The Illuminated Woman

It would indeed, because dingbats have a long and ... well glorious is too strong by half ... history in typesetting. Comic sans is simply an assault on good taste.

::

Did you write that song? (And why is it asking me about stress sweat? Really I'm having a calm day.)
 
::

Your obsession with her skin
amuses me, Armand.
Her pale vellum
adorned with hieroglyphs
is the limit of his approach.

Physically we cannot get
closer than two skins apart
without blood upon the carpet.
But words, my Maudit Beau,
words enter through the ears or eyes
and touch the mind and perhaps the soul.

Worry less about her pelt
And more about his poems.



::

I rest my case. (but thanks for the tall dark and handsome)
 
A poor post following artistry

I laughed my way to the bottom of the page

Cartography

Pampered, blushed pristine rosy white
Sophie before this story's told
tanned during long years in captivity
far south of the equator, east of Borneo

lone survivor, ship wrecked virgin
cast on war torn shores
where spears of rival factions
kept her trophy in their fight

carved her skin by day
imbued images of tribal might
until the loser found her
still flew the spears at night

The first year a girl was born
rushed away to breast
of a lactating mother
who raised it as her own

blue waves drawn on stretch marks
fish poured out of her navel
puckered in the following months
denoting Sophie's bounty

The second year a boy was born
in like fashion to rival island
Sophie though a mother
had no children of her own

a Dutch frigate found her
quite by accident
carried her away to Ghent in chains
a trophy of wonderment
detailed from head to foot
with Sophie's life so far

She found me in Paris
al fresco imposter sipping Absinthe
each night from then to now
I trace the map of those lost shores
far south of the equator
east of Borneo
 
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Cartography

Pampered, blushed pristine rosy white
Sophie before this story's told
tanned during long years in captivity
far south of the equator, east of Borneo

lone survivor, ship wrecked virgin
cast on war torn shores
where spears of rival factions
kept her trophy in their fight

carved her skin by day
imbued images of tribal might
until the loser found her
still flew the spears at night

The first year a girl was born
rushed away to breast
of a lactating mother
who raised it as her own

blue waves drawn on stretch marks
fish poured out of her navel
puckered in the following months
denoting Sophie's bounty

The second year a boy was born
in like fashion to rival island
Sophie though a mother
had no children of her own

a Dutch frigate found her
quite by accident
carried her away to Ghent in chains
a trophy of wonderment
detailed from head to foot
with Sophie's life so far

She found me in Paris
al fresco imposter sipping Absinthe
each night from then to now
I trace the map of those lost shores
far south of the equator
east of Borneo

what a captivating story, Harry!
 
My own hands calloused and scarred
recognise the perfection of hard work
hours of sanding and buffing
to render a solitary piece of timber
satisfactory, ready to polish

her skin reflects that same
texture and quality
a light amber tan,
a cedar, smoothed
perfect in it's imperfections
the grains that run and play
along it's length and width
imbue it with beauty

I examine every inch of her
the dimples in her knees,
her areoulas a darker hue,
the shifting tan lines of exposure
to sunlight, timber tans too,
a tell tale bruise from her bra line
almost like stressed wood,
the cleft of her sex
inspired, with it's smattering of
styled hair

What I could create with such a canvass
 
My own hands calloused and scarred
recognise the perfection of hard work
hours of sanding and buffing
to render a solitary piece of timber
satisfactory, ready to polish

her skin reflects that same
texture and quality
a light amber tan,
a cedar, smoothed
perfect in it's imperfections
the grains that run and play
along it's length and width
imbue it with beauty

I examine every inch of her
the dimples in her knees,
her areoulas a darker hue,
the shifting tan lines of exposure
to sunlight, timber tans too,
a tell tale bruise from her bra line
almost like stressed wood,
the cleft of her sex
inspired, with it's smattering of
styled hair

What I could create with such a canvass
..
Damn ol Tod
 
It is a sad fact that
poetry threads
like flower beds
if not attended
will run to seed
and weeds

And what of beds?
The default site
of coital gymnastics
keeping the heart
both healthy and inflamed

Neglecting our threads
is no doubt seen
by the medical community
akin to cholesterol
and a broken heart
something that should be cured
by poetry ...

... so what of Sophie?
Is she really
the hapless victim
of intemperate geography
that Harry might have us think?
Or passive perhaps
like todski's polished cedar?

Comments please
perhaps a Pantoum
cries out to cure
poetic malaise...

::
 
I agree Sir Darkmass and so I dedicate a humble Pantoum to fair Sophie, as a meagre tribute to this maiden fair, and to dust off a worthy thread.

*Sophie the enchantress*

Trace a line from jaw to lip
Pale beauty all so fair
Eyes so blue they make me tip
dark ringlets of her hair

pale beauty all so fair
skin like powdered dust
dark ringlets of her hair
sparks in me unchecked lust

skin like powdered dust
can’t resist her ample breast
sparks in me unchecked lust
ripe bud blooming from her chest

cant resist her ample breast
ripples rise from 'tween her thighs
ripe bud blooming from her chest
enchanted by her feminine cries

ripples rise from 'tween her thighs
eyes so blue they make me tip
enchanted by her feminine cries
trace a line from jaw to lip
 
what have I started? people are pantouming all the place :)

Pantoum Invasion Hits Porn Site!
Authorities Alarmed!


Something in the water perhaps. Best stick to beverages with antiseptic properties ... like whiskey. Make mine a double.

::
 
Make mine a double.

::

Double, double, boil and bubble
Pantoums are way too much trouble.
Free verse is the way to go
Partick Carrington told me so.
Forms are fun once in a while
and UnderYourSpells's do make us smile
but formative poetry cramps one's style.​
 
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