Best Bashfulness Poems
The maids danced in the floral field.
So pretty were they in the sun.
Their bashfulness was slow to yield.
The maids danced in the floral field
With happiness while church bells pealed.
That happy day was filled with fun.
The maids danced in the floral field.
So pretty were they in the sun.
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1/24/2017
Contest - January 2019, Week 2,
Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor - Brian Strand
1st place win
Tattered clobbered thoughts streaming to winged dusts,
spiral spasms tremble amid weary sounds.
The festal moods swing dreary interludes,
visions ache release with defloration--
throaty cries heightens the greedy man's lust.
He longs to possess the murmur of blood
from naked images throbbing desires,
it surges -- tinged to his cerebellum.
Dark libertine drained his desirous juice--
madness stings deep-- displayed to his ardor.
Boorish bashfulness etched into each itch
cracking unto his left to right onslaught.
Finitude fair Venus choked with disgust
as she wriggles, wriggles to free herself!
Her wriggles useless from black libertine...
Pristine Venus fallen-- now wanting death.
©O. E. Guillermo
5:15pm December 05, 2014
Sponsor Giorgio A. V.
Contest Name Structured forms - Iambic verse - Sketch a fictitious character - (Top Gun Poetry)
Placed 6th
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
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Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
HAIKU #12,098-13,000.................................................ME, MYSELF, AND YOU
2B or not 2B
Not one to be complacent
My pen takes over
Serendipity -
Me and you with stern hand
Served simple abundance
So we face twilight
Me and you sans bashfulness
Decked stage lead actors.
*
Waiting. The minutes groan arduously.
Somehow, perhaps – my heart fails to beat
with the rush of your momentary attention.
Perched precariously on spikes
Flesh colored, yet artificial –
Manikin fingers, fidgeting.
Mournfully drenched in factious apology.
Our eyes meet briefly, then dart with bashfulness,
Choreographed precisely.
Words uttered repetitively from wine stained lips
Fill the tortuous silence – hesitantly.
Your hollow ghost memory, porous and unsubstantial.
'We can work at this, ' you finally choke
An unfamiliar innocence, grasping -
Your voice childlike in its simplicity.
And for a second, I recognized that old stranger.
I muster a skeptical nod – and smile limply, dismissively
Fingering the rim of my glass.
'And deceive ourselves with promises made before?'
I winced with audacity – impatient of your feeling,
As the words ripped your heart out clean.
You clear your throat in an effort to speak -
Those words never did surface...
My acid tongue, an all too familiar indulgence.
I raise hesitantly, your gaze fixated as I shrink.
A tormenting embrace, clothing saturated in your scent
Sodden with tears unshed.
Humoring your touch with finality –
An unspoken understanding sneered behind the mask.
Face taunt with incomprehension, as sorrow squeezed out the substance.
I avoid the depths of my black dying heart, defiantly.
Anemic with reluctance – I usher the door
A smiling parody of phantom reminisce -
Poisonous and seductive.
An enormous tear got away,
As you lay fragile and broken – bereft.
I’m sorry.
The lotus
of our passion
blossomed, petal by petal,
blushing pink,
caressed by moist misty morning-dew,
encircled by the amorous bees
buzzing in honey-sweet intoxication!
Musky smell of sweat slithers in the
valley of your bosom’s cleavage,
heaving my dizzy head
in the comfort of your lavish lap,
while waterfall of your brunette tresses
cascade on my flushed face.
Random jingles of your silver anklets
tickle my eager ears,
and my kisses linger
slowly sipping the sensuous wine.
from the chalice of your luscious lips!
As I open the curtains of your person.
my butterfly fingers flutter, in anticipation.
Bathing in diaphanous fog of bashfulness,
your nakedness envelopes mine -
and I wear you like my second skin
in hunt of hidden treasures
of physical pleasures!
Snakes of sensuality slither
in the burrows of engulfing groins
as we plunge into pits of rhapsody.
A stunning spectrum of erotic illusions
radiates in kaleidoscopic delirium
and our confluence bursts into
climax of charismatic colours…
Stalingrad
During moments I yearned for forests grown for me alone,
Caressing them in a dream,
I could sense the throbbing of the heart
Hidden beneath my ribs to bless my journey.
Summoning me with a pulse that he recognizes in me.
I heard the noise of abandoned smoke from a moment of care
Join with me,
Forcefully traversing desires to the hidden-most one.
My spirit swung toward him,
Creating a tingling
On lips that devour breaths alive.
I felt ashamed,
But the eye,
In moments—I scarcely know what to call them—that took me on another route
Toward the television, saw warplanes . . . spray death on them.
At that moment,
The fire of machine guns raked all the bodies,
And another fire raked my body when I trained my eye on him
Hesitantly inclining his head
Toward a shoulder unaccustomed to the secret of the stars of war
Or to insomnia.
Oh . . . . I leaned on it!
And when he caressed a dumbfounded person
I felt his fingers like coiling embers inside me.
Bashfulness seized the excuse this caress gave . . . and vanished,
Eliminating distance till the two of us were one.
And the eye—he moaned: May love not forgive her the eye—repeated another evasion
Toward a drizzle of men flung about in the air by just the rustling of a pilot penetrating a building
To fall on screens as the debris of breaking news.
But his breaths . . . shattering the still down of the cheek,
And turning their picture into mist as
Eddies of the screen’s corpses . . . varieties of death that they brought them.
The spirit that became a body,
The body that was sold for the sake of a touch,
The eye that was concealed in his image
And that approached the firebrand of conflagrations.
Everyone drawing close to everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone.
But the thunder of their machine guns splintered them:
Corpses piled on corpses,
I mean on me,
The eyes of those in it were extinguished.
They slept in a trench of silence.
My eyes’ lids parted in a wakefulness obsessed with them.
I rose … and embraced the chill
That the screens brought me in commemoration of Stalingrad.
Translated by William Hutchins
We are the Ignudi
unclothed, ebullient and energetic,
we lean and lunge, twist and turn
impervious to the imposition of ignominious imposters,
we are an expression of immortal youth
the athletes and auditors of God's court
unbound by banality or bashfulness
we listen and leer at those who stare
looking for secrets in this sacred ceiling,
in our faces you'll see the feelings
of primal awareness unadulterated by apprehension...
J.A.B.
Innocence
Never twisted guilt
Soberness, simple minded
Heartfelt
Young eyes blinked, bashfulness
No such things as monsters
Sleep tight
Sleep tight
No such things as monsters
Years dawned on
Mascara dripped
Troubled eyes
Losing hope now
Childhood days, fade away
They take me into darkness
Turn on the lights
Turn on the lights
Haunting nightmares
I looked under my bed
There was a monster
Staring right back at me
I jumped on my bed
Below my covers
I was scared as can be
Shaking at the image of what I have become
There's a monster in my bedroom
Yet I'm all alone
What is happening?
Life is changing
Life is changing
We are the monsters
We are the monsters
There was a mirror underneath my bed
Your eyes can't deny your reflection, it replays in your head
When we all grow up we become the monsters underneath our bed
Don't be scared
Don't be scared
We are the monsters
We are the monsters
We all grow up to be monsters in the end.
I am so tired and so unspeakably old
I have been bearing about me for centuries, this grief, this disappointment
Your covetousness, vanity, ambitions
Blurred the glow of the sun, the moon,
Your selfishness, greed
Stop the divine flight of birds
You don`t see the fawn`s bashfulness and loveliness
You don`t feel the sweet scent of lime trees in June
Have you ever admired grass weaving, flowers
And asked yourself what they want to say to you
While you were watching their modesty and beauty
Have you ever thought that hills and valleys hold something of your own in them
And sometimes, when your eyes drink in a sky of stars,
Do you see the compassion of my friends,
Because I am loaded with factories, garbage,
And shrouded in smoke, while my sea is boiling and weeping
I can`t condone your wickedness
My dreams are shattered
But I am here, because of the poets
Thousands and thousands of poets are singing about me
They are saying::- Fear no more
Fear no more, we are here!-
And while they are repeating these comforting words,
They are giving all my sorrows to the universe,
Which cries for this huge burden,
Renews, makes a fresh start
Forgives and forgets
But I am still here, because of the poets
fear
My eyes drink in a sky of stars
Sometimes I see them as lover`s stars
Sometimes as my best friends
Sometimes as frozen teardrops,
Shards of my shattered dreams
Laid bare in front of the cold, cruel world
But sometimes, I see my poems among the stars
They are clad into compassion, gentleness,
Bashfulness, modesty, beauty
They are so shy and strange,
Glad to be alone
And when they appear
My faith is rediscovered
And I find again
My own loving and forgiving God
He spoke,
He spoke in ways I’d never heard before,
Bashfulness clustered around “ma’am” and “sir.”
I thought I knew a lot about him, till he taught me more,
Which was great, at first–Spanish class had become a bore–
his Bosnian sweetness an enticing lure–
he spoke in ways I’d never heard before.
Soon every night I would find him at the door of my mind,
I’d pull him in, mind rushing, face blushing,
as he spoke in ways I’d never heard before.
With his hair, with his smile, but, above all, speech, I didn’t think that I’d let him go out the door again
because thoughts of him would never be a bore,
I thought I knew a lot about him, till he taught me more,
I could never hear his voice enough, till new words bore down hard—”visiting,” “girlfriend,” a nameless “her.”
He spoke in ways I’d never heard before.
I thought I knew a lot about him, till he taught me more.
My true self I have hidden,
And with bashfulness is ridden,
And all that I am feeling forms an ultra-silent sigh;
My throat contracts with dryness,
I am beaten up with shyness,
For what is going on within equates much more than meets the eye.
With resolve I try to fight it,
My tongue gets tied so tight it
Doesn't work to speak the sentences I need to amplify;
As I stammer and I falter
I pray for this to alter,
For what is going on within equates much more than meets the eye.
I must hope this writing reaches
As it begs and thus beseeches
With a vehemence of truth that I hope will clarify;
I would brave the very devil
For us to reach another level,
For what is going on within equates much more than meets the eye.
Sun-kissed autumn
colorful shimmering reflection
closing season of woodland romance
hand in hand they dance
whirling and twirling
in a tango dance
pure levels of vibrating frequency
enchanted by naked beauty
the blushing of red hue
the shyness of oranges
bashfulness of gold's glance
green remained neutral
not wanting to be free
dancing in the autumn breeze
with the other leaves.
if my shyness was a loquacious
heartbeat helping me to live,
would you give it a gentle massage
to help keep it alive
accentuation in certain aspects can
be so ridiculously overblown
so much so that the expressive inside
is often overlooked
if my bashfulness was an extrovert
helping me to express myself,
would you rub its belly to break up
the stressed flatulence
exclamatory undertones can have
such absurd overtones
so much so that the pathway to God's
Blessing almost always goes unnoticed