I really like this poem called Beauty In A Summer Breeze By Phillip Knox Hello fellow poets, I like to think of myself as a poet. However, there is always room for improvement. Feel free to give me feedback. Swallowed in dreams of bliss sunsets, berry kisses endless, silk spread skies agaze the distance. The strands of your tresses shades of henna falls tingling, sweet caresses burning ember walls. Your lips, like honey exude sweetness as a dream lover's dream I fall resistless. Soft whispers pant to find your ear delicate, drifting, lingering near; speechless, like crafts of gold lines on a silver moon rise. Trapped within a muse, conversing- secrets stolen water blue rain drops on your form in the open. I saw you last in May, still every day the outfits you wore mesmerized, I need you more. Beauty within your eyes sweetly defies eludes my mind like visions in a summer breeze- my heart rise. I would steal polyanthus, and lay beds of jasmine on wings of passion my strong attraction; if to allure you come and see I want to liberate your heart, and each vacant need. I search the depths of you, like oceans, emotions whirl shades of affection as souls fly, my essence- entwined within your style sapphires at your feet sweet smile, Nefertiti, mine her eyelids on streams. Chiaroscuro, form, light like poetic lines your shadow in the haze pantomime in lies. Her finger tips drip elegance in the moonlight midst every inch of her hips like jewels of skies aglint. She is delicate as a lily, flawless like a pearl in sea blur threads of tapestry which colors my world Sent from my SM-G965U using Tapatalk
My all time favorite poem: The Highwayman BY ALFRED NOYES PART ONE The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. PART TWO He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead. But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. . . . And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair Sent from my moto e5 cruise using Tapatalk
Never Give Up Giving up is the sign of the weak hearted soul, Such a person will never be able to reach his goal. Believe in yourself, you will come up with flying colors, Like a warrior you will shine even in a dark, stormy weather. Sent from my SM-G965U using Tapatalk
The Life Of A Cupcake © Shelby Greer Published: May 2014 They put me in the oven to bake. Me, a deprived and miserable cake. Feeling the heat, I started to bubble. Watching the others, I knew I was in trouble. They opened the door and I started my life. Frosting me with a silver knife, Decorating me with candy jewels. The rest of my batch looked like fools. Lifting me up, she took off my wrapper. Feeling the breeze, I wanted to slap her. Opening her mouth with shiny teeth inside, This was the day this cupcake died Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-life-of-a-cupcake
A Thing About Hair! © Brian A. Bendall Published: January 2, 2019 I've looked all over, but I don't know where I got stuck with all this hair. Some hair's where there once was none! I must have more than anyone! Hair on my head and hair on my toes, Near and on and up my nose. Hair in my ears and hair on my face. That gosh darn hair's all over the place! I got hair on my hands and on my hips, Around my eyes and on my lips. My tongue, my back, my chest and neck. How can I keep this hair in check?! It's under my arms, on top of 'em, too. Around my tummy, but what can I do?! My ankles, fingers, elbows, knees! "Give me a razor, will ya, please?!" So tell me why! Is there a reason? Maybe I'm in werewolf season! Or maybe I'm a nice gorilla, Bigfoot, bear or huge chinchilla! Or maybe I'm a cute alpaca, Or a racka... or Chewbacca!! But one thing puts my mind at ease; At least I don't have any fleas!! So now, while looking in the mirror, I see myself a little clearer. A lot of hair is what I see. "OMG!... It's really me!" Know what? I like it, after all! It cushions me if I should fall! I know it may look awfully wild, But better once I've had it styled. A body perm might fill the bill And really test a stylist's skill. A dye job, too, would be attractive, But that might be over reactive. So, at the dresser's I will note, "No, it's not a furry coat! It's just my hair!" I'll say to him, "Do your best, please... just a trim."
Tinkle, Tinkle Little Car © Cecilia L. Goodbody Published: October 2008 Tinkle, Tinkle little car How I wonder what you are. Leaking oil every day Having it your own way. Going up hills real slow I don't want you any mo'. Tinkle, Tinkle little car Boy, what a lemon you are. Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/tinkle-tinkle-little-car
I will remember the kisses by Charles Bukowski (one of my all time favorite word-smiths) I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me
