inch of my skin they lovingly skim over.
To the boy with the dark parallel lines freckled over his wrists,
reminding me of the heartache, and distress you once endured.
I'd spend every day of my life eradicating each piece
of pain-coated glass embedded in your heart.
You are not alone and I won't ever allow you to be.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
2.8k
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
frogs "croaking"
in front of me, in the reeds
crickets "chirping"
behind me, in the brush
countless coyotes "yelping"
from across the lake
bass, carp surfacing
under a yellow moon
unaware its shimmering shaft’s
a magnet to my eye
and more lullaby to me,
who can yet see spectral waves
but lost cherished vibrations--like birdsong,
winsome whispers--eons ago
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
“There you stood, in all your glory,
Feet apart”, begun the story,
“Flashing blade in hand you took,
Winsome smile, witty hook.
At the quick turn of trained wrist,
(there was no chance that you had missed)
The blade sunk deep inside a heart,
That had never known a dart,
Nor been under lock and key.”
Your own affection was in a box, within a box, within a box
Each one closed with many locks.
When my wound began to sting, I still declared you to be king
But water in my throat did rise, and once’n even reached my eyes
I shut my teeth and looked elsewhere, but none I found to give a care.
No one measured up to you, a stark contrast like gold and blue,
Even your long drawn-out sigh, your walk, your talk, friendly goodbye.
I tried to pull shank out myself, put my love upon a shelf
The blade was wet from dripping life, and slipped back in, that horrid knife!
After times of intense pain, I would swear: Not again!
And slowly start to draw out lance, to go a week with a chance,
But on Saturday I’d often fall, hear my name as you would call,
I would begin to wish again, for a very special friend.
Where do you keep the Key? Why won’t you give it to me?
A tool of gold, my fingers hold, softly place it in the hole
And as my nails dazzle in your glow, I turn the lock and find your soul.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.
Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks.
Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!
Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!"
Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?
Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age
When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE.
Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!
Five PASSE girls - Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!
2.5k
time steals up soft in autumn’s haze
through fallen leaves and frosted morn
no longer smiles through summer days
bears dreadful gaze of mercy shorn
scribes lines upon youth’s winsome face
and brings the ache of stiffened joint
gives halting stride and slower pace
age piled like leaves does thus anoint
yet in thine eye dwells springtide’s bloom
in ardor’s dance is lightened tread
warm voice dispels autumnal gloom
at gentle touch are decades fled
for love knows naught of count of days
let the years flow as they will
unclouded passion’s flames yet blaze
I shall be thy lover still
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 8:58 PM UTC
on a nudist beach
there was a man wearing shorts
they were yellow shorts
and a jaunty hat
which despite their cheerful airiness
the chipper summer colour,
he felt alone, down and shunned.
the mere thought of those dear shorts
invited des amigos and an invitation for tacos
a sombrero night he thought as he picked them out in the store.
but now
alone on the beach
he caught disdainful glares directed
at the winsome shorts
he had arrived at the beach so vivacious and jolly
but walking along,
the rough, hot sand blistering his feet,
he was
morose
forlorn
sorrowful
and wistful for those dreams
those empty shells.......
.............
............
............
sombrero
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
This morning will be a different one, for he will meet a girl
With an auburn eyes, a winsome smile and a hair that is curl
Strange she is, but in a beautiful kind of strange
The boy will stop and stare, will be lost in her haunting sad eyes
She will not notice, and will never knew, that cupid has
shot the boys young heart
The boy found a reason to go out every morning
To see her again, he was hoping
For her smile becomes the sun that brightens his day
He will sit from afar, and with an admiring eyes, just watch her
She paints, she reads, and sometimes plays with her dog's fur
He will silently watch and enjoy the beautiful scenario
It goes for almost a week
"I must be crazy, why do I stalk this chic?"
But he doesn't know the answer
All he know is, the girl brings peace to his heart
Her eyes and smiles are a piece of a pure art
and her laughs are a song to his ears
He could not explain it, watching her makes him happy
and sends a warm chill to his heart, very fancy
"I need to know her name"
The next day, the boy waited in vain
But the girl never came
"I'll wait again tomorrow"
It's been a week, but she never showed up again
In his chest a sadness and pain
Could not accept, she looked for the girl
He found out that the girl loves to paint
But the smell of the chemical will cause her to faint
That's why she sneaks out and do it once in a while
He found out that the girl loves reading
But her eyes failed her, every letters are dancing
That's why she sneaks out and pretends to read
He also found out that her hair was just a wig
And her red lipstick was to hide her pale lips
And finally he found out her name
With a sound of a breaking heart
He reads her name
On her graveyard
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Winsome bee at my bloom,
writhing and splaying, he gathes my perfumes,
He stayed and he waited, I gave him my heed,
Oh winsome bee, you are my doom.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC