"woos" poems
I.
The moon sings the languid flower,
to bloom at midnight hour
Harmonious feast transpires -
luminescent choir
Petals mirror la hue de Luna,
but pale below her glow
Though the desert sweet aroma,
is fragrance plus photo
Neither causing nightly failure,
in idyllic charm
In fact, those powers are greater,
together than apart
II.
The moon a long gone distant rock,
yet pulls on ocean tops
Cereus lures with sweetest tricks,
and stings with countless licks
Battered holy asteroid face,
woos flawless solar gaze
And even though it causes mire,
lunar eclipses fire
The cactus thrives in driest sands,
and chokes in fertile lands
Alluring lonesome wanderers,
promising mere water
The lucid beauty bewilders,
as much as it can haunt
In fact, those powers are greater,
together than apart
III.
You, once my cereus and moon,
were drowned in my love well
Perhaps, I was this to you too,
though your hole I’d not delve
However, what was first velvet,
morphed into devil’s horns
Winter shed those thorns in my chest,
now spring gifts hope and more
The icy grips of each winter,
provides spring fuel to spark
In fact, those powers are greater,
together than apart
IV.
Although we've gone on our own ways,
I wouldn’t change the past
For each step was necessary,
to find true love at last
We were once greater together.
I’m now greater apart.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
22.2k
As dark clouds thunder on a grey day,
Resounding across the arid plains,
I hear the loud cries of a bird,
It cuts across the rhythmic drumming of the clouds,
He's quiet for a moment, then I hear him again.
Through the trees I see him,
Royal, an electrifying metallic blue,
A peacock, stunning, strutting,
Fanning his train of feathers,
Eyespots of majesty, stroked with mossy hues.
He dances in a flamboyant display,
In spot light, as lightening flames the sky above,
Nonchalant, a blue crested head turns with pride,
His ornate train, shimmering, beckoning, to and fro,
His moves, a courtship ritual of love.
His iridescent trail woos in style,
A life of its own in its opaline shades
Golden, blue, brown and green,
Colors of the earth, gloriously resplendent,
A gathered spectacle in his plumage.
As drops of rain touch the earth,
He is still high on the wings of romance,
His feet in motion,
His feathers spread for his mate,
Quivering, glimmering a love dance.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
For lust is a tightrope,
soldering fickle hearts, sewing passion.
Fade at its end,
or tumble into love.
Some hope woos smother,
contemplates the fall
To stir a velvet landing,
and dances slow.
She in her unbidden trance,
her golden hair littered,
sits in prayer, fidgets;
snuffed from the fall.
Forlorn, for an indulgent sliver.
Now lies a cold lover,
in her morphine bedlam.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
357
God is a distant—stately Lover—
Woos, as He states us—by His Son—
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship—
“Miles”, and “Priscilla”, were such an One—
But, lest the Soul—like fair “Priscilla”
Choose the Envoy—and spurn the Groom—
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness—
“Miles”, and “John Alden” were Synonym—
4.3k
Let the Dealer take to his Gambles spend
Such that his Boots would limit to arcade
Which two-fold bets cast odds on top descend
And his Service strikes without much delay
I meant the Italian you happened to wear
And strip for Happy Golgotha delight
You wanted Admirers in Cheerful bear
Then their Smiles came true for their ****** Sight
After all, Talk Show's a Norm-for-the-Woos
Which indeed supplements the Popular
Which you desired; And asked you turn loose
To be one of those Studs Spectacular.
Happy for you. Since your own Flesh at stake
As you are now Ripe; Your Best Rind you make.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
O BID the minstrel tune his harp,
And bid the minstrel sing;
And let it be a perfect strain
That round the hall shall ring:
A strain to throb in lady's heart,
To brim the warrior's soul,
As dew fills up the summer rose
And wine the lordly bowl!
O let the minstrel's voice ring clear,
His touch sweep gay and light;
Nor let his glittering tresses know
One streak of wintry white.
And let the light of ruddy June
Shine in his joyous eyes,
If he would wake the only strain
That never fully dies!
O what the strain that woos the knight
To turn from steed and lance,
The page to turn from hound and hawk,
The maid from lute and dance;
The potent strain, that nigh would draw
The hermit from his cave,
The dryad from the leafy oak,
The mermaid from the wave;
That almost might still charm the hawk
To drop the trembling dove?
O ruddy minstrel, tune thy harp,
And sing of Youthful Love!
2.9k
*As Moon comes
To Earth every night
To court her affection
In the presence
Of a million Stars
Yet oblivious of their stare
Only focused on his love
Scaling her in circles
Never tiring, ever following
In orbital woos...
So will I circle you my love,
Till you say yes...*
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
When you wake in your crib,
You, an inch of experience--
Vaulted about
With the wonder of darkness;
Wailing and striving
To reach from your feebleness
Something you feel
Will be good to and cherish you,
Something you know
And can rest upon blindly:
O, then a hand
(Your mother's, your mother's!)
By the fall of its fingers
All knowledge, all power to you,
Out of the dreary,
Discouraging strangenesses
Comes to and masters you,
Takes you, and lovingly
Woos you and soothes you
Back, as you cling to it,
Back to some comforting
Corner of sleep.
So you wake in your bed,
Having lived, having loved;
But the shadows are there,
And the world and its kingdoms
Incredibly faded;
And you group through the Terror
Above you and under
For the light, for the warmth,
The assurance of life;
But the blasts are ice-born,
And your heart is nigh burst
With the weight of the gloom
And the stress of your strangled
And desperate endeavour:
Sudden a hand--
Mother, O Mother!--
God at His best to you,
Out of the roaring,
Impossible silences,
Falls on and urges you,
Mightily, tenderly,
Forth, as you clutch at it,
Forth to the infinite
Peace of the Grave.
2.4k
She has a special Siren's song
Pastel paisley, passion's Dawn.
She's aloof, she takes on airs,
Wearing seashells in her hair.
Abalone, mother of pearl
Arms that take in all the world!
She Chuckles softly
with the birds
She speaks to stars
without a word.
She bids them run!
She bids them hide!
She tucks the mountains
to her side.
Then, whispering,
she turns to wink
The morning Sky
will blush to Pink!
Yes! Desert Thrashers
laugh out loud!
She's Tangled in
the pewter clouds!
She whistles low
her magic tune,
The dew soaked desert's
her perfume.
Though it's the Sun
she courts and woos
She entices all...
the morning muse.
Catherine jarvis
Write of Passage aka
SoulSurvivor
2018
Aug 20, 2022
Aug 20, 2022 at 6:06 PM UTC
Beside an ebbing northern sea
While stars awaken one by one,
We walk together, I and he.
He woos me with an easy grace
That proves him only half sincere;
A light smile flickers on his face.
To him ********** is an art,
And as a flutist plays a flute,
So does he play upon his heart
A music varied to his whim.
He has no use for love of mine,
He would not have me answer him.
To hide my eyes within the night
I watch the changeful lighthouse gleam
Alternately with red and white.
My laughter smites upon my ears,
So one who cries and wakes from sleep
Knows not it is himself he hears.
What if my voice should let him know
The mocking words were all a sham,
And lips that laugh could tremble so?
What if I lost the power to lie,
And he should only hear his name
In one low, broken cry?
2k
You mean if I don't go extinct,
I guess I'm free,
as free as anyone is in this world,
with Destiny glaring at me from her Window,
Her eyelids fluttering in anticipatory teases,
and yet to flirt with her is to invite Doom into your pocket,
Even if she does gaze the glance of her blessing on you,
your date with her is, ultimately, set
the supper is bitter, and her wine that which lulls in the sleep of the ages,
until thence, she changes tables, and woos another suitor.
we all must have that sour meal with her sitting quaintly across, smiling demurely, yet knowingly,
So, until the time comes to sit at her table, wrest free from her shackles the very smallest bits of will
tho it make her jealous, her envy 'tis thus of you still.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
I can't really say for sure if I ever knew true love, because I have never understood a clear definition of what it is. I see in the movies - guy meets girl, woos her, they fall in love & live happily ever after; I see family / friends seemingly in love but bickering, fighting, unfortunately sometimes never reconciling. I can truthfully say I have known many loves in its innumerable forms. I have opened my heart only to close it again due to fear, uncertainty, doubt or deceit. I have promised my undying love to not just a few, only to steal my heart back treacherously as if it would cause them no pain. How could it possibly - they lived successfully before they knew or loved me - yet, what if it did? and why am I so "numb" to that pain. Why don't I feel the sting of ripping my OWN heart out of my OWN chest and trampling it every time someone tries to love me? I don't want to be loved - because that leaves me vulnerable to getting hurt.
But I DO want to be loved - God only knows where I'll find it.
© 2012
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
In that field of green and yellow
He moves not but he knows you
A shield of reanimated rags and a hat of straw
Staked in the middle of whirling wheat land jigsaw
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
Sunken, rigged mask in funny hue
Birds flapping far from the voodoo
He moves not but he knows you
In petulant summers, in the aloof snow
He stays still, beholding every secret through
Beware the eyes of the scarecrow
The sandman woos the town into a sleepy slew—
Wood limbs brought to life, twitch in vile brew
He moves not but he knows you
There in that calm caverns an Orwellian show
Of deeper ends that only some gods know
Beware, beware the eyes of the scarecrows
They move not but they see you
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
It has kindled all by the force of its immeasurable depth
Leaving friendly feet lathered with foam
Never losing a single breath
On the sandy beaches
Where it roams
You can hear it speak in the sound of crashing joy
A thousand thoughts rushing your way
Endurance so alive and beautiful
In an accent understood
As displayed
A voice, which woos winged creatures to dip and dive
Bravely leave their mother’s side
Traces of murmurs of harm
All leave their hearts
As they glide
What wonderful treasures lie beneath this force I see
All those secrets vehemently call out to be heard
Time stands still in my fast running day
As I am charmed by this voice
Crashing out to me
I thrill at the hope of time never passing away again
To always, behold these sights and sounds
My friendly feet lathered in the foam
Of this immeasurable force
I have found
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
---
one day
when love fills up
on rain which is
scarlet hued
a flower
the
heart which
grows wild and is
never cut for the
table woos us
with the
same
fervor within
as a red rose or bird
of paradise lost in
the jungle or as
orchid bloom
burgeons
we
can know
this flower only as
the bleeding heart
all baby's breath
queen Anne's
lace and the
pure
daisy
all other flowers
listen to the music played
by the beauty of a heart
broken but yet strong
a bard who has the
key to your pale
forgotten
dream
♥
soulsurvivor
5/4/2015
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
With brain bashing into head cavity,
the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out
to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs
to evacuate before drowning.
"Quit clowning around in there and
save yourselves!"
The moody mistress creates her own hells:
congratulations!
Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed,
she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head
with taffy, thick like molasses,
cooking sugar in the kitchen with
the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth.
Dried up *** stains litter her couch
as she wakes up to turn the cushions
and search for loose change
to fill up her coin pouch.
"Ouch! Ouch!"
She calls out, clean
sheets on a new day,
his fingers firing in a frenzy
and introducing the fusion of
pleasure and pain.
He smells of benzene and
she's afraid of burning,
stomach churning and
using gasoline as lubricant.
He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss.
She misses him at her day job
when she runs around town
robbing banks and
picking up handkerchiefs
that grandmothers drop on the ground.
He would pound
his manhood into a brick wall
if it moved like her,
but the skin-and-bones combo
woos him to coo at her
as swarms of sparrows
nest in her ***** hair.
Spit shined shoes and
riding leaves blown on the air,
she dreams of him awake,
listless eyes alive and pulsing
behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus.
She makes magic potions out of the scents
left over on one of her
mismatching pillow cases.
He tastes like roasted red peppers
and lingering mace:
her eyes water as she
chokes back ***** daintily,
like a queen.
His eyes gleam mean as
he steals her breath to
add it to his bursting bank account,
releasing her to give her back only gasps,
the 2% interest.
She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps,
but he sees her as a phantom,
creeping through the floorboards,
a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
computers are fun but can be frustrating
you see you may call it challenging
]but a tad frustrating
but i am battling my voices of being called a woosey
but i am not a woos, i am a poet, a fantastic poet
woosey woosey woosey says my old school mates
as i don’t want to be called a woos all my life
i don’t think i am new and improved, i am a writer
i don’t believe in violence, i don’t believe in guns
ik want to keep my conservative friends right up the ***
you see i am not a hooligan, i am not a woos
please leave me alone you big ********
i don’t want to be treated like a baby young dude, so leave me alone
my school mates don’t understand that i really liked computers
look what i done, i fooled everyone
because i never ever wanted to be treated like a hooligan, NEVER
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Young and old people sipping beer, with hands in pockets and heads nodding to the rock music, standing in a crescent around the stage.
Some 30 year-old guy in a cut-off is on stage playing a bright red guitar which is shining silver. He finishes his set.
I'm sitting here alone and nobody seems to mind. Actually a couple of people have smiled and said hello.
One of the drunker guys sitting at the bar yells "Encore" first and then the rest of the room starts echoing him. Encore. I even let out a few "Woos!"
This man probably trades his cutoff for a collar during his day job. But we liked listening to him. He take a long drink of his PBR.
Then, he starts playing his bright red guitar again. The rest of the room is cast in red lighting with blue-christmas tree lights dangling around the room.
The bar itself looks like we are on the inside of the hull of a ship.
Woody, damp, safe. Decorated by a collector of whisky bottles and olden times posters.
I'm in a booth and to my right is the act which just ended and to my left, books. "Can I buy you a book," I ask a beautiful woman at the bar motioning to the books with a smooth wink.
Just kidding, maybe next time. But as the act ends I see a drunken, happy, young man with a girl who looked like she was his girlfriend.
In his drunken courage he attempts to take her hand and bring her to the dance floor, now empty. He pulls a rare for college, Charlie Brown dancing, sort of moveset and she is laughing. It's still red blue and dim but she's probably blushing.
He keeps dancing by her till she stands up and dances near him, both of them laughing and enjoying and somehow dancing to the rock music that is playing.
He keeps motioning his finger for her to "come here" as he backs in the center of the dance floor, until eventually she follows.
For one song, the two dance by-themselves to this music, in the center of the dance floor and lights, bobbing in and out, and just jamming.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
She is an anti-thesis to Maya Angelou’s conscience
She stretches Maya’s awareness beyond rudimentary perfection
She is a public commoner with her insatiable palatability,
She eats French fries and pork like a carnivorous queen
Her instinct cannot save her from curse of pinching,
She is tall and slander with all virtues of beauteous individuality
Which the sagacious Friedrich von Schiller saw in frivolous Cassandra,
She has tattooed nose and ornamented death, not white in taint of alcohol hue
Chains of jewellery around her neck and hands, sea corals as beads around her waist,
She loves rough men like Alexander Pushkin who died in Duel, and the militant Othello
Who only woos by using the vaginal ******** of the alligator
As his Casanova’s love voodoo bequeathed to him by his mother,
She spends money from a foreign sweat, in thrifts and thrifts,
She commands unilateral faculty of non-numerical learning
With her indelibility dominating the world of Music and painting,
She dares not to dream of true love, but her faith is in weakness of men
Hot in bed like an Italian pizza oven and cold in reason like tundra climate.
The non phenomenal woman the mother of my first born son,
I took him to Oxford University for a degree course in land law
He came back with a diploma in being a barber, good in shaving!
He is so handsome in pettiness with mighty athletic mediocrity
Vices redolent of maternal genetics in the non phenomenal woman,
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
The moon makes you cold
but therein lies its remote wonder
You soon become a devotee
trapped in the grip of its allure
and wondering how it is
that this oft silvery orb
is at once so cold and yet so warm
it leaves many a lover
moonstruck and abstracted
On a leafy night like tonight,
with a tropical moon up on high
dancing phantoms peep through
the gaps in the palm fronds
and the moon woos them
with its promise of worlds unknown
She looks at me face up-tilted, and
eyes consumed with heart-fresh passion
I have a foreboding feeling,
and a fearful certainty of loss
for time the unyielding enigma
promises you everything
but seldom delivers
what you ordered
in the heat of the moment
Tonight the shadows are dancing
the dance of silhouettes,
ethereal yet as real as the moon that shines
and the stars that beckon
I am a wandering disciple of life's mysteries
recruited on leafy nights such as this one is,
and I'm tied to you by an unebbing desire
to plant an idea on your tempting lips
and hear you dispense what my fate is
in this so changed world of our time
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 6:40 PM UTC
Braced,
For the rough, graceful sandpaper offered
by the saxophonist while he woos you with
outright randomness arpeggiated.
The titanic soul of the double-bass
quivers my body,
it lives in the catacombs of my ribs.
And,
I'm jazzed.
Pure chaos,
with a complete understanding of order
but a gleeful disregard.
"I could do that."
Then do it.
And, exhale.
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
Having him near and not touching
Was decidedly tough.
In the end I realized that loving him
Was just not enough.
He liked making love and exploring
The bodies we had
But not enough to fall in love with me
And that was sad.
I knew this heart-pounding affair was
Just for a few days.
And while I was falling very hard, he
Would son walk away.
He mumbled something one time
About being a free spirit
But in those moments I didn’t know
What to do with it.
It was not information I could take
And put someplace real.
It was a kind of romantic connection
That I could not feel.
It didn’t fit with the movies and books
And the fairy tales.
It didn’t end with a swell of music.
It ended with sad wails.
It made no sense at all to me then
How anyone could be
A totally involved ****** machine
And act so shallowly.
How can someone throw themselves
Into such wild action
And have it not mean more than just
Physical satisfaction?
He was the first, there were more.
This kind of guy shines,
And knows how to attract the fools
With attitudes like mine;
People who persuade themselves
To proceed blindly
When these one-night lotharios
Treat lovers unkindly.
Of course, it was not love, I know,
Not even for me.
It was just something called lust
That captivated me.
A gorgeous body and talented talk
Easily woos youth
With so much seduction I would not
Look hard for the truth.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
The leaves in winter, they all fall in place.
In endings hidden, embers of a new life.
Every once in a while an unknown girl
walks up close on a smoggy night;
And an awkward lank woos her with
half-withered roses by the south bank;
Going after severed kites,
landing now by the memory lane:
by the Thames, holding a palmful,
saying, this river's named after you:
she has a dimpled smile;
By the lakes, deep at night, when the moon
walks over the waves, dancing with the swans;
Where the Lee bends around the corner,
a red bus emerges out of the mist,
a hero on chilly nights of the early autumn,
when the dhak welcomes the Goddess home.
Teals, wobbling out of the pond, by
the temple of love, closed for ages now;
Crimson paint dripping from the evening
sky at the corners;
Every day when loving this way
seems like a picture painting away,
get lost walking by the Thames;
Whirling back like the descent from the Eye,
time and crackers light the sky,
on a Guy Fawkes night.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC