Best Lounges Poems
Leaves of the Dead
Les feuilles mortes
They fall like dead soldiers
Dreams knifed in the dead of night
It is as yesterday
Once more
Where love was kissing my cheek
Where hopes had dreams
One could see the blossom of loves desires
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
Ah now I am holding a cane
I have all but forgotten yesterday
I have no lovers
My friends have all but gone
To their designated places in the ground
Piano keys in soft lit lounges
I remember the vodka stingers and sultry singers
Telling me life was jolie oh so jolie
If only there was love…
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
At 3am, with burnt cigarette butts
If only there was love
When the metro finds it’s unwitting end
Reality and cubes make ugly paintings
There are only drunks
Dreamers and bums
Thief’s picking pockets of your final instructions
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
If you can sober up and face the poverty
Of your empty aspirations of hope
Come to the bois de Vincennes
Where Kings and Queens danced and dined
What better place
To splay the butter
So that the knife slides smooth
Whilst the sun fades kissing the seine
Autumn leaves will fall
Dead again
Leaves falling in the park
Autumn coldness brings the dark
Death marching towards winters fate
Young love broken at the graveyard gates
The evening sun reclines, dips
her trailing skirts into the fire;
she lounges on the edge of dusk,
her sultry lips, crimson desire.
With violet tints, her painted eyes,
brazen behind a blushing cloud,
stare at every lake and pond
to view the beauty she's endowed.
We sigh to see her slip beyond
the rim of sight; her lovely face
may never be just quite the same
as now, framed by the black tree lace.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Sol hung in the western sky,
in the western sky Sol hung,
like a dead man on a rope
when dying time has come.
Watch how you tread in the desert,
in the desert watch how you tread,
the vultures soar high on the thermals
as they seek out the dying and dead.
Take water to drink on your journey,
on your journey take water to drink,
there's a lack of sweat, on that you can bet,
but you've dried out more than you think.
Plant your feet with care when walking,
when walking plant your feet with care,
the horse crippler cactus is waiting
to take you unawares.
Pass by the brush with caution,
with caution pass by the brush,
the diamondback lounges in shadows
but his strike comes on with a rush.
Disturb not the stones on your travels,
on your travels disturb not the stones,
a scorpion may surprise you,
their sting goes down to your bones.
All is not dread in the wasteland,
in the wasteland all is not dread,
but vultures fly high on the thermals
as they wait one and all to be fed.
All is not death in the desert,
in the desert all is not death,
beauty enough for the seeker
to take away their breath.
Flesh on show and sun tan lotion
bodies laid on towels or sun lounges
By the ocean
Salty air wind blown hair
Music streaming from the near by fair
Baby screaming nappies full
Cool guys looking for babes on the pull
Sun shades and floppy hats
Grown men playing cricket with ball and bats
Sand castles and buckets and spades
Candy floss and lemonade
Father With binoculars pretending to look out to sea
Or read a newspaper but really looking at the bathing beauties
Bikinis and manknies G strings tight where the sun don't shine
Hot dogs and hamburgers the popping of corks from bottles of wine
Hairy legs and wrinkled skin
child almost drowning couldn't swim
Muscle bound Life guards with muscles to impress
Granma lost her false teeth
Dropped between her breasts
Ice creams and summer dreams
Young child peeing in the sea
Among the swimmers splashing about with glee
People playing beach ball and football
Mother calls come on all it's time for tea
Large Busty woman running like jelly on a plate
Wobble wobble
And nearly starting an earthquake
Sand between your toes
Sun burn on your nose
Sweaty arm pits sweaty bums
Toffee apples and bleeding gums
Sea gulls flying screeching high above
Clear blue sky pure white dove
Watching the frothy waves stretch upon the shore
Watching the horizon and tiny boats 10 miles away or more
Dogs running here and there
Sweets being passed around to share
Crabs and shrimps and other critters in a rocky pool
Children with fishing nets and jars to take them back to school
Para gliders pulled by speed boats high in the sky
Oh why do people want to risk life
As they could die
Postcards to write people on there bikes
The smell of fish and chips
Children with jam around their lips
Couples walking hand in hand barefoot on warm sand
Treasured memories and photo's to cherish
Suitcases packed feeling unwound and relaxed
Can't wait until next year when they come back.
Peter Dome.copyright.2013. July.
He chooses his medium and tools carefully:
It's oil and sable promise today.
He lays it on thick-haphazardly.
He folds then unfolds the unframed canvas many times
into the shape of a woman.
Squeezing out her dignity,
then reads what's left behind...
(his flavor of voodoo).
He fondles her entrails-shakes her bones.
That spill into the shape of.. "a little less than yesterday".
Picked over prey, he frames her.
Hangs her in his fun house tilted mind;
Then he buzzard hops away, taking to the sky.
Circling above, searching for another pair of wide soft eyes.
He chooses his medium carefully...to fit the deed.
Today it's his black clay heart that changes shape.
From a soft nest- to a cold, cackling cage...
The bunny takes the musky bait,
he spits gasoline on the bars.
Runs metal talons against a dying star...
igniting her.
He waits till her ashes cool.
He inhales deeply, puts the rest in a mason jar.
...proclaiming victory
he slithers away...
He chooses his medium carefully.
Today it's his stained-glass smile....
"His heavenly mirage".
A magnet for the she doves
which fly into it, heart first.
They're diced with shards from a toxic rainbow.
But there is no gold at the end.
Only hollow caves and poisoned winds...
He dons his cape and crown of dying doves.
Which have since turned from white to red.
He lounges around, buffing his trophies with a split tongue.
He chooses his medium carefully...
********************************************
Staring up at the ceiling floor
As the big hand on the clock
Races past one
Hearing the mouse rouse out of his
Long sleep
To gather tidbits and play
While the pussycat full belly and all
Lounges blissfully counting mice
Feeling a drop of sweat on my brow
As the fan turns upside down
Not day dreaming at night silly
Just dreaming today
A sunny Beautiful day
In...December
We love our silly Grazillas,
Who eat chocolate ice cream because they don't like vanilla.
They prefer lumpy pillas,
As they nap under the willas.
They eat salt by the pillas,
And watch only chinchillas.
They prefer to work as millas,
They prefer their envelopes to be manilla.
They could easily take down Godzilla,
Because them Grazillas,
Are stone cold killas.
They are a cross between a gorilla and a gator,
And they sure do enjoy their maters and taters.
They make fun of waiters,
And they are great imitaters.
They love gossiping with the gators,
And are known to be fair ice skaters.
Peculiar too is the way they only eat fish flavored Now and Laters,
And man can they drive those freighters,
And they choose to shave with cheese graters.
They are even one-third dinosaur,
And they are rotten to the core.
They love to renact the Civil War,
And to get a dollar they will pretend to be poor.
They play golf just so they can yell Fore,
And when they get a banana they all yell Score!
They are in a band and go on world tour,
But I admit they are sometimes a bore.
They are the legends of lore,
That come from the Loth Lorien shore,
And in their land they are unequivical lords.
How do they have shimmering tails,
They put water from the Amazon on every golden scale.
Their fur is silvery and pale,
And they comb it twice a day without fail.
Their favorite snack is kale,
Especially in the middle of a gale.
They love riding the rails,
Looking for the the Holy Grail.
They may look frail,
But you never can tell.
They like digging wells,And telling tall tales.
Try never to compliment the males,
Cause their egos sure do swell.So if you come across a silly Grazilla,
Lazing under a willa...
Don't forget to bow to the queen of the Grazillas.
Whose name is Drucilla,
Who lounges on golden pillas...
While she listens to thrilla...
So I bid you ado untilla...
Unquotable quotes – XII
To catch a monkey, you need a young coconut with three holes for eyes ; bore a hole in one and wait : the monkey will thrust its hand in to grab a mouthful and will not let go come what may.
To catch a false monk, you need an orphan.
To catch a thief, you need either a camera or a cobra.
To catch a bluffer, you need to make him believe ya.
To catch a fly, you need a spider with a parlour.
To catch a poisonous snake, you need a retracting loup on a long ten-foot pole.
To catch a giant, you need a sling with a stone.
To catch a Pharoah, you need his sister with a hisser.
To catch a priest, you need the advice of his Chief Geist.
To catch a stool-pigeon, you need another stool-pigeon.
To catch a plane, you need a valid ticket.
To take a train, you need a ticket-puncher.
To board a ship, you need to rise with the tide.
To catch the woman next-door, you need to wait until the paramour goes out the back-door.
To catch a ripe durian, you need to have a hard or an empty head.
To capture a girl in a burqa, all you need is another burqa.
To capture a rat in a hole, all you need is a secret service mole.
To capture a pirate ship in a canal, all you need to do is to lower the water-level.
To catch a polar bear and her cubs, all you need to do is to raise the level of your exhaust fumes.
To catch a lark on a bark, all you need to do is to click your camera.
To catch the sun in the morn, all you need to do is to sleep with your window open.
To catch cold, all you need to do is to stand stark naked bold.
To catch forty winks, you need to be full of drinks.
To get on peoples’ nerves, you need to step on their toes.
To catch the pox, you need to meet a certain lady who lounges around the docks.
To come to grief, all you need to do is to rob Fort Knox.
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2016
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,"
My mind recites in garbled tongue.
The light spreads like an oil spill,
Brighter, hotter than the sun.
Hear it crackle, watch it spark,
See each colour lick the floor,
A dizzy war of light and dark
As feral smoke fills every pore.
Shallow breath, depleted lungs,
A sea of black designed to drown.
Clinging to my faintest thoughts
Like slinky silk or heavy shroud.
And as I watch it float away,
This lethal, perverse black balloon.
I pray that it won't veer off course,
That it won't spread or burst too soon.
A devil lounges on my chest
To play this grim and dangerous game.
The air he hoards like silver coins
Invigorates the growing flames.
Time begins to melt and ooze,
Acrid wax within my veins.
Feel them trickle, watch them blur,
Tears that drip like acid rain.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,"
My mind recites in peaceful tone.
The light is soft, the heat is warm
As pain leaks slowly from my bones.
And when the lasting ash has cooled,
When piercing dread no longer looms,
I'll love and hate and crave that light
From this lonely black cocoon.
The ghats,grey serpents in green thickets
cool and moist, dampens restless midgets
There ,in a hotel ,in the lushness of the tropic's crown
are trees mighty tall with neat flights of stairs hanging down.
stood perched on trees, a cabin each of uneven logs
with wooden planks hand-polished to parqueted floors
A large cypress cot,an inviting bed ,the sensuous Umrao-Jaan
on canvas overhead, glowing in hues from a crystal pan
white porcelain figures, lovers dancing on mantle;love lounges,
windows open to wild flora , a few ripe mangoes hanging in bunches
On the rails ruddy jasmine vines flaunt little white stars
antique bamboo lanterns at the door , happy to be ajar
warm aroma from oils of wild-herb toiletries exude
wanting a trickle on the heated hearts' pursuit
cute candles whispers roses and jasmine in the air
nothing more, the imp of the mind feasts on love in the air.
on the small balcony , the cool breeze of the underwoods caress
In this tree-house,bask in nature...at its best to soothe five senses.
Climbers and bushes are like sentinels that guard our terrains,
Waterfalls and paths, cascade like snakes gliding on the mountains,
Our indigenous mansion lounges like a penthouse on the hill,
Amidst echoing rocks, mumbling winds, which chime with a mellow mill.
Chirpy whistles, gaiety gurgles and tuneful tender trills,
Of the nightingales, serenely sooth me with melodious thrills.
My breaths as I awake, perfumed by scents of lavender and jasmine,
The mollifying noon breeze, habitually sprays fragrances pristine,
Women in native regalia adorned, hum harmoniously, ambling to the spring
While whistling herdsmen, guide home their cattle fleets, in the evening.
Festal flashes of the withering sun, linger longingly, as if ruing to depart
From the chaste crimsonlit landscape, like lovers unwilling to part?
The lulling twilight thrush and owl’s ominous knell, contrastingly interlude,
Nightsky; a swarm of stars sprightly surround the moon, like in nuptial beatitude.
Ghastly and grotesque shapes seem to transiently form, from a distance,
Reminiscent of the phantom and fairy folklores, of our childhood dalliance.
I escape the misty chill, as fireflies’ luminous sparks bid me farewell,
Reclining to the quilt of our fireplace, succumbing to its soporific spell,
In a while, surrender to slumber’s beckon, lured like a lyre saccharine,
Home’s where the heart is, always a quilt of memories divine.
© Maverick Nyambu
We sing
Act
Die
Cry
Dance in the sky
We form societies
To read aloud
What others dare not say
From Shakespeare to Byron
Poe to Moe
We sit around smoke filled lounges
Spewing words forth
Love, hate, Hemingway’s mojitos staring in mirrors
Whiskey permeates the air
Smokey flavors absorbed into flowing ink
Towards the graves
We always gaze onward towards the graves
From the inside out, and looking up on coffin roofs
The seas of depression like waves to surf
Some might say we any maniacal and crazy
Today we welcome a new member
Mork from Ork
Welcome To The 21st. Century
(by Joan Donnelly Ellis October 22 2015)
Have you ever felt separated from society,
Through no known fault of your own,
Because there's been a decline in social gatherings,
Since messaging's increased via internet and cell phone ?
Have you ever sensed a change in home environment,
Where once true love's expressions were the norm,
And now anger lounges with anxiety and depression ?
Seems no escape from the silent, deadly storm.
Spending time alone was once a good thing,
Timeout to rejuvenate , get restored to vigor fresh,
A vacation well deserved and necessary,
Getting back into the Spirit and shedding the loathsome flesh.
But you feel your life and energy depleting , feel wasted,
From the isolation you've become a prisoner, a borderline cuckoo
Avoiding all personal contact with those once treasured loved ones ,
You at insatiable computer, while devils siphon brains and add to poisoned brew.
Do you suppose you might suffer from agoraphobia ,
Subconsciously grounding yourself to house arrest?
Realise if you persist in mutilating love and freedom.
The further from all that's worthy of your devotion you will digress.
Do you miss how the times used to be
missing cost of an old classic melody.
Cost of being careful and young in your heart
missing something long gone and forgotten
something wind could explain
or the birds on the trees or the rain on the leaves.
Do you miss how people used to sing
for trying to hear what it brings
for peace on the streets, old used to see
what voice can do to bring kids from a tree.
How they saw beauty and freedom in their lives,
they still sing even for their lifeless wives.
How i miss mud on the sleeves
playing with stones, what it achieves...
Being so open minded being unique
everyone had their own set of dreams.
How they played on that grass
never bored and the time never passed.
Do you miss the time of pure air
Nobody knew it would end so unfair
That they'll take a breath from our lounges
we won't be able to sing all that songs.
How we mistreated the world of it's cause
hoping that world will tear what we toss.
She sits content,
Grasping the orange blossom in her long slender fingers,
She sits, alone in the world around her;
Worn pages of her favorite book calling to her,
Like an old friend it beckons;
Characters leap off the pages like old friends,
Brushing her mind with familiarity all their own;
Tranquilly, she poses;
Lost in a realm of her making;
Surrounded by the sweet scent of the garden,
She lounges, the very image of solitude;
Contemplating the possibilities;
Placidly she sits…