It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)
- Thread starter Angeline
- Start date
It was a funny but strange feelin'
To witness 3 Strongmen in Tianjin
This was a result of Tariff swing
Goodies were presented to Beijing
For Orange
leader:
What good did it bring??!
'tis too early to speculate
What will be each man's Fate....
It's early days yet : not too late....
But whole Nations R held to Ransom
As Leaders their enemies berate
Which Leader will be first to Blink ??!
Who shall Win with cheeky Wink!!?
But if Tariffs bring Quiet to IndoChina Border:
Peace Nobel to Donald may yet be in Order!!!
To witness 3 Strongmen in Tianjin
This was a result of Tariff swing
Goodies were presented to Beijing
For Orange
leader:What good did it bring??!
'tis too early to speculate
What will be each man's Fate....
It's early days yet : not too late....
But whole Nations R held to Ransom
As Leaders their enemies berate
Which Leader will be first to Blink ??!
Who shall Win with cheeky Wink!!?
But if Tariffs bring Quiet to IndoChina Border:
Peace Nobel to
Donald may yet be in Order!!!
Last edited:
goddessofglee
a gentle girly girl!
- Joined
- Jan 24, 2023
- Posts
- 250
"A sweet juicy dream!"
She lies before him,
ripe, glistening, unguarded.
naked right before his eyes.
Weight presses into his palms,
desire of thoughts of softness
begging to be broken.
He leans forward—
sluuuurp!—
flesh gives way beneath his lips.
Juice bursts free,
running hot, sticky, wild.
Chomp, squish, schlup…
the air fills with wet sounds,
mouth working in rhythm,
lips smacking,
tongue dragging with a heavy slurp.
Sweetness streaks his chin,
slides slow along his neck,
pools in the hollow of his wrist.
He does not wipe.
eyes shine with delight
Smack… sluuurp… gulp.
Breath deepens,
each pull more urgent,
each sound heavier, rawer,
until silence breaks again—
another tearing chomp,
another spill,
another schluuup.
The mess grows,
sticky, shining, unashamed.
It is hunger,
it is surrender,
it is beauty found
in the ruin of taking,
in the undoing of giving.
№35 of 52
She lies before him,
ripe, glistening, unguarded.
naked right before his eyes.
Weight presses into his palms,
desire of thoughts of softness
begging to be broken.
He leans forward—
sluuuurp!—
flesh gives way beneath his lips.
Juice bursts free,
running hot, sticky, wild.
Chomp, squish, schlup…
the air fills with wet sounds,
mouth working in rhythm,
lips smacking,
tongue dragging with a heavy slurp.
Sweetness streaks his chin,
slides slow along his neck,
pools in the hollow of his wrist.
He does not wipe.
eyes shine with delight
Smack… sluuurp… gulp.
Breath deepens,
each pull more urgent,
each sound heavier, rawer,
until silence breaks again—
another tearing chomp,
another spill,
another schluuup.
The mess grows,
sticky, shining, unashamed.
It is hunger,
it is surrender,
it is beauty found
in the ruin of taking,
in the undoing of giving.
№35 of 52
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 15,294
Late August
August slides into
Not so far away September
School buses on the back roads on the way to work now
Yellow amongst the green, wet woods
Of August 25th
Used to be
When I was a kid
All the schools started on the Wednesday after Labor Day
Shorter days for sure
A bit cooler
But no less humid
A touch of yellow on the leaves, grasses and crops
To remind me that autumn is calling
Different flowers emerge now on roadsides
Queen Anne’s lace
And the wet dew
Dotting the fields
The smoke from Canadian wildfires again
The odd stalk of taller corn or sorghum
Sticking up out of the field of soy beans
A periscope looking out for its brothers or sisters
The 4-H fair now in my rearview
Took a few more blue ribbons this year:
Tallest sorghum
Best sunflower ready for harvest
Best beets
Zinnias and sunflowers stand guard at our farm stand
Waiting for their turn
To be sold
Or to wither and die
33/52
August slides into
Not so far away September
School buses on the back roads on the way to work now
Yellow amongst the green, wet woods
Of August 25th
Used to be
When I was a kid
All the schools started on the Wednesday after Labor Day
Shorter days for sure
A bit cooler
But no less humid
A touch of yellow on the leaves, grasses and crops
To remind me that autumn is calling
Different flowers emerge now on roadsides
Queen Anne’s lace
And the wet dew
Dotting the fields
The smoke from Canadian wildfires again
The odd stalk of taller corn or sorghum
Sticking up out of the field of soy beans
A periscope looking out for its brothers or sisters
The 4-H fair now in my rearview
Took a few more blue ribbons this year:
Tallest sorghum
Best sunflower ready for harvest
Best beets
Zinnias and sunflowers stand guard at our farm stand
Waiting for their turn
To be sold
Or to wither and die
33/52
" School buses on the back roads on the way to work now...
Yellow amongst the green, wet, woods
of August 25th."
Sooo much hath changed....
Now dark hubris in guise of shooters
Stalk schools.....
Closed doors , hiding kids, desks as protection...
Armed teachers.......oh Jeez
....
Facebook posts.
Rambling minds, weeping parents.....
Lockdown in schools....
Assault rifles.....
NRA vote bank / lobby
Easy access to guns.....
Disturbed minds
Bullied victims, dead Perps.....
Kids in body bags
....Constant, nagging fears
Timid Congress
Rigid Presidents.....
Gun as Culture....
Glorification of Wild West...
Ends up as tragedy....
Endless night:
Will it ever end....
Columbine, Sandy Hook.......RIP
Last edited:
Xenofidelity78
Mister
- Joined
- Jan 14, 2022
- Posts
- 12
We live together
And yet all alone
Stuck in our thoughts
And on our phones
We're gathered in Media
And hunted like hare
Made to feel surrounded
When there's nobody there
It is a dead space we worship
And a chain we put on ourselves
And the worst part about it
Is that we're forgetting everything else
So we sit in virtual pens like animals
And Shuffle our fingers to White Noise
While the world goes on without us
And we shout from boxes about illusion of choice
And yet all alone
Stuck in our thoughts
And on our phones
We're gathered in Media
And hunted like hare
Made to feel surrounded
When there's nobody there
It is a dead space we worship
And a chain we put on ourselves
And the worst part about it
Is that we're forgetting everything else
So we sit in virtual pens like animals
And Shuffle our fingers to White Noise
While the world goes on without us
And we shout from boxes about illusion of choice
The Drums 
of Mumbai
≈===================≈
Ash999
The Drums of Mumbai hv started their Beat!!?
In relentless Rain, Hailstones and Sleet.....
It's Visarjan Day
When Ganapati goeth Away....
Our hearts R sad
We R feeling baad
But the DJs will Rock....
The streets will witness Shock
As Disco takes over whole Avenues
Lorries will form looong Queues....
Leading to Wells, Ponds, Creek....Sea shore
Our Happiness today go out the Door....
But Crowds will Revel
The streets will Rebel
We will set up a heartfelt Cry
GANAPATI , come again : it's Not Goodbye!!!?
Phudchya Varshi Lahukar ya!!!
Come back again Next Year , my Dear!!!
of Mumbai≈===================≈
Ash999
The Drums of Mumbai hv started their Beat!!?
In relentless Rain, Hailstones and Sleet.....
It's Visarjan Day
When Ganapati goeth Away....
Our hearts R sad
We R feeling baad
But the DJs will Rock....
The streets will witness Shock
As Disco takes over whole Avenues
Lorries will form looong Queues....
Leading to Wells, Ponds, Creek....Sea shore
Our Happiness today go out the Door....
But Crowds will Revel
The streets will Rebel
We will set up a heartfelt Cry
GANAPATI , come again : it's Not Goodbye!!!?
Phudchya Varshi Lahukar ya!!!
Come back again Next Year , my Dear!!!
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,390
Culinary Exploration
It's my favorite song
when I hear it, a new flavor
I'm unsure of at first. It is
and isn't familiar, different
on the tongue, bitter perhaps
with hints of sweetness,
then a vinegary spice, Frank's
Red Hot Sauce, awakens me,
an amuse bouche
and I'm hungry for more
because it's delicious,
satisfying and meaningful,
a part of my world, a part
of me, gumbo that belongs
in me.
Week 36, Poem 1, Total 40
It's my favorite song
when I hear it, a new flavor
I'm unsure of at first. It is
and isn't familiar, different
on the tongue, bitter perhaps
with hints of sweetness,
then a vinegary spice, Frank's
Red Hot Sauce, awakens me,
an amuse bouche
and I'm hungry for more
because it's delicious,
satisfying and meaningful,
a part of my world, a part
of me, gumbo that belongs
in me.
Week 36, Poem 1, Total 40
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,382
The Not-So-Gentle Art of Refinement
Furnace roar, the ore screams loud,
stone cracked open, no mercy allowed.
Blood of the mountain, dragged to flame,
what is impure will not remain.
Hammer falls, the iron weeps,
every strike breaks what it keeps.
Slag to the side, the heart revealed,
steel remembers what pain concealed.
Gold is never born from ease,
it claws through rock, it cuts, it bleeds.
Molten rivers burn the lies,
truth is hardened where fire tries.
Mind in the crucible, soul in the pyre,
heart on the anvil, fed to the fire.
What was brittle, now must bend,
or shatter clean with nothing to mend.
Chant of sparks, the blacksmith’s hymn,
beat of flesh, beat of limb.
Sweat is salt, and salt is cure,
each blow demands that we endure.
Plateless shine from pressure deep,
platinum forged where darkness sleeps.
Buried long, then torn awake,
worth is proven by what will break.
Impurity screams as it is torn,
refiners never ask to be born.
We choose the flame, we choose the scar,
tempered into what we are.
Strike again, let thunder sing,
fire crowns the suffering.
What survives the brutal rite,
stands unyielding, carved in light.
Furnace roar, the ore screams loud,
stone cracked open, no mercy allowed.
Blood of the mountain, dragged to flame,
what is impure will not remain.
Hammer falls, the iron weeps,
every strike breaks what it keeps.
Slag to the side, the heart revealed,
steel remembers what pain concealed.
Gold is never born from ease,
it claws through rock, it cuts, it bleeds.
Molten rivers burn the lies,
truth is hardened where fire tries.
Mind in the crucible, soul in the pyre,
heart on the anvil, fed to the fire.
What was brittle, now must bend,
or shatter clean with nothing to mend.
Chant of sparks, the blacksmith’s hymn,
beat of flesh, beat of limb.
Sweat is salt, and salt is cure,
each blow demands that we endure.
Plateless shine from pressure deep,
platinum forged where darkness sleeps.
Buried long, then torn awake,
worth is proven by what will break.
Impurity screams as it is torn,
refiners never ask to be born.
We choose the flame, we choose the scar,
tempered into what we are.
Strike again, let thunder sing,
fire crowns the suffering.
What survives the brutal rite,
stands unyielding, carved in light.
42BelowsBack
By CROM I'm Back!
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2025
- Posts
- 136
My Dad is as dated as a
broken metaphor,
He said, “In latter life there are
two things a man’s got to look
forwards to: we age a waterfall
looks like our piston, it needs a
bit of motion, hauling on the old
crank shaft -to get a drip of—”
—“Dad” I said, “yar Mad!”
But he didn't care sitting there
in his old rocking chair.
NQ 30 (not inspired by jazz).
broken metaphor,
He said, “In latter life there are
two things a man’s got to look
forwards to: we age a waterfall
looks like our piston, it needs a
bit of motion, hauling on the old
crank shaft -to get a drip of—”
—“Dad” I said, “yar Mad!”
But he didn't care sitting there
in his old rocking chair.
NQ 30 (not inspired by jazz).
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,390
SmilingLez
Bad WiFi
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2025
- Posts
- 278
Coffee;
Teases,
Seduces,
Ignites,
Awakens.
Teases,
Seduces,
Ignites,
Awakens.
butters
High on a Hill
- Joined
- Jul 2, 2009
- Posts
- 85,868
eclipsed
i sent the moon to you today
it sped serene, true
blue arc brushing our void
a trail of tears were shed to glitter
on night's dreaming ocean's breast
i sent my moon to you, today
but when you lifted up your face
you'd no eyes left to see—
you were already blinded
by her cruel, callous, sun
i sent the moon to you today
it sped serene, true
blue arc brushing our void
a trail of tears were shed to glitter
on night's dreaming ocean's breast
i sent my moon to you, today
but when you lifted up your face
you'd no eyes left to see—
you were already blinded
by her cruel, callous, sun
Last edited:
Wonderer67
Optimistic nihilist
- Joined
- Sep 25, 2020
- Posts
- 15,294
In Anticipation
Of the 4H Fair
Carefully pulling up beets
Finding three that were
As perfect and smooth and uniform as possible
No blemishes
Giving them a haircut
Trimming their leaves
Gently scrubbing them with a sponge
Taking off just a tad of their root tail
Prepping them for show
Same for cukes, tomatoes
Largest ornamental gourd
Best pumpkin
Lovingly scrubbing and cutting
Five wild fowers - just weeds really
Not too hard to find this time of year
Readying the largest sunflower head
Saying “I’m sorry” for decapitating it
The lopper straining and cracking
Cutting through the fleshy, fiberous stem
Killing it
As gently and as carefully
As possible
———
Enjoying The Process
I should have enjoyed bringing
My goods to the fair
I wish I’d appreciated the process more
Been more in the moment
Less harried
And manic
Not as rushed
Fat old and slow 4H ladies
Master gardeners…takin their time
Slow and methodical
I could not have tapped my foot more loudly
As if to say, “where is your fucking sense of urgency? I got stuff to do!”
Making small talk with milfy moms
Bringing in their flowers and punkins and peppers and eggs
Usually my favorite day of the year
The anticipation of
The 4H fair
Looking forward to
Ribbons
Horticultural glory
But this year
It felt like just another
Thing to do
———
Home Made Greek Salad
It rained on
The first day of the fair
A mist, but hard enough to keep us home
I made homemade hummus
Sliced fresh cucumber
Halved a bunch of cherry tomatoes and cut up some purple onion
Miss Conduct, my Domme
Fished a few olives out of a jar
To top the salad
And instead of going to the tractor pulls
We watched the Mets lose
As the rain overflowed the gutter
Splattering on the Belgian block
Below
34/52
Of the 4H Fair
Carefully pulling up beets
Finding three that were
As perfect and smooth and uniform as possible
No blemishes
Giving them a haircut
Trimming their leaves
Gently scrubbing them with a sponge
Taking off just a tad of their root tail
Prepping them for show
Same for cukes, tomatoes
Largest ornamental gourd
Best pumpkin
Lovingly scrubbing and cutting
Five wild fowers - just weeds really
Not too hard to find this time of year
Readying the largest sunflower head
Saying “I’m sorry” for decapitating it
The lopper straining and cracking
Cutting through the fleshy, fiberous stem
Killing it
As gently and as carefully
As possible
———
Enjoying The Process
I should have enjoyed bringing
My goods to the fair
I wish I’d appreciated the process more
Been more in the moment
Less harried
And manic
Not as rushed
Fat old and slow 4H ladies
Master gardeners…takin their time
Slow and methodical
I could not have tapped my foot more loudly
As if to say, “where is your fucking sense of urgency? I got stuff to do!”
Making small talk with milfy moms
Bringing in their flowers and punkins and peppers and eggs
Usually my favorite day of the year
The anticipation of
The 4H fair
Looking forward to
Ribbons
Horticultural glory
But this year
It felt like just another
Thing to do
———
Home Made Greek Salad
It rained on
The first day of the fair
A mist, but hard enough to keep us home
I made homemade hummus
Sliced fresh cucumber
Halved a bunch of cherry tomatoes and cut up some purple onion
Miss Conduct, my Domme
Fished a few olives out of a jar
To top the salad
And instead of going to the tractor pulls
We watched the Mets lose
As the rain overflowed the gutter
Splattering on the Belgian block
Below
34/52
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,382
Welcome to My Reality
By Bear Sage
Here, the air is raw nerve,
a tremor between what is
and what you think you see.
Every breath tastes like iron,
like the mouth of a wound
pretending to heal.
Truth is a carcass on the table,
still warm,
while perception arranges flowers
around the smell.
Both are honest,
both are liars,
and I am caught
in the marrow of their argument.
Walls pulse here,
not with blood,
but with unfinished sentences.
Each echo stabs the ear,
demanding: who decides
what’s real
the one who bleeds,
or the one who watches?
Step closer.
My reality is a blade
suspended above your throat,
swaying with every heartbeat,
waiting to choose
whether to cut
or to let you believe
you are safe.
By Bear Sage
Here, the air is raw nerve,
a tremor between what is
and what you think you see.
Every breath tastes like iron,
like the mouth of a wound
pretending to heal.
Truth is a carcass on the table,
still warm,
while perception arranges flowers
around the smell.
Both are honest,
both are liars,
and I am caught
in the marrow of their argument.
Walls pulse here,
not with blood,
but with unfinished sentences.
Each echo stabs the ear,
demanding: who decides
what’s real
the one who bleeds,
or the one who watches?
Step closer.
My reality is a blade
suspended above your throat,
swaying with every heartbeat,
waiting to choose
whether to cut
or to let you believe
you are safe.
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,382
Today is national suicide prevention Day
Today I want to remind you that silence is a killer.
Silence of those who are suffering
Silence of those who noticed but choose not to speak up.
Silence is not okay.
Choose to speak…. Let your voice bring life.
Cacophony of Silence
By Bear Sage
°
Silence is not empty.
It gnaws.
It rots like fruit left too long in the bowl,
skin softening,
flies already circling.
°
It is teeth clenching against the scream,
nails carving half-moons in the palm,
the taste of copper behind the tongue.
It is the heartbeat no one else hears
pounding against the inside of the ribs,
pleading for release.
°
Silence presses its hand
over the mouth of the suffering,
teaching them how to choke politely,
how to smile with a noose braided
from their own quiet.
°
Silence infects the witness too
eyes that look away,
ears that choose not to hear.
Each swallowed word
becomes a stone
heaved into the coffin
before it is lowered.
°
We pretend silence is gentle,
but it is jagged.
It slashes deeper than sound,
a death sentence
written in invisible ink.
°
Speak
even if your voice trembles,
even if the words arrive broken.
°
Reach
because silence kills,
but presence heals,
and no one deserves
to be buried by what we do not say.
Today I want to remind you that silence is a killer.
Silence of those who are suffering
Silence of those who noticed but choose not to speak up.
Silence is not okay.
Choose to speak…. Let your voice bring life.
Cacophony of Silence
By Bear Sage
°
Silence is not empty.
It gnaws.
It rots like fruit left too long in the bowl,
skin softening,
flies already circling.
°
It is teeth clenching against the scream,
nails carving half-moons in the palm,
the taste of copper behind the tongue.
It is the heartbeat no one else hears
pounding against the inside of the ribs,
pleading for release.
°
Silence presses its hand
over the mouth of the suffering,
teaching them how to choke politely,
how to smile with a noose braided
from their own quiet.
°
Silence infects the witness too
eyes that look away,
ears that choose not to hear.
Each swallowed word
becomes a stone
heaved into the coffin
before it is lowered.
°
We pretend silence is gentle,
but it is jagged.
It slashes deeper than sound,
a death sentence
written in invisible ink.
°
Speak
even if your voice trembles,
even if the words arrive broken.
°
Reach
because silence kills,
but presence heals,
and no one deserves
to be buried by what we do not say.
SpermFactory
Helloooo there
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2024
- Posts
- 109
Here comes the bride
To the last supper
of the beast
With her lamp wick
needing no clip
There is neither
aisle nor divide
Between any of
them there there
They all knew
All of them
The Golfing elite
of 20 years ago
In The Book of Mini
Putt Marriage
[32]
To the last supper
of the beast
With her lamp wick
needing no clip
There is neither
aisle nor divide
Between any of
them there there
They all knew
All of them
The Golfing elite
of 20 years ago
In The Book of Mini
Putt Marriage
[32]
Last edited:
Angeline
Poet Chick
- Joined
- Mar 11, 2002
- Posts
- 27,390
Morning Glory
How do you do Miss MaryLou
with your riotous curls
and long dark fingers
that sing the blues, bold
as your wide sweet smile,
making way all the while
in a man's world, secret
clubs of late night jams, cutting
contest dawns, Prez and Bean
honking up the Sun and you
right there with a taste
for jazz and keys that breeze
or linger at your command.
Miss MaryLou you stand
out though years roll on
I still see you.
Week 37, Poem 2, Total 42
How do you do Miss MaryLou
with your riotous curls
and long dark fingers
that sing the blues, bold
as your wide sweet smile,
making way all the while
in a man's world, secret
clubs of late night jams, cutting
contest dawns, Prez and Bean
honking up the Sun and you
right there with a taste
for jazz and keys that breeze
or linger at your command.
Miss MaryLou you stand
out though years roll on
I still see you.
Week 37, Poem 2, Total 42
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,773
Unsuccessful Poems
At times a poem is a task
too onerous to rattle off
as if a sneeze or, rather, cough
when touched off like a molotov
could burn the page completely black—
say this one here. I sense a lack
of honesty, a mere array
of mundane words put on display,
quite meaningless to my dismay.
(I may have gotten well off-track.)
Ah, well. Some poems have no smack,
no charge, no life. There's nothing there
to grasp or gasp or see as prayer,
to be some fancy thing to wear.
Some hide emotions like a mask.
Week 37 : Poem 1 : Total 47
At times a poem is a task
too onerous to rattle off
as if a sneeze or, rather, cough
when touched off like a molotov
could burn the page completely black—
say this one here. I sense a lack
of honesty, a mere array
of mundane words put on display,
quite meaningless to my dismay.
(I may have gotten well off-track.)
Ah, well. Some poems have no smack,
no charge, no life. There's nothing there
to grasp or gasp or see as prayer,
to be some fancy thing to wear.
Some hide emotions like a mask.
Week 37 : Poem 1 : Total 47
Senseless killing
===============
Dear Charlie....
I don't know you
When you burst
Into my mind with....
The tragic news....
I also willy nilly,
Had to read
ur' views...
U didn't like Indians
Especially in the Vale
Of Silicon ...Oh well...
I am very much an Indian....
But you also were precisely, prescient-ally
Gandhian....
Must love
those whom U fear
Must forgive those whom U hate....
If we sit and talk
with opponents
Violence decreases....
At least 2 Amerindians
Or America
n- India 
ns
Have called U Bro:
2nd. Lady Usha Vance
and FBI boss Kash Patel-Oh!?
Your views on Women
I feel are medieval
[ " Taylor forget Singing , retire to Kitchen..
Cook meals
...produce kids..!?]
The most successful
Singer 
In the World
....
Horror!?
But Bullets R no solution
To disagreements...
U supported Gun Rights
Even said few collateral deaths R alright...
These theories wud have led
to verbal fights...
But a senseless, targeted killing
Only leads to body bags 
Not peace
...
World stands@Crossroads of Polarization...
In Gaza...
In Utah...
In Ukraine
Rest in Peace
, Bro
Om 🕉 Shanti....
===============
Dear Charlie....
I don't know you
When you burst
Into my mind with....
The tragic news....
I also willy nilly,
Had to read
ur' views...U didn't like Indians
Especially in the Vale
Of Silicon ...Oh well...
I am very much an Indian....
But you also were precisely, prescient-ally
Gandhian....
Must love
those whom U fearMust forgive those whom U hate....
If we sit and talk
with opponentsViolence decreases....
At least 2 Amerindians
Or America
n- India nsHave called U Bro:
2nd. Lady Usha Vance
and FBI boss Kash Patel-Oh!?
Your views on Women
I feel are medieval
[ " Taylor forget Singing , retire to Kitchen..
Cook meals
...produce kids..!?]The most successful
Singer In the World
....Horror!?
But Bullets R no solution
To disagreements...
U supported Gun Rights
Even said few collateral deaths R alright...
These theories wud have led
to verbal fights...But a senseless, targeted killing
Only leads to body bags
Not peace
...World
stands@Crossroads of Polarization...In Gaza...
In Utah...
In Ukraine
Rest in Peace
, BroOm 🕉 Shanti....
translation...Bollywood 
love ballad 1972 circa
a Mystical NightFlower came to me ...
in my Dreams...and threw her arms
round my neck as a loving garland!!!
when i woke up my eyes were still
goggle eyed in sweet remembrance
eyes lined with dark kohl
like a dark Monsoon sky
eyelashes as black as Thunder...
like rainy dawn
call it my infatuation
laugh@me , if you will
i don't know
what has happened to me
perhaps U can tell me...
when your dainty foot kisses the floor
why doth joy reverbrate in my chest???!
since your lovely face has
blossomed in my life,
my life has turned Golden!!!
i meet new Beauties every day...
but after meeting them...
each time i meet you
you look lovelier than last time!!!
to scoop U up in my arms
hath been my desire
not once but multiple times...
love ballad 1972 circaa Mystical NightFlower came to me ...
in my Dreams...and threw her arms
round my neck as a loving garland!!!
when i woke up my eyes were still
goggle eyed in sweet remembrance
eyes lined with dark kohl
like a dark Monsoon sky
eyelashes as black as Thunder...
like rainy dawn
call it my infatuation
laugh@me , if you will
i don't know
what has happened to me
perhaps U can tell me...
when your dainty foot kisses the floor
why doth joy reverbrate in my chest???!
since your
lovely face hasblossomed in my life,
my life has turned Golden!!!
i meet new Beauties every day...
but after meeting them...
each time i meet you
you look lovelier than last time!!!
to scoop U up in my arms
hath been my desire
not once but multiple times...
Lily1011
Gentle kind soul
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2025
- Posts
- 7
Ashes of my drive
I used to wake with fire,
a pulse that carried me forward,
but now—
my soul feels like sand slipping through
a clenched fist.
Anger sits in my chest,
a restless animal pacing,
gnawing at the ribs
that try to cage it.
Frustration claws at me—
Why this stillness?
Why this silence inside?
I used to bloom,
but now I am the husk of a flower
that forgot sunlight.
I mourn a self I can barely touch,
a spirit that once sang,
a drive that once pulled me
like the tide to the moon.
Now I am drifting—
a body without compass,
a heart without spark.
And yet,
even in the ashes,
I feel the faintest ember—
a whisper that maybe,
just maybe,
I can breathe myself back to life.
I used to wake with fire,
a pulse that carried me forward,
but now—
my soul feels like sand slipping through
a clenched fist.
Anger sits in my chest,
a restless animal pacing,
gnawing at the ribs
that try to cage it.
Frustration claws at me—
Why this stillness?
Why this silence inside?
I used to bloom,
but now I am the husk of a flower
that forgot sunlight.
I mourn a self I can barely touch,
a spirit that once sang,
a drive that once pulled me
like the tide to the moon.
Now I am drifting—
a body without compass,
a heart without spark.
And yet,
even in the ashes,
I feel the faintest ember—
a whisper that maybe,
just maybe,
I can breathe myself back to life.
SpermFactory
Helloooo there
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2024
- Posts
- 109
Dystopian
Fat Berg Incident.
It is so difficult to write
with your balls on fire.
Especially at four am,
I rummage around my
drinks cabinet not knowing
what I’m looking for
because I am in love,
love is a story, the best
stories somehow speak
to what you didn’t know
but when I saw you I knew
what you were looking for
we were both looking for
it, me high on can do life
and freedom
you high on handcuffs and
power you blew my door in
and boom there you were
the founding Father’s
dream fairy tale queen
mistaken identity
you thought you were men
looking like gorillas in your
kinky three letter outfits
it didn’t help that the warrant
was for next door, which made
you look super sexy,
especially when you persisted
in questioning me, telling me
stories about stories
about questions, never answers,
while the persons of interest
drove off,
it was the best speed date
ever, especially when you
asked me if I knew where
they might head and I told
you yeah and gravitate your
mouth towards my ass
instead you kicked my balls
now lying hear, trying to write
my balls are on fire,
I know I am well and truly in
love with freedom. With feeling
alive from taking some sort of risk,
so here we are, you gone in your
kinky lace up booties, me staying
in a free state of contradiction,
thinking who ever said vulnerability
is a writer’s most important tool
never got kicked in the balls.
[33]
Disclaimer For poetical entertainment purposes only.
Fat Berg Incident.
It is so difficult to write
with your balls on fire.
Especially at four am,
I rummage around my
drinks cabinet not knowing
what I’m looking for
because I am in love,
love is a story, the best
stories somehow speak
to what you didn’t know
but when I saw you I knew
what you were looking for
we were both looking for
it, me high on can do life
and freedom
you high on handcuffs and
power you blew my door in
and boom there you were
the founding Father’s
dream fairy tale queen
mistaken identity
you thought you were men
looking like gorillas in your
kinky three letter outfits
it didn’t help that the warrant
was for next door, which made
you look super sexy,
especially when you persisted
in questioning me, telling me
stories about stories
about questions, never answers,
while the persons of interest
drove off,
it was the best speed date
ever, especially when you
asked me if I knew where
they might head and I told
you yeah and gravitate your
mouth towards my ass
instead you kicked my balls
now lying hear, trying to write
my balls are on fire,
I know I am well and truly in
love with freedom. With feeling
alive from taking some sort of risk,
so here we are, you gone in your
kinky lace up booties, me staying
in a free state of contradiction,
thinking who ever said vulnerability
is a writer’s most important tool
never got kicked in the balls.
[33]
Disclaimer For poetical entertainment purposes only.
Last edited:
_Land
Bear Sage
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2002
- Posts
- 1,382
So I wrote this a while back, but I just put it to music..... Would love to hear some feedback back
https://suno.com/s/Hskf1Fm5qSEUVJu4
“Snapped Thigh, Sax Slide”
(A Funky Free-Scat Poem)
Skidda-bap bam!
hips like hi-hats, thighs go wham!
Tongue be tappin’ on a conga line spine,
grindin’ that groove
like the beat owed time.
Click-clack crackle,
she struts in syncopation
heels spit fire,
rhythm’s reincarnation.
Jazz in her jawline,
moanin’ like a midnight muse,
scat-slick sugar tongue
whispers dirty blues.
Zuh-zuh-zow!
Bow-chicka-bow!
Lust licked the lip
of a bourbon vow
and the saxophone begged
for a second round.
Snare-popped heartbeat,
bassline thighs,
she moves like velvet
with a vengeance inside.
Shimmy that sorrow,
honeydip rage
body a stanza,
each breath a page.
Doo-wop twist
hips disobey laws of motion,
dripping with sweat
and sonic devotion.
Skat-dat-dip! Brrap-pow-pow!
Even her silence got rhythm now.
She don’t walk
she scatters.
She don’t moan
she matters.
And the night?
It bends to her beat
like sinners in satin
on salvation street.
https://suno.com/s/Hskf1Fm5qSEUVJu4
“Snapped Thigh, Sax Slide”
(A Funky Free-Scat Poem)
Skidda-bap bam!
hips like hi-hats, thighs go wham!
Tongue be tappin’ on a conga line spine,
grindin’ that groove
like the beat owed time.
Click-clack crackle,
she struts in syncopation
heels spit fire,
rhythm’s reincarnation.
Jazz in her jawline,
moanin’ like a midnight muse,
scat-slick sugar tongue
whispers dirty blues.
Zuh-zuh-zow!
Bow-chicka-bow!
Lust licked the lip
of a bourbon vow
and the saxophone begged
for a second round.
Snare-popped heartbeat,
bassline thighs,
she moves like velvet
with a vengeance inside.
Shimmy that sorrow,
honeydip rage
body a stanza,
each breath a page.
Doo-wop twist
hips disobey laws of motion,
dripping with sweat
and sonic devotion.
Skat-dat-dip! Brrap-pow-pow!
Even her silence got rhythm now.
She don’t walk
she scatters.
She don’t moan
she matters.
And the night?
It bends to her beat
like sinners in satin
on salvation street.
Similar threads
