Best Lechery Poems
PIGEONS OF LOVE
I was at the wrong place
At the wrong time
You were at the right place
At the right time
I was in need
You were in greed
I was incapable
You were enable
When I was weak
You gave me strength
When I needed to speak
You listened
But it was all a scam
All the sweet talks were sham
Just to satisfy all your lechery
My whole life is in misery
@Copyright Meline Ngo. September 9, 2015
Did you tire of one President's lecturing and preaching?
Do you cringe at another's tweets, his lechery and "leechering?"
Then as George W Bush Jr's term fades from the annals of recency
Let us recall the stirring words of this man of abiding decency
"Junior" as the USA's President was a bit of an anomaly
As he observed: "I know how hard it is to put food on your family." (Jan, 2000)
It was rather hard to take his Presidency all too seriously
After this: "I know the human being and fish can coexist." (Sept., 2000)
For education, he and Laura shared a passion, a yearning
To wit: "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?" (Jan, 2000)
Of course, Bush could also be sharp as a tack, downright uncanny
Like the time he bragged, "They misunderestimated me!" (Nov, 2000)
And after eight years in office, "W" had become quite the orator
As seen in this reflection: "I think I was unprepared for war, --er." (Dec, 2008)
So there you have it, a smattering of evidence
~ That speaking the King's English is not required of a President
Flood is a very common occurrence in Bangladesh
Due to its position and altitude.
In-spite of its all experience and forecast,
The country always falls in awkward situation,
When flood comes with all its loud and lechery.
1966, 1970, 1987, 1988, 1998 ?and 2007 in 20th century
Deadly flood barred Bangladesh beastly.
Flood situation-2017 in Bangladesh
Is much ravenous, catastrophic all over the country,
More starving in the north Bengal.
Already left few hundreds people dead.
Many people are suffering with their
Cattle, children and old member of the family.
Food crisis is acute there, cooking is impossible,
As their huts already got swamped and liquidated.
Lakdi by which they cook have been soaked,
Dry food and emergency medicine they now need
Are being made available in a slow pace by the organizations.
And no place now spared there inundated
To stay in, let alone sleep or associate.
To come out from the saddening situation
We need collective efforts,
But lack of political concomitance
And for religious selfishness it is very difficult to
Let all assets and hands to be functional at a time.
We feel our world is a village, so, any disaster happen
In any corner of the world is all’s responsibility.
We are living now in a very connected world,
Anybody’s grievance is everybody’s concern,
So, we can hope no calamity is stronger than
Our collective efforts, our collective emotion and responsibility.
In the human equation,
life's reduced to statistics.
It's the patterns that matter,
zero or one, on or off.
Confronting indifference,
fear festers into anger.
And gnawing pangs of hunger
force the soul to question sin.
As lechery deals in flesh,
hypocrisy sets the price.
And a substitute for love,
lust is an expensive dish.
Reality demeans dreams
while embracing fantasy.
And buries encrypted truths
waiting to be deciphered.
Genetically linked, we're
individually cast.
Yet our programmable lives
are governed by statistics.
The death penalty.
What a laugh
And their pulling on strings
To keep this going
As their money bags swing
Lifelessly
From left to right.
How dare they take an old mans
Walking stick.
How dare they beat their wives,
Breaking the rule of thumb.
What catastrophe could place
This sodden child in their
Arms tonight.
She withers with fright
And is ever watchful of
The innkeeper
Who is paying his debt
To society with offhand eyes.
It is not the pangs of living
That silences her pleading.
Nor is it the throttler
With his sweaty palms so bleak.
It's not the putrid taste of
Tomorrows casualties
Or the attempts to stop the bleeding.
It is the innkeeper
Who is regarded as the man who
Sells perjury by the mouthfuls.
The innkeeper
With his iron stomach and
Scruples drunk
On sloth and negligence.
This wear and tear child
Can spot his hands through
The arched back of her manipulator.
His knuckles are white.
His knuckles are screaming
And singing the song of lechery
While he's avoiding whimpers
Of an exploited adolescent.
Avoiding interrogation.
It’s unfortunate that we are living past the age of romanticism. It’s as if in our busy lives we don’t have time to make time to let moments intertwine. We are workaholics and hedonist who forgot to appreciate that love exists.
We are a couple decades over the time where the hearts use to frequently blossom and more than passion was the outcome. Instead we pay more attention to Hollywood heartbreaks and gossip. Stories of lust and mistrust that give love a bad name. Soap-opera clichés where to apply the word 'cliché' would be cliché.
When it comes to affection our conscience are unconscious. The mind's treachery leading to heart's lechery are the components of nonsense that leave the soul no longer autonomous .
Then there’s the other side of the story of those who look for glory, trying to find congruent atriums and ventricles.
Those lonely individuals whose only finds happen to be asymmetrical.
Those that live for love, those that lust love and can’t ignore it, also those who die for it.
It’s that common misconception that their next lover will be their last.
It’s the repetitive mistakes that made their next lover the same as their last.
It’s the entangled bonds between two roses that are divine. We comprehend not that we are diatoms in Diotima’s explanation of a love story.
There’s no acknowledgement of platonic love.
No demonstration of admiration for the family unit, friends and all the experiences we undergo.
It’s out of resource and need that Eros grows.
A gardener should be there to watch their seed grow.
It’s out of love that we should plant our rose.
They said we are monkeys of the first order
that they found us grimpering from branch to branch-
they said they found us in our wildest state-
unredeemed and unrefined like crude oil.
They said we were but a primitive breed
No more important as the dirt beneath their feet.
Yet still, our land furnished their barn
Their very women run to our lands for tan-
They holiday here and have taken upon themselves
those very primitvities they had so decried-
They have come begging, to be among us
for their own lands have been defiled tenfold
By the lust of man after man
gross Lechery of woman after woman-
All, the decadence of their society.
Since they have defiled their lands
and made it a haven for the antichrist
They have run to our sweet land
with unfathomable plans in their hand.
Lord bless Africa.
By Gerald Nforche
Lifeless, I lie here
On the bed of lust
Under the beefy quilt
of mounting shame
With oozing hurt
And fading flame
To feed your lechery
with drops of salaciousness
Behind the closed doors
of raging prurience
As the rays of sun melt
In the heart of burning sky
I lay self down in gloom
And crouch down at your sight
As I bow, you drag me down
To feed your hungry soul
With the tender flesh
Of my puerile charm
And strangled glow
when the moon shines
Over the dying remains
Of my ebbing mind
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My interpretation of the portrait named 'Sleeping Child'
http://www.stephaniedeshpande.com/porfolio/
A FINE LINE BETWEEN DEVIANCE & PASSION
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders love and lechery
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not etched in sand, as that can be dissolved with the tide
The line is bold, but the boldness dissipates in darkness
This line is horizontal and vertical at the same time
Not a cross
Although a cross is sometimes used to measure the thickness of the line
There is a fine line between dipsomania and moderation
The same line separates the happy revelers from the sad sots
The gate should be kept closed at all times
It is not locked, as combinations can be forgotten with time
The line is electrified, but insulation forms in acceptance
The line is angled and curved at the same time
Not a circle
Although a circle is the trap for the poor soul who strays across the line
There is a fine line between life and death
The same line forms the edge of sin’s cold knife
The blade unsheathed reflects the disappearing line
It is a sharp and distinct line one moment and then in the next it is blurred
The line bends when we want it to bend in our weakness
The line is not infinite
Not a universe
Although the universe is too small to hold the line
There is a fine line between forgiveness and grudge
The lines of our words cross over and then return
The damage is done and then the line is broken
It is too slippery to allow us to hold on for a lifetime
The line intertwines with other lines
The line is only as strong as its weakest fiber
Not invincible
Although destruction is often the only solution to crossing the line
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders the moral and immoral
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not given to us, but is self-created in our prayers
The line enters our head and divides the mind
The line is in a book, a song or a poem
Not fiction
Although the line between fiction and truth is often hard to discern
Write a poetry about a beggar
Tow hair - Heath Beard
Sludge - dirt covered ;
oh ! lord do not turn off face
open heart humanity eyes
throw coins if you have
Moreover, I am a beggar!
Write poetry about Scrap selective boys
A sege a while rice
Nest blown birds
sitted your mouth watered papers;
oh ! lord do not abuse
Tears coming into heart
rice to be fed
Moreover, I am a rag-selective boy ..!
Write poetry about the baby charity
Touch someone's satisfaction
depreciated my lechery of birth
Agape - affection deprived;
oh ! lord do not turn off face
to the heart of love
Give your liking
Moreover, I am charity boy .. I!
Write poetry about the slave
Not born in the wrong stomach
helpless is investment
Fight standing in front of the rich;
oh ! lord do not turn off your face
If the humanity of human beings, regardless of
give equality, If possible
moreover, I am a slave to God ..!
Write poetry witty poem,
teen-age about emotion
love sex - dreams package;
oh! Lord ….
do not encourage with me sound claps
give words to stable life
moreover, I am one of you ...!
-Ravi Murnad,INDIA
One being powerful sexual desire.
In my human sexuality
I have a biological urge and, needs.
lechery
lecherousness
lasciviousness
LUST
A standard function that was taken out of context
Negative straits that dictate
Lust and Love
To ouch sinfully what's not yours
Though words the same
Only one-word controlling in sin
carnality
lewdness
licentiousness
Like looking at a woman/man
In admiration over in abundant
Displaying and urgent contrary desire for one's not yours
Being sinful and not pure
Love and Lust
Do not touch
Though words the same
Only one word God ordains
Love is deep affection with control
A fondness with Godly intent to future hold
Hopes of tenderness
warmth
intimacy
Love is attachment
endearment
devotion spiritually
Love is adoration
doting
idolization
Love is passion
adorn
desire
yearning
infatuation
Yet in this premise
There are order patients and trust
Love and lust
Share the same house
But only love is a home
adulation
compassion
Caring
solicitude
Love and Lust
Do not touch
Though words the same
Only one word God ordains
6/30/20
Love or Lust Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: D.W. Rodgers
Stressed out of the monuments of inclination.
The strokes of desire, her urge sought to relish.
Starved dim in all embodiment of mortality.
The line drawn f discipline was faded in tincture.
A yearning passion fr lechery in negativity.
As she basked off morality for selfishness,
such consciousness of a groom was swept in miles.
Misconduct in unfaithfulness defying fidelity.
Selfish interest baked on the iced soul of man.
She had strayed off the doctrines of perfidiousness.
Wandered the streets of sin to venture into more sins.
She has tied on a cloak of secrecy for a better forth.
Bought her silence with thoughts of happiness,
Denying her soul ta free conscience for the best.
- - - -
To the gardens. . . of celebration!
- - - -
As the birds chirped,
the sunlit golden,
the merry cries of
glee, for upon this
day a proclamation
of love ever-after. Though
ne'er yet had the
splendor been sighted,
jestered by many a perchance
of foolish folly,
a fellowship to the King.
Unbeknownst, a
yield to the forbiddance
of Hecate's personification
and a dire love of
familiar waft.
"For thee, upon the
hour of striking,
our quartet, profound,
still-born, the
forfeiture lag, our
gentile courtship,"
a voice of princely charm
did vesper.
"Taken aback, my
blossoming serenity,
tears of burden and
crying shame, the
kingdom and its
dungeon," Geinere's
essence declared.
"What'st thou speak of?"
The sentiments of a
conceited King.
Geinere, her mind
ailing, fever and
nausea coarsened
her. Sorrowful
thoughts of arrogance
and its unquenching
tale. Tragedies and
the grievances there
upon, for whom so
yet to embark.
Tears began to
stream down poor
Geinere's flush cheeks.
Her soul tarnished
amidst the excitement
of triumph and the
beckoning woes of
peasant parry royalty.
This dreadful day
lacking of divinity.
For there no poorer
game of betrayal
and scarred virtue,
than this sorrowful eve. . .
of bitter scorn,
and hateful deceit.
For a night
of beggar's delight,
the handsome prince
Alarumdives, maiden
Geinere, and a celebration
aye the more kisses
pricked ne'er a secret
scurvy. Hence,
a hidden barbaso,
royalty betaking an
ensigns way of lechery
to those of lower
chaste, welcoming a
jarrago of arousal,
silence. . . mischievous
silence, hastened only
by a King made bitter.
For his son's charm
and admiration, he
would pronounce his
demand for respect.
For surest upkeep his
pride and majesty,
an undertaking of
bane, as the waves
of splendor, owe.
The teeth are dry.
It is Silken Thomas
muffling for promises
among the rats in his straw,
jostling for a hand,
once wielding but now
scratching the toes of power.
The tongue leather bitten,
studded with the supplication to You.
A lament of request,
where a crumpled
cluster of bones saddens.
We can’t only touch the fingers,
it is the dust that we pray to.
Skellig harbours the aping of Him,
the attempt to elbow and impress,
to crack a languid smirk somewhere, somehow.
Bless us with crusts and drinking water,
a hard bed and no doubt,
for these thy gifts.
Tertullian calm in Tibet,
Cork bet and the hay saved,
a good death for the Blackfoot Shamen:
all the islands of possibility
chipped in Easter heads.
There are nebuli in half breaths
and in the vacant thoughts of man
we spawn vaticanus, Giza, Picchu.
A rattle of stones stacked by bones,
their names will sometime hurt us.
Poor half naked Thomas,
breathing on the kindness of strangers,
with his five uncles shivering
on the whim of one.
We are drenched in his fear,
in his fall, in his beauty cracked to stink,
in his soiled fashion.
Our guts rejoice like a pleasure sickness,
vomiting lechery. 10th Earl of Kildare,
loved by the wrong ones and too young,
your prayer is heard,
though it throbs at your heart like a wound.
Our school story is brief,
your prayer echoes still.
"For the mighty woes
of our desperation,
our much need'd embark,
an appraisal of
valor. I must
lead this army
to uphold virtue."
Prince Alarumdives
strode upon, seeking
the contempt of his
desires. The King and
his bastard portrayal,
left feelings of emptiness,
though closed.
Upon awaiting the
outcome of this
mighty showing, he
did bring forth
the maiden, Geinere.
"Your blasphemies supposed,
confuse me woman.
Conjurer of elementals,
this sudden mise of
war. How you? How
you Geinere?"
"A dove's cry, a
looming hawk, nowhere
to be found, this
bit of fear, for your
filth and dishonor,
I will concede.
I am at no mercy
for you, this meditation
of murder and failing
innocence. . . ."
II.
For the tempest
and its accusal.
The portrayal at
no delay. Be it
sorrowful, melancholic,
poor Geinere, her
burgeoning grave,
the king's declaration.
"Poorest dear, the
gleeful glances you will,
appreach'd of lechery,
this wise King fallen
upon."
""These battles brought
upon this kingdom
from afar. . . the Gods,
surely their vengeance
for this decadence
and disgrace!" Geinere
spoke with Venusian
flame.
"You, oh glorious
you Geinere,
debauched, acts
of such mindful
lusts, betrayal, a
moment's freedom
no more, imprisonment,
mischievous!"
To no delay,
Geinere, under way.
For the mournful
maiden, the deceitful
treachery, so falsely
accused, this bitter
resolution, patience
her virtue.
Geinere, speaking
sharply as her pride
erupted, questioning
the royalty she was
to respect and admire.
"Why, why this unfathomable
beast, and its deafening
capture, the hypocrisy
and its right, falling
from grace, may there
be victory, for my
Prince and his love.
The Gods, I do ask,
betaking repentance,
this kingdom of Martyr!"