Poem | |
Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.
Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.
The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.
Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.
The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.
I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.
Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.
The house my children grew up in.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
Poem | |
I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain.
Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.
You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.
You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.
Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.
The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Giorgio A.V. Contest
Poem | |
I saw you yesterday
I saw you yesterday, your features grinned,
some silken scarf was waving in the blue,
I thought of what the rains could not rescind;
our images, that in the fields imbue.
I saw tempestuous, around me shades,
the rain's persistence had engraved your name
upon the slate, around she formed cascades,
inviting flash amid the drops, and flame.
I saw flash yesterday, inside the rain,
how beautiful it was, her kiss of dew
your words became my sails on trip arcane
the clouds, your messengers, 'mid skies to strew.
I sensed the crooked line reticulate,
the sulfur acrid smell and pale flame's hue,
transmuting to abderian road skate,
zigzagging on a water copper tube.
The flame transformed to runnel flowing laughs;
the rustling of droplets on the leaves,
combined the bright and shapely drawing graphs
with clouds to form above, celestial eaves.
I saw flash yesterday, my features grinned,
like silken scarf was waving in the blue,
I thought of what the rains could not rescind:
two images, amidst the fields imbue.
© G. V., 10-21-2013, All Rights Reserved
Poem | |
The wraiths were ringing dead wrought bells
while closely passed the shady shapes
of woods in dusk, where red indwells
communion made from ghostly grapes.
He ran amidst the winds and passed
across the side where grapevines grew,
it was her presence that amassed
small leaves and droplets of fog's dew.
Inside the winds' lone strings accord,
his Bell full-face, was dropped along
the streamlets and horizon's board,
untamed his scopes, they don't belong.
The Astral Chords! He knew this debt;
the skies demand and kill and draw,
the darkened paths his thought beget,
rose thorny droplets on his brow.
Persephone shall be his wed,
subsiding dew the mist regales,
the stringing roar that reaches red,
his greatest bride resigns his trails.
Shall be the threading of winds' howls,
her plea arises from the shades,
homecoming queen from astral halls,
he harks the northern swashing blades.
Ablution's her enjoining black
"Enfold me in the rising dawn
enfold your sadness in the dark
with magistral the curtains drawn".
Acute of wounds she heals and mends
the asphalt of the mists awaits
pristine her bridal thorns amends
while passing through the Hades gates.
Three hundred reasons drew the drapes,
three hundred strings of diligence;
The winds regaled the bride's agape,
his celebration to commence.
© 10-14-2013, George Venetopoulos
(Iambic Tetrameter - Epic)
Three Hundred = 300 Kilometers per hour. The final speed a super-bike of 1,000cc engine is able to outreach.
Poem | |
A beat of drums, a
song of solitude.
A deep and timid
red, so softly hued.
truth is deep like
I come to play, if
playing Queen is
A love is tempting,
lust is just a game.
I steal a kiss as
fears do turn from
A sigh, a tie, I
twist in pleasures
I close my eyes,
A song of sex, a
dance, I need to
The sound of
near my ear.
I tie a rope around
a willing wrist.
A tie so red it
makes the roses
A puppet, pawn, my
game is chess, I
A check, my mate, be
ready to begin.
I feast on pain and
Enjoy the time
behind the dark red
Poem | |
Upon Longfellow bridge
The Autumn leaves shift colors in the breeze
and some, above the land, will travel far
as whisperings inside the woods appease
through nature's flawlessness transmit, and mar.
Abundantly the light diffuses fore
the sun deluges neath the distant ridge
and offers the impression we lived yore,
October was, upon Longfellow bridge.
The twilights of the Autumn so expand
to hail the stars on Massachusetts towns;
my freshman attitude enfold, unplanned,
while lithe the night the street lights casts and crowns.
In darkness, still, the street lights blink before
the night retreats beneath the distant ridge
and offers the impression we lived yore,
October is, upon Longfellow bridge.
© 10-01-2014, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
Sponsor: nette onclaud
Contest Name: FIND THE PUZZLE!
T A R N D A I
Poem | |
The maiden's form diffuses neath the rain
and beautiful she steps around the sage
The mists embrace her dream on this domain
and vernal age.
The autumn raindrops fall, forever thin
They sing the maiden's song that lingers high
She fled to college winters that akin
have gone awry.
She fled above the plains where women sing
The heartfelt painful songs of love that stings
The iron bells of Sunday callings ring
for queens and kings.
Above the castle's walls the coldness casts
and dancing snowflakes fly to years before
where trees saluted his departing masts,
for e'er ashore.
Forsooth her shape outlined above the field
Where flowers blossomed in the air and smiled
The quiet dusk her heart sedately healed
Across their Summer lay the swaths of scythe
the mowing ended and a wedding song
two wraiths recite, thus on the wheatfield lithe
for e'er belong.
© Gautami Phookan 10-18-2014, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic pentameter - Iambic dimeter)
Revision: Giorgio A. V.
Poem | |
You question duskiness "Whereas he be?"
Be careful pal; he hides behind the tree!
Inside the sneaky shades he aptly lurks
because you've drunk too many Cuty Sarks.
You, silly chump! You're shaking on your feet;
Contele Dracula* and tough tidbit
exists inside your foolishness' resource
and punishes your wrongs without remorse.
Excess in drinking could be bad for you;
tis not that you'll become a drunk boo-hoo
but he'll metamorphose to baseball bat
and if you drink again, he'll kick your butt.
I know you're stupefied and very scared
cause Gigi hides in pizza boxes where'd
jump up, if thee besotted be and fool,
and then consume your pizza, super-cool.
Admit it, dude! You're shivering in fear!
But if you prayed he would disappear,
expect him to start dancing everywhere-s,
and jingle, so, his spurs upon your stairs.
Ha ha! Hill Billy, you! Outside your house,
behind the pumpkins, sound the irked meows:
bewildered Gigi cats will jump ahead,
inside your car and on your empty head.
You should, thus, paint your house pistachi'o green
cause if you stall before your PC screen
he'll haunt the lines of your poetic calls
and bats will eat your order of spring rolls.
© 10-02-2014, G. Phookan, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
* Contele Dracula = Count Dracula in Romanian
Poem | |
The sea-waves touch your open palms;
along the shore, blue waters bid
when stormy sea henceforth becalms,
and tide engulfs what skies forbid.
When solemn eyes their oaths avow
and roses beckon on your dream,
reach out and find his drifting prow
aboard your trip's perpetual stream.
Cause thoughts, like boats, may drift amiss;
for those who lived in old realms,
eternal love's confession is,
the touch of sea, upon the palms.
Cause those beloved, forever pledge
since prior times,
and search those loves on skyline's edge
who kissed their eyes.
© G.V. 12.08.2013 All rights reserved
Poem | |
Our seaward route defines the night's mistrust,
recites untruths, upon the waters' wakes,
the brines transmit inside the breeze my past,
with demons transferring my last mistakes.
They are my ocean pals! From dark sea depths
they jump and dance inducted like buffoons,
and holding violins or brass trumpets,
they gallivant around with looney tunes.
Meanwhile the stars, elusive, send their spark,
my pals embark on boats with wooden laughs,
discerning critics of our ghostly barque,
where waxen maids regale on moon's behalf.
Some lovely group! Night's theater folklore,
with drunk musicians and chords distuned,
who awkward smile with swollen lips to yore,
in front of a half-hidden laughing moon.
They sing for me! Hoarse sounds, guitars' slack strings,
brass horns, vociferous trombones and lyres;
my joker pals in airy jumps they sing,
transmitting brassy, foolish laughs and tears.
And dancing they absorb my stare and thought,
with anchor amulets that neck-chains hold
away they glide, like seaport prayers besought,
upon magnificent of seas to voyage bold.
Saluting me, a dancer higher jumps
('mid pandemonium tunes - on marble delf!)
and as the laughing chorus plays paeans,
avaunt he sails resembling myself.
© 01-03-2012, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
Poem | |
He walked along the beach a man forlorn
Forgotten were his dreams, his heart was torn
The gentle waves spoke of the years gone by
And drew salt water down from saddened eye
He saw some driftwood lying on the shore
It sparked his interest and he longed for more
He touched it gently, to his great delight
Sandalwood he’d found: passion to ignite
The need to carve once more came to his mind
A joy he’d lost and could no longer find
He took it home, that battered piece of wood
With hopes to turn it into something good
A mane of hair took shape beneath his hands
Flowing waves of curly wooden strands
Round shoulders of the woman of his dreams
And breasts and waist of beauty carved supreme
Gracefully her form began to take on shape
When he was done he stood there mouth agape
She was a goddess made of his desire
A love for her consumed him like a fire
At night he wished upon a falling star
She’d come to life and chase his sorrows far
He looked at her before he fell asleep
And smiled for he’d forgotten how to weep
He felt a stirring there beside his bed
A presence seemed to hover near his head
He looked upon his statue now in flesh
Her body like a breeze was young and fresh
She pressed her lips so gently over his
“I need to tell you, love, listen to this
I was discarded, battered, wounded sore
I chose to be a part of life no more
You saw in me my hidden beauty fine
Your wish has reached the heart of the Divine
I stand before you, answer to your prayer
Sent to give you love and tend’rest care.”
She kissed his lips, and veiled him in her hair
His tears she wiped, this answer to his prayer
With him she lay, her breast his pillow sweet
The richest fare of sandalwood, his treat
What else transpires is curtained from our sight
Burning sandalwood…..scents the glowing night
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Poem | |
Floating beauty, she glides across the lake.
Her gown flutters in the wind with each stride.
It feels like a dream but I am awake.
This vision comes to me on gentle tide.
I take her hand as she steps on the shore.
She says, "I'm yours to do with as you please."
"What you dream of, I can promise much more!"
Her gown drops and blows away on the breeze.
Gentle curves beckon for me to explore.
Her skin pale white welcomes lustful caress.
I give and give and still she begs for more!
Power beyond my own I must confess.
For I am nothing but a mortal man!
Power flowing from a secret hot place.
To gain human seed was part of her plan.
Looking content she leaves without a trace.
For Georgio's Iambic verse contest.
I am not well experienced with this form but thought I would try.
Written Sept, 29th 2014 by Richard lamoureux.
Poem | |
kiss upon my face
The dim lights shine above the asphalt roads,
while midnight shines its blackish hue of smalt;
I knew the Northern ranges' nightly codes,
the dissonance of hurting stars and vault.
Above the melted ice the sky's grimace
has sent the birds to emigrate for life;
some scattered neon lights and epigraphs,
advert with street signs like a cutting knife.
And so, dispersed they are, at random thrown,
while sky descended on the station's ell,
escaping light, the landscape is windblown
and Greyhound buses round me, roaring dwell.
The Abyssos has opened to engulf
my stare and thoughts; she aggregates above;
the windy howl resounds alike a wolf
that greets this season with his wrong octave.
Her form excogitates where light bedims,
immense her depth that prunes with freezing wit,
bequeathing darkness on the decks and brims,
becomes the destination of our grit.
I saw her in that depth, a symbol grave;
have never known who listened, laughed or wept;
but knew the swirl of flakes on my enclave,
the nimbus quilt that covered those who slept.
The trees became this landscape's odd gendarmes,
and thin, persistent drops my features trace,
their cold and faithful call my void soul charms,
with its relentless kiss upon my face.
© 10-17-2011, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
Poem | |
Composed, my dreams embrace, then fade
with memories, quite undefined
returning nights, upon the shade
when clocks are wound, and sun reclines
When weariness is not enough
to lie alone, to sleep again,
the darkest ghosts, upon the cliffs
return as if I've begged them in
Appearing with unspoken words
to pull the quilt from tender bones
to race the heart, and pace the halls
and magnify what 's come and gone
For in the dark, a voice is clear
It calls to me, and I can hear
where loneliness has been my friend
and clearer than I could recall
I've pulled apart a scab disturbed
as if it were an angry wound
and somewhere in the distant world
a part of me has never healed
By light of day, you are gone
I'm still alive, again alone
Yet hovering within the mist
with sunlight slipping down the trees
I'll brush my hair, ignoring ghosts
to welcome sleep, becoming lost
Poem | |
The tears well up, and scarce could she not moan
When father, brother, husband, all have died.
She now has no possessions, neither home,
But travels to a distant, unknown land:
Once so secure, yet now compelled to roam;
Once rich in love, she treads through foreign sands.
Her weary feet move forward but by faith;
For all left to her name is mere belief:
Mind, heart so far away she seems a wraith-
Love, happiness- all taken by a thief.
When, sometime since, her heart had broke in two,
The path of life, once single, parted way;
Forsake she could, but this she would not do-
All else was gone- with mother she would stay:
"Intreat me not to leave thee," was her plea,
"For whither thou wilt go, there will I; pray
Forbid me not to follow after thee,
For where thou lodgest I would also stay:
"Thy people shall be mine, thy God my God;
And where thou liest, I will gladly lie
Beside thee, overhead the selfsame sod;
That even then thou mightest be closeby.
"And so they twain walk on, hand clasped in hand;
Both hold the only thing they yet possess:
The younger but a stranger in the land,
An enemy, a widow in distress.
She rose before the sun to find a place
Where she might gather barley ears and wheat;
A field where she might find some needed grace
To gather for their winter store of meat:
Then Boaz comes from Bethlehem, and see,
He tarries with the reapers of the wheat:
He comes to Ruth and says, "Hear'st not thou me?
Remain until the harvest is complete:
"Go not from hence, but in my fields abide,
And let thine eyes be on the field they reap;
Behold, these maidens thou may'st work beside,
And near the reapers thou may'st ever keep."
Then to her face she fell, and wond'ringly
Asked why to her, a stranger, was so kind;
And he replied that she unfailingly
Had cleaved unto her mother with one mind,
And left her father, mother, and the soil
Of her nativity, and kissed the dust
Of some strange land wherein she meant to toil;
Forsaking gods of Moab God to trust:
"The Lord," said he, "reward thee for thy deeds,
And recompense thy labour and thy love:
The God of Israel answer all thy needs,
And make his wings a shelter from above."
Then said the maid, "My lord, please let me find
Some grace and favour in thy blessed sight,
For that thou hast been friendly, spoken kind,
And I am but a stranger in the night."
Then Boaz said, "At mealtime here abide;
Rest in the shade, come, sit with us and dine:
So down she sat, a reaper on each side;
She ate her wheat and dipped her bread in wine.
Then Ruth arose, and to her work she leaves:
The master thus commands his servant men,
"Let this young maid glean e'en among the sheaves;
Rebuke her not, for she shall come again;
And let some handfuls fall onto the ground,
There let them lie for my sake and for hers
That she may glean and plenty may be found;
For reasons she has need of it are pure."
And as she worked, Ruth knew not what a sight
Of beauty and of diligence she made,
As in the golden field in sunset's light
She bowed her head and knelt as if she prayed.
It came to pass that in his fields she stayed
Until the end of barley harvest came,
When mother told the lovely little maid
To seek for his provision and his name.
She washed and dripped an oil filled with sweet
Perfumes of wild roses on her face:
She had not much; her beauty was complete
With but her finest clothes to seek his grace.
Her braided hair shone brighter than the gem
That never graced her soft and shapely form;
Her eyes, they sparkled brighter than the hem
Of gold and pearls that she had never worn:
Thus Ruth went down unto the threshing floor
Where Boaz winnowed barley till the night,
And peeked at him so shyly 'round the door;
She never let him leave her searching sight.
His workday done, the master ate and drank;
With happiness his heart was full when fed:
Then by a heap of wheat he went and sank
Into the furry robes that made his bed;
And Ruth, a while watching till he sleep
Kept vigil from a stone used as a seat,
Till when his eyes had closed and sleep was deep
She lifted up the cover from his feet
And softly laid her down and dreamed of brides
Until the watchman struck a dozen beats,
And being startled, Boaz woke and spied
A woman sleeping at his very feet:
"Who art thou?" queried he in sleepy voice;
"Thine handmaid, Ruth," was her unsure reply;
Then blessed he her for wise and kindly choice,
For passing poor and rich young fellows by.
"And now, my daughter, gladly shall I do
According to thy wishes, for all here
Consider thee as virtuous and true;
Howbeit, there is one to thee more near,
A kinsman who must duly have his say:
If he decline, then rest assured I will
Perform the part of kinsman." So she lay
Down at his feet, and both were quiet, still.
In grey of early morning she arose,
Before a face could be discernéd there;
To keep from what some people might suppose
And who might stand along the road to stare:
Then Boaz said, "Bring here the vail thou hast
Upon thy head and hold it in thy hand:
Six times the barley measure filled and passed
From heap to vail as much as she could stand.
Then Boaz went up to the city gate
To find the nearer kinsman, whom he sought,
To see if he would purchase the estate
Of Ruth, and she herself, but he could not;
So Boaz purchased all the widows' land;
The houses, barns, and fields, though overgrown;
And bought what pleased him most, Ruth's comely hand
To cherish and to make his very own:
Then Boaz went to find the handmaid, Ruth
And lift her from a servant to a wife;
To love her in all tenderness and truth
In every day God blessed them both with life.
[By Isaiah Zerbst. Published 9/7/14. Parts of poem have been removed due to soup's limitations.]
Poem | |
She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.
We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".
One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.
A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in;
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.
I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.
How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
Poem | |
I smile and feel the wind massage my face
Then close my eyes to smell the fresh sea air
The seagull’s wings catch wind then float with grace
A day on Sylt can wash away all care.
I love to see the changing of your tide
Then feel your mud squeeze gently through each toe
You steal my breath your rippled surface wide
Now baring gifts of sea shells as you go.
When you return your rushing waters swirl
And take back all your precious jewels too
I watch in wonder as your wavings curl
And I’m in awe just at the sight of you
Now lying on your sand I watch each cloud
They tell me stories changing forms for me
Today the Greek Gods sat there very proud
As if they wanted all the world to see
The sun has bent down low to take a drink
Now thirsty from his journey through the sky
He dips his head in waters turning pink
Then quickly disappearing shuts his eye
Oh, isle of Sylt your sandy beaches fair
Invite me to return and taste your shore
The salty waters where I’ll sit and stare
Oh, isle of Sylt I’m knocking at your door
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Contest: Iambic Verse II
Poem | |
Oh, why must you of love be so afraid?
To hide behind the wall of broken dream
For once your love was callously betrayed
And now you will not bathe in passion’s stream
I wait for time with truth to curse that lie
That faithfulness illusive must remain
You think, unloved, that LOVE to you must die
And so you close your heart and nurse the pain
Lie silent, love, and let me soothe your soul
You’re battle weary, made to feel like steel
Succumb to me and give to me control
My soothing touch is able hurt to heal
Unchanging is my love, a fervent fire
Condition it knows not, nor treachery
To bless you with contentment, its desire
If you but test, you’ll know its constancy
My love for you lies dormant for a time
I wait awakening of you to me
I fear you will not feel its heat: a crime
There is so much my love was meant to be
My love for you is pillow for your head
My love for you is food for famished frame
My love for you is peace on restful bed
My love for you is lust devoid of shame
Give in to me; give in to this my plea
Let down your guard and let me taste of you
My lips have longed to kiss what eyes can see
This love that fills my heart is love that’s true
Poem | |
For he who leans upon the ancient tree
In future’s shade, a thousand years from now
Will you engage a wrinkle in your brow
And ponder ore’ the death of fallen leaves?
Are we so not alike in fairness gained
Or time might choose to forge us enemy?
Would cloak, or hair, or skin, a different blend
Invite those eyes to shun away from me?
If first, those born, have greater weight to bear
Or yours, one day, the lift more heavy lot
Each step by step, we travel blind and torn
Do crossroads come the same or some are not?
Will one day find you leaning by a tree
And find a stone beneath the powdered dust
And wonder if it once belonged to me
To think it bone, or questions turned to rust?
Iambic Pentameter........By Carrie Richards
Poem | |
Embrace my love
Aboard he heard her words amidst the deck's cold winds,
he watched her pictured smile, upon the shelf,
"embrace my love when tides, lone shores engulf
as soon as grayish dusk descends on ripened fields."
Upon their rose, abandoned garden coldness casts,
two forms reshape next to the lightless hearth,
much of a void projects above his berth,
her saddened eyes to stare at his departing masts.
A wind-harp voice recalls throughout his time on bridge,
alludes her words when night befalls to dark,
"embrace my love, outside my sorrow's barque,
and after sun comes down, behind a distant ridge."
"embrace me when the currents controvert your route,
with sacred love our bonding I'll regale,
my song will reach you at the oak gunwale,
and shall transform the winds to flawless notes of flute."
© G. V., 11-09-2013, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic alternative Hexameter-Pentameter lines)
Poem | |
Cherokee (Tall Warrior of Tanasi)
White smoke ascends above the distant hearths
the softness of the cold, inside connotes;
while snow continues spreading on the earth,
his spotted chestnut snorts, and vapor floats.
Concerned the stalwart stares above the land
where snow flakes in the winter gust rotate
the herds of buffalo tracked down and strand
-were forced to move ahead and relocate.
The Ag'tanahi-Anisgaya words fly
with crows' invisible fast wings and stray,
they guide his solemn spirit to reply
to calls, the sovereign woods and night convey.
The Warrior of Tanasi harks the sough,
the trees conduct to him along the slope,
what precognitions in the ether strew,
who has the wisdom will translate pines' trope.
The winds transmit the ancestors' same song
to the Tanasi of the Cherokee, Tall soul,
inside the woods they dance with snow along
repetitive crows winging and skies' call.
Inside the night he drifts along death's fare
where sacrifice redeems itself with pride
The Greater Spirit shall bestow his care,
for the Tanasi kindred, will provide.
© G. V., 11-07-2013, All Rights Reserved
Ag'ta na hi = wise
A ni s ga ya = men
Poem | |
The rain began with striking thunder noise,
the falling drops were pelting on his head;
his bomber's jacket, after shave and poise
anticipated just, her tall spikes' tread.
Her stumbling light steps were quick and graced;
- oh, sightly maid, that fondling drops wet,
he smiles; she smiles, so rarified and laced,
her acrobatic charm and walking fret.
Her wet, Venusian bends enthrall his brain;
those curvatures must be explored and felt,
his tips will tangle in her moistened mane,
her feminine perfume and garter belt!
Athletic is his run upon the quay,
as lightning strikes around, of Zeus wrath,
in style he throws his rendezvous bouquet,
her manicured lithe fingers long to catch!
A flash demolishes the rose bouquet,
another strikes upon his buckle's brass;
resembling Nureyev at ballet
with Dame Fonteyn, he proves his dancing class!
She joins his dance beneath November's rain;
thus, he forebodes her lustful flames and cries,
uncorking the Dom Pérignon champagne,
receives a third flash on his manly prize.
Embraced they dance beneath the rain and kiss
Mille-feuille creamed her finger tips, will fuss
to tease his buds, while deponent his lips
descend to slowly taste her "Charlotte Russe".
© 11-24-2013, All Rights Reserved
(humorous-erotic-light poetry-Iambic pentameter)
Sponsor: Charlotte Puddifoot
Contest Name: Charlotte's Scorchers: Erotic/Sensual Poetry
The mille-feuille is a creamy pastry of French origin.
* Charlotte Russe:
Charlotte Russe is a cold dessert of Bavarian cream set
in a mold lined with ladyfingers.
Poem | |
The Ship (Her Soul, the Sea)
Foreshadowing the dusk, appeared immense,
magnanimous the skylines sent the ship,
its blackened sight embossed the thought and sense
of sailors that imagined its long trip.
The ship's black smoke ascended to the skies
from supercilious tall funnels, smog
bestowed its sacrificial offing size
to sovereign Gods that lived inside the fog.
In front of us, the ship's displacement thrilled
approaching thus magnificent the moors;
Her Soul, the Sea, and eulogy that killed,
relentlessly enticed, through dark allures.
The night descended when the ship's steel gaze
examined curious and measured me,
proposing wedlock and a fate of blaze,
my competence, demanding, in the sea.
Across the Straits, young Lady Sadness kissed
with ripping cold my twenty years and eyes,
resembling Her Soul, the Sea, amidst
the Northern winds that howled and life's demise.
© 10-15-2013, G.Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
Poem | |
Chicken Cot UFO
It crossed the gloaming skies above the roofs,
in awe we followed then, its jazzy course;
mysterious would be the incensed spoofs
this ireful ship, upon us, would enforce.
..We said! Abominable was the ship
that traced its gaudy eights in air with hum;
predestined to avenge our ego trip,
atrocious poulets, would not succumb.
The chicken soldiers were a frightful troop
in pink-pistachio uniforms with spots,
that insolent, bombarded us with moop,
to hit our heads that were devoid of thoughts.
In order to placate the chicken troop,
some started to recite their verse to skies;
confronting that attacking chicken group,
- bird poems they opposed to battle cries.
The angry war-birds listened to the verse,
that was composed by stunned, exposed confreres,
their cackle was bemocking and adverse,
- upon their heads they wore rouge voluperes.
This myth reflected what would happen if
extraterrestrial cots invaded Earth,
relentless chicken-birds in martial tiff
would moop upon some artists of top worth.
© 12/11/2013, G. Venetopoulos
moop = Matter Out Of Place
Poem | |
Rain's Essence (Hera's ancient fires)
The glare of Hera's fire, preceded nimbus' spill,
her priestess' form, elated dampness in his sight,
behind the smoke he sensed the sky's evoking quill
- he felt the sacrificial flames' and offing's rite.
The solstice summer feasts, embrace night's border-lines,
the twenty third of June, all gracious maids inspires,
and thunderous the lightning strikes while dark confines
the land of ancient scape and tall retention's fires.
The scent of ozone is effused across night's still;
indefinite the distance spreads along rain's trace,
infinitesimal her blessing drops distill
fresh mistle touch of fingertips upon his face.
Defiant moor, where darkness sieges skyline calls,
he breathes the necking rain's small dimpling of prayer;
how distant are, the island shapes and tidal shoals,
maids' dreams transform to silver light and rainy fare?
He upwards stares; where drops' trajectories extend,
embellishing the paths to feasts, June skies return,
rain's essence contacts him, he breathes horizons' blend
and Hera's ancient fires that crackling still burn.
© G. V., 11-13-2013, All Rights Reserved
Hera was the Goddess of June (Hera=Juno in Latin), and her feast was on Midsummer (what Christians called the St John's Day). Midsummer is the period of time centered upon the summer solstice, and more specifically the Northern European celebrations that accompany the actual solstice or take place on a day between June 21 and June 25 and the preceding evening. During the celebration fires were lit, and each maid would receive foretelling about the worthy young man that was to marry her)
(info taken from
author: Giorgio V.
Sponsor: nette onclaud
Contest Name: FRAGRANCE OF RAIN