"wondrously" poems
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
17.5k
Consider Icarus, pasting those sticky wings on,
testing that strange little tug at his shoulder blade,
and think of that first flawless moment over the lawn
of the labyrinth. Think of the difference it made!
There below are the trees, as awkward as camels;
and here are the shocked starlings pumping past
and think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well.
Larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast
of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
Feel the fire at his neck and see how casually
he glances up and is caught, wondrously tunneling
into that hot eye. Who cares that he fell back to the sea?
See him acclaiming the sun and come plunging down
while his sensible daddy goes straight into town.
13.3k
I feel a simple joy
As I look upon the hills
The kind that uplifts my heart
Without the skiing thrills.
The trees look their best
All dressed in multi-coloured hues
And stretch for miles around
Against skies of brightest blues.
And as I watch the sun,
Rise from the other side;
I see life stirring out,
From where at night it hides.
The sky gets filled with colour:
To a warm tangerine-orange glow;
And my mind is filled with awe,
At this wondrously delightful show.
Some birds have started
Singing their happy whistling tunes;
And will continue with their songs,
Till its way past noon.
There are some that have started
Before the day broke into dawn,
And unite with the melodies
Of those who start later in the morn.
And these very merry sounds
So full of happy cheer
Makes the state of Kashmir,
Our very prized frontier.
The sounds are echoed far and wide
On this mountainous terrain
Over hills and through valleys
They reach below to the plains.
At night it gets all quiet,
Except for the babbling brook
And the occasional hoot of the owl
That startles me from my book.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes
One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace
In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge
A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin
Over and across the bed
Released from my grip
Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist
Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers
For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs
Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar
Slow let go of her feathers tangled
In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose
Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose
The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints
In a mechanical motion
Hair pulling emotion
Triggers upward
her chest and chin
Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent
When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget
She takes me in invest
I take her in continuous shooting
All the unfastened
unclothed
Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
From And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. Copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 2:39 AM UTC
On a green leaf
For frogs
Illuminated by the surface under
There she sits on
A part
A piece I looked as a picture
Dazing wondrously and scouring with pairs
My sandals my feet my hands
All my fingers and nails
My ears
My toes of ten
and legs
Knees and my shoulders
The missing piece
or so i thought under
The afterthought
Full of doubters
For the plants grew all tall
None could be any taller
Dazzling danglers
A field under the stars.
Girly willed as am I
Which could not seem possible
Acceptance aches
Belief breaks
Even the words I speak, write or sing,
(Shall I
Hear it...)
over there it only echos
against the busy chatter and travels back home
Clogs ********
Reminding me that a life can be extinguished with mere
disbelief.
Disbelief and ignorance another pair...
Girly willed as I am
Nodding behind books
Fiction, fiction, fiction
They neigh
So here I go...
Thankful prayer as it did happen to us..
And all of it did
That it was I who did it.
Fuels of her pair
by flying passion and wild innocence
Now...
A human being
Limitless like the others
Why don't they not see? The rest, the stops,
The same scene, there is exactly the same scene...of falls.
If they just went out and did it, for a stretch and a walk,
Just grow out of leaves, be the branches printed of feathery crease
Because I am girly willed
Golden meadows lost to become treasure.
Fearless of rags she is as I am,
Laying afloat of the clouds, linen skies, seas and drifting through the weightless sand
Fearless forever.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 9:25 PM UTC
Those sometimes
those moments of time….
I’ve Had My Times.
I’ve had my times….
times of feeling loss, pain, hurt
times of wanting to run, to leave
to go far away where nobody knows me…
there was a time when i was carefree, loving life
and in one moment,
in one little moment, it was gone.
i’ve been beaten down, i’ve had my innocents ripped away
[fifteen-year abusive marriage] ***** at sixteen]
i’ve cried a river or maybe it’s been an ocean of tears….
[pain consumed my life for many years]
i’ve felt the hand of death too many times
my soul has bled, my heart….. has known much pain
i’ve looked through windows of dark blue
seen streaks of red…
pondered black holes…
have had days of staying in bed…
sometimes i’ve wanted the world to just go
leave me behind
let me be, let me die….
BUT……
I’ve had those moments of time when….
i’ve held new life in my hands
heard the beauty of a newborns cry
i’ve seen the beauty of an ocean sunset
gazed wondrously at sea spirits’ dancing on the water
i’ve breathed deeply in the fresh mountain air
felt the softness of a breeze
like gentle fingers moving through my hair
i’ve seen the old find new love
an amazing magical sight to see…
i’ve watched my children build beautiful lives
not always perfect but, full of hopes and dreams.
i’ve learned to give through my pain
i’ve seen and felt passion
i’ve walked through fire
and found true beauty on the other side.
i look for beauty every day, even when it’s hard to do
i let love flow to every part me
giving the best to you.
i let it consume me because falling into the depths
of the demons of my past, would destroy
that part of my soul i have fought so hard to get back
to keep, so i let love, passion, and beauty consume me.
And I Forever Will…..
~
A sweet release we give our heart
from pain of past that tore apart,
relief that only one can find
when hearts we let, become unconfined
to leave behind those stormy skies
letting self-love baptize…
~
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
I would like to be
like glass
Beautifully touched
with a searing kiss, and
Wondrously shaped
into what
I could be
but there is also
A strange splendour
in the salt
That was the ocean,
kissed too hard by the Sun
and what about
The tide that always comes back
to kiss the shore
No matter how far
they separate?
I'm not sure if it's
beautiful, or pitiful
For the tide seems to
love the shore so much –
But what about the shore?
does it wish, with all its being,
That it could be with
the tide forever?
Or does it long
for those moments of peace
Without the tide
(to be alone?)
But
the tide
Always
comes back
Let's not forget about the Sun:
does it wish to come down and play
Or does it wish that
they would take their problems
And go away?
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
i like seeing people when they're sleepy.
completely real
unfiltered humans,
yawning in their baggy nightclothes,
worn blankets wrapped like shawls,
and soft smiles
as they claim they aren't exhausted,
no,
their eyes are just tired.
their low mumbling gives them away every time, though.
people are wondrously beautiful in a
natural, peaceful state.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
Vanilla vowels
and creamy colored consonants
Naughty or nutty nouns
of almonds, apples, apricots
Aphrodisiac adjectives
and very berry adverbs
Passion fruit phrases
pirouette like peaches in thought
A pomegranate patter
that pronounces a pronoun
Or perhaps in veiled vines
velvet verbs purr
Wondrously whipped
words of love
Salacious sentences
with strawberry stirred
A mellowed musk melon
of a metaphor
A salubrious simile
sits like a sapote crown
Amorous alliterative adventures
with romance and raisins
An ooh la la of orange oomph
onomatopoeic sounds
An orchard of the alphabets
in a fruity potpourri of speech
A bearish pearish play and
plum pun on words
The language of love
written with love
In this hash mash
bonhomie
Valentine verse
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
His hand twisted the two wires,
and the engine wondrously fired.
I yelled and cried when I broke my arm
he easily wrapped it without alarm.
Sorry son, I can’t come to your game,
the overtime list had my name.
Boy, there’s gonna be a delay,
my big project is due today.
Your dad went out of town to speak,
can’t play pitch and catch this week.
He picked up the phone and he heard me say:
“Daddy, the cops wanna take me away.”
Tonight your dad’ll deposit his check
then we can fix the car you wrecked.
---------------
Thank you Daddy for all you’ve done
“Don’t thank me, your mama raised you, son.“
I regularly tear up with both sadness and joy
seeing a daddy squatting, listening to his boy.
Father-son ties
mix long lows and splendid highs.
Yes, there are tears and yearning
for more than his earnings.
But now I see how my dad’s hand
protected and provided,
how he taught me to take a stand,
and showed me how to be a man.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 10:54 PM UTC
born 1900
when Austria was still a monarchy
that did not know
it was approaching its end
growing up as the daughter
of the mayor of a little district town
big fish in a small pond
educated accordingly
as a ‘higher daughter’
be a home decorator
do needlework
be a gourmet cook
play the piano
be a respectable member
of the community and the parish
when she turned 18
after the end of world war I
the social order for which she had been prepared
simply disappeared
her father became a disillusioned monarchist
the town’s republicans elected a new mayor
she married a railway engineer
who left her after her daughter
my mother
was born
she managed to survive world war II
as a single mother
watched her daughter
fall in love with, at Christmas 1946,
and marry in April 1947
a guy who had just escaped
from a Soviet POW camp
looked like a walking skeleton
my father
AND
was the son of a communist
who had survived world war I
as a POW in Siberia
strange bedfellows
they used to play cards together
once a week
with great gusto
class warfare
morphed into social entertainment
both my parents were working
grandmother led the household
on the side did bookkeeping for local businesses
to bring in some money
practically raised me and my brother
cared for us when we were sick
taught me to play the piano
was always afraid we would not get
enough to eat
for a while, as a little child,
I slept in the same room with her
and learned that she had
a wondrously melodious snore
going over an octave & some such
when, after grade school,
I had to leave at 5.45 am
to catch the train
pulled by a sturdy steam engine
that took me to the high school
50km down the road
she was concerned when I
rushing out the door
just grabbed parts of the breakfast
she had so lovingly prepared
when I left home for university
she was not happy
when I went to the USA for a whole year
she was disconsolate
she did enjoy her great-grandkids
when they visited, though
too much distance for too long
from the place of her birth
made her uncomfortable
in her later years
she needed a familiar place
that came with its familiar things
to do and know
she lived to be 87
I saw her last
after a second stroke
had mostly incapacitated her
a tiny woman
curled up
waiting to leave us
for a world that finally might heal
the pain and disappointment
she had so bravely mastered
throughout her life
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
There is a certain art,
not the cliché form,
of such dalliance divine,
The forge of opening a woman,
Fully, to see the beautiful creation of Eden
It is not the opening of legs,
nor the parting of thighs,
such is just a middle,
a jumping point,
the truistic beginning
The delicious devouring starts
first at the mouth
where the ****** first builds
in salivating lip smacking nibbles
burning through the veins
opening the gate
breaching the uncertainty
of submitting to that wanting, always,
for someone to know
where to touch
where to lick
where to urge flesh alive
then it inches, in Picasso brushes
along the flesh,
(breast, waist, hips,)
where fingers and tongue find a certain rhythm
causing the body to sing, without thought
the song of origins
As it opens the strained passage, naturally,
wet with strange desire
curious, needing redemption
for all the lonely hours of denial
of wanting someone
to taste, smell, touch the ache away
And you will lick first the wounds;
the hurtful lashing of old lovers,
then you will be surprised
how easily she dissolves
fallen against your mouth
as you lick the silky wings
**** them between your lips
tongue the opening
getting inside enough to taste
the rouged flower, the Van Gogh surprise
bloomimg, simply, magnificently, against the lap of your tongue
only to feel, so wondrously,
her surrender, quivering,
warm against your mouth
And she will lay, breathless, trembling
moaning your name,
so grateful, so thankful
you took time with tongue and patience
to make her feel alive
To make her feel like a woman
To make her feel as if she were just birthed into this world
To be made exclusive by your worship of all she is....
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 6:29 AM UTC
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. By maya angelou
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
"I want to taste the literature
Within you
Let me show you how to be free...
Your mind is the most beautiful combination of
McEwan sprinkled with a little Palahniuk, throw in some James
It is **** to me the way your feet stay on the ground,
No matter how high they lift you up.
Sometimes I watch you while you read
And I wonder what could possibly be
Slayed across that page so wondrously
As to grant the room with the parting
Of your lips..."
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Time stopped. I had no bearing as to who, where, or what I was. All that was in my presence was the high, rolling desert painted orange with that odd sand-mud that he called “Geonosian rock;” his ebbing backpack being pulled from his shoulder, just like the ocean tide; his canteen bottle, lidless, slipping out of the rear pocket and whetting the sand with the boy’s quickly diminishing water supply; and the boy, Davy, being torn helplessly from safety by the cool, malevolent hands of gravity, and into the crevasse.
Reaching out desperately for the boy’s damp, warm hands, I grab a hold just in time—to consciousness, as he plummets and I stare wondrously; dumbfounded by my own ineptness in rational thinking. the boy is gone. Davy, my own stepson, my ******* child whom I would do anything for to prove my worth to his mother, Mary, who was the token to happiness with a new family, was ripped from my grasp, and eaten by the New Mexican terrain. So I delved after him.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
I don't have butterflies fluttering about my tummy.
It's more like
a large mass of dead butterflies
rolling around,
smacking and tearing my stomach walls.
The butterflies start out happy and well,
flitting about, jostling merrily,
wings glimmering, flying wondrously.
Then,
they lose their energy,
collapse and die,
Their fragile bodies crumpling
like bits of sticks
as each leg and antennae snaps off and falls
to the bottom.
They decay and collect
as more and more butterflies give up,
give in, and drop.
I am left with nothing but
this heaving mess of dead insects in my stomach.
I feel sick.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC
I kissed those lips so many times,
I held you as you caressed me to your will,
heat's rising between the two of us
& I'm becoming intoxicated
by your lustful glares-
As you stare deep into my eyes
while you deviously - lavishly
lick & **** betwixt my legs...
Pulsations consuming my very thoughts
I was to be the one to ******
once I finished my seductive belly dance...
You've surpassed me - grabbing
my dancers gear,
ripping fabric as you
feverishly kissed my gaping- shocked
"wide open" mouth.
Sweet ecstasy's taking
over every part of my being.
Your tantalizing tongue
teasing in and out
of me as I spread wider for you.....
I rant the silence with lustful
passionate screams as wave after
seductive waves
pulsate through me all the way to my toes.
I'm hurting in a good way as you climb up over me
slowly so wondrously slow
you enter me,
moving deeper
ummm
deeeeeperrrr.....
I feel Oh
YESSSS...............
I come wake
sadly it's only
a dream!
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 10:22 AM UTC
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Catatonic inscriptions etches through my textile discernment
Insidious cycles of turmoil encased within a festering distress
Uncertainty obscures my comfort into a chaotic complacency
Transforming the subtle movement of thought and bewilderment
Through the re-occurring sequences of paranoia and my uneasy psychosis
Haunting the whole of this psyche and the mental state I've come to fancy
A tell-tale apprehension of merriment and contentment may be a dismal reality
All the while being obsessed with the unfavorable outcomes I conjure within
But, I can't get enough of the disarray that breeds within my frail skull
So distant from what I feel in the ecstasy of my self-selected normality
The meek proposal of sanity has little to hold against these crooked grins
As this chaotic thought process leaves rationality as a vague ideal to null
Expansive introspection has no limit to what is perceived as validity
And, to be enveloped in the ambiguity and delusion of fact is so enticing
We all know that we've all come to recognize the fabrication of our own truth
The futile attempts to obtain an immaculate conviction in pure solidity
Is so wondrously perfunctory and constant as the life that i'm living
That I dread the day of departure from this hysteric observance of aging youth
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
The horse and cart slowly meander along the village path, while smoke arises from the depths of the forest.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and jugs of beer abound whilst the curvy buttocks of the wanton ***** are groped in medieval lust.
Let us engage in stories of superstition around the fire tonight, as its sparks break the eerie silence of olde English folklore.
Look at the children, as they stare wondrously with open mouths before bedtime. The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC