Best Promiscuity Poems
Boring
Snoring
Warring
Whoring
Long life with a boring, snoring sod
made the wife a warring whoring broad.
For Your Turn For A Tyburn Poetry Contest
sponsored by charles messina
Perilous is the journey, sordid is the quest, flashing flirtatious desire,
Treacherous is gaudy aspiration, playing with torrid flames of fire;
No matter how thrilling, how visceral may feel this insidious chase,
Neither it is a road to endearment, nor is it a destination of grace.
Provocative is charming croon, simulating sound of love’s acclaim,
Exhilarating is ephemeral attraction, missives seductive inflame;
Audaciously feigning love, squalid is the phony paramour of shame,
Teasing emotions in tawdry games~ ignoble is his heartless name.
Allures of the dangerous dalliance, dazzle donning a seamy stance,
Hosting rendezvous immoral ~ an illicit dance of lurid romance;
Transient are escapades of infatuation, never meant to forever last,
Buried are their broken-hearts, in cemeteries of jilted forlorn past.
In interludes of life and time, wrinkles weary warn of receding age,
As lascivious phase, in book of life, begins to turn a fading page;
Revealing to glamor and courtship: the aura of beauty is long gone,
And nightmares of regrets have since robbed, avid dreams of dawn.
Obsession of lust wasn’t love~ admonish the sad memories of yore,
Promiscuity of casual encounters, pathos of remorse now abhor;
Wondering if it’s too late to long, for lasting bond of kindred hearts,
Before empathy of love departs, before the warmth of passion parts.
No flame within!
do I hold for you
no delightful delicacy
shall I put to rhyme.
No picturesque words
in italics of your
woeful wildlife, no
acknowledgement of
the ancient mariner, he
that crossed the margin
of our “Atlas of the world.”
(Still in use, [I believe] in the
old stone museum.)
One can easily live in fear
of your many mordant moods,
to see you capture the
embracing horizon, where warring
clouds fondle the sunlight,
and the departing QE 2 is
reduced to microcosm.
How can one live in awe of
you, when at the end of each
day you snatch at the light of
sustenance, therefore
giving license to the veil
of damnation, soon to be cast
out of the east, driving impending
fears to languish upon the
unholy waters of the Styx?
(An extraction of the mind,
an evaporation of the memory
the spray dried brain
tossed into oblivion.)
Yet each morning an
interval to one’s ongoing
nightmare, when with renewed
levitation, the new light reprieved!
Begins avidly it’s universal
journey across Manukau’s
“Pack ‘n’ Save” Car park.
Oh yes! It is so easy to hate you;
you that brought the rest of
the world here, you that constitutes
a world within a world, that,
where the cycle of life creates it’s
own constitution, each player
judged on cue, to become an act of
fodder, mobile supermarkets
in ferocious competition with
nothing at all to give.
“Unless death itself is a gift!”
Upon the surface your
treachery still lingers, there,
tenacious tentacles lurk
within the sedulous surf,
groping blindly at sedated
rocks, those pinnacles of sanctuary
that harbour the weary,
support the rod.
Only when gravitation truly
intervenes, does the perpetual
invasion subside, leaving one in
no doubt about your promiscuity!
© Harry J Horsman 1993
All alone you sit there in grip of graveyard, hosting demonic thoughts,
Listening to cries of tombstones, squalling from lovers’ somber epitaphs,
Recounting how you chased prospects, innocent souls you courted,
Celebrating your maleficence building bonfires on the burial grounds,
Where you buried them one by one, watching the dance of demons,
As your stony heart laughed aloud, mocking the dead in total disregard.
You lured them with synthetic smiles, faux glamor of loveless stance,
Never meaning a word uttered, attired in stares of spurious glance,
As you prayed on them, then discarded; in landfills of broken-hearts.
Relationships initiated in springs of life, often parched in summer heat,
As passionless encounters burned in flame of hideous promiscuity;
Got washed away by the feisty storms churning scurrilous intensity,
Propelling hurricanes lovelorn, flooding realms of lovesome prairies,
When aspirations of your lust subordinated inspirations of pure love.
Old and fragile, you ruminate now, in frigid winters of your miserable life,
Speechless, motionless, fearful of your pitiful world swiftly passing by,
Haunting your eyes, as paranormal spirits, the silhouettes of the dead,
Mock your decrepit existence, shouting insanities at your grimacing face.
Remorseful beneath moon and stars, you inscribe your own epitaph:
She was a gloom of stygian clouds, shrouding arc of love on sunlit dawns,
She was a dubious counterfeit act; she was a vile curse on romance,
A cooing dove of morn she was not; a phantom of love she sure was.
My shy moth eyes
were attracted to the beauty of your flame
The pleasure of knowing you
was worth the risk of me feeling the pain
From the hurt burn of you leaving ...
a house of mirrors with no image of you within
I always knew this day would come,
certain, like the rising of the sun —
Beautiful rabbit you would wanna run
Timid, nervous ever ready to flee
The mirror of reflection
would always set your fear in motion
Numbed by the booze,
paralyzed by the pills
Gave you enough courage to stay still ...
but, only for so long
Beautiful rabbit on the run,
afraid to face
the demons you’re running from
When the face of reality would sober in,
then the cracked mirrors
would leave your bleeding heart sobbing
So many lovers before me
handed you jilted tissues
for your self-esteem issue tears
Wiping the candle mask of your promiscuity,
cold wax let you know when it was time to flee
Beautiful rabbit you on the run,
wielding your body like a weapon
Beautiful rabbit giving the foxy bullet stun,
using love like it was a loaded gun
Beautiful rabbit on the run,
marred habits has disfigured you
Ugly memories you can’t let go of,
scarred flesh melted by an abusive flame
Leaves you often holding a gun,
ready to make your last rabbit run
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run ...
beautiful rabbit lay down the gun
It was the loss of your gorgeous butterfly wings,
which so attracted me to you
I saw the beauty inside others never knew,
the vulnerable side you kept hidden from view
The trauma of your lovers no longer wanting you,
made the truth of the silent phone too painful to hear
And the vanity of rejection you use to give,
is the emptiness you are now forced to live with
Lonely, emotional catacombs you weepingly prefer;
the Before portrait on your wall, I never saw her
Tragic soul went bed-hopping down the rabbit hole
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run ...
beautiful rabbit put down the gun
Beautiful rabbit, I desperately desire you,
let your marred heart be warmed by this truth
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run ...
finger the safety between my loving arms
Beautiful rabbit, don’t leave this way ...
burn the suicide note in the fireplace
Beautiful rabbit, don’t run away
Stay here with me ... please stay
the rest of your enchanted cottage days
The innocent criminalized, chased down with pitchforks and torches of fire. Their names dragged through the mire, by the hair, stripped of their humanity.
Meanwhile the guilty cheer with cash and jewels, with measured feet on the demonic beat. The guilty drinking the blood of the kind, like wine.
Headlines say: “God is dead,” “No one’s watching,” “The law is what we say it is.”
Will we be sorrowful for such as these when the armies of God, with Christ at the lead, tread with grapes of wrath?
God’s fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control.
Works of the flesh: sexual immorality, moral impurity, promiscuity, idolatry, sorcery, hatred’s, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambitions, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, …the practice of such things.
Turn! Repent! The suffering will relent for the innocent. The bloodguilty will be paid with unquenchable suffering. Still there is time to turn and repent. See what a good God we have. He truly loves. None of us deserve anything from his hands and yet he offers everything. Why cling to a temporary offering when you can obtain glory?! We are tested and tried. Turn and repent!
*In italics from Galatians 5 of The Holy Bible CSB
A Nook And A Story Book Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
There was a day last week that I felt alone and sad,
I carried days of grief and would pray for sweet dreams,
I held onto a glimmer of hope when I had an idea,
to get lost in my favorite book outside on the porch swing.
Sensuality of a solitary soul with desires of social freedom,
pretty dear Edna lost inside a condemning creole heritage,
although she loved the Gulf of Mexico and New Orleans,
she had love affairs with charming men during her marriage.
Her appetite for passion wasn’t accepted in the nineteenth century,
she craved lustful intimacy when it was strictly forbidden,
Edna wanders around and finds herself within sexual promiscuity,
in a small town news travels fast, even if she wanted it hidden.
Once wedded to the rich Leonce who traveled far too often,
Edna yearned for the embrace of other appealing suitors,
fantasizing beyond all common sense of comprehension,
alas she was constantly damned by hypocritical persecutors.
Satisfactions and warm memories sooth her darkest nights,
she thinks of her affair with Robert as she closes her eyes,
so deeply did he love her, although she only craved his physique,
she wore erotic moments on her back for a disguise.
Because of her rejection of the roles as a wife and mother,
she was an outcast, a fading woman lost in fear and sorrow,
no more love and lust to quench her deep thirst,
she awakens…not wanting to face another tomorrow.
Drowning herself in the deep water of the Gulf of Mexico,
released her from her miserable anguish she called home,
no longer could another touch her the way she needed,
she ended up living her last moments in despair while alone.
This poem is about the book "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin
The original name was "Solitary Soul"
Date Written: April 28, 2016
Let me set something straight -
Right here, right now!
Let me put India in the right perspective,
Let me banish some myths,
Some gross misconceptions,
And take you beyond elephants,
Sacred cows, snake charmers and yoga,
Beyond Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Taj Mahal,
To a civilization rooted for
over 5,000 years in the past
To a land rich - majestically rich -
In many cultures, customs and traditions,
In a bewildering variety of races,
Religions, languages and folk arts,
In a vibrant tradition of dance and music,
In religious festivals and traditional events,
In saints, sadhus, gurus and sages,
In gods, goddesses, munis and mahatmas,
In temples, palaces, shrines and monasteries;
I'll baby-steps you through a land
Of Vedas and Upanishads,
Of epic stories and incredible mythologies,
Of Ramayana, Mahabharata and Bhagavad Gita,
Through one of world's great spiritual sanctuaries,
Where religion is a way of life;
An overwhelming, complex land -
Its charm, its vitality and yes, its confusion,
Atonce alarming and enticing.
And that's the way India is:
Elusive, confusing, contradictory,
mysterious and exasperating!
Beyond easy description or analysis,
A phenomenal diversity of dress
and manners making one aware
of a different world -
A veritable fairyland!
No other country offers quite such
A spectacle of teeming masses that
continue to enrich the heritage of mankind,
Nowhere do the past and present
coexist in more colorful promiscuity -
An incomparable country,
Easy to love, hard to forget!
"There's only one India!" raved Mark Twain,
"A wonderland of fabulous wealth
and fabulous poverty, of splendor and rags ..."
"The cradle of the human race,
The birthplace of human speech,
The mother of history,
The grandmother of legend and
The great grandmother of tradition."
This, indeed, is my country
Where I was born -
An Indian at heart,
An American in spirit!
Namaste!
Khuda Hafiz, Jai Ramji Ki,
OM Radhe Shyam, Sat Sri Akal,
Jai Hind!!
~Love letters to the sub continent
contest by cyndi MacMillan
In the beginning it was not so. Adam and Eve were perfect when God’s created them. Their interaction with each other reflected the perfection of the relationship between Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
They, like us were created with freedom of choice and could choose whether to follow God’s plan for their lives, or go their own way. When tempted by Satan, they chose to follow his suggestion and disobey God.
That act of disobedience fractured their relationship with God and with each other, and resulted in the brokenness that we experience today.
Adam and Eve hid from God after their disobedience. This is the first evidence of Brokenness. We hide or try to hide our wrongdoing because we are Broken.
Confronted with his disobedience, Adam and Eve resorted to blame. He blamed God, she blamed the serpent. Ever wondered why we are inclined to blame others for our mistakes. It’s because we are Broken.
Many children are abandoned by one or sometimes both parents, who themselves were abandoned by one or both of their parents. The result is brokenness.
Divorce, substance abuse, prostitution, sexual promiscuity, lesbianism, homosexuality, bisexuality, low self-esteem, pleasure-seeking, lying, cheating, stealing, killing, and a myriad other dysfunctions are symptoms of humanity’s Brokenness.
Where do we find help for our Brokenness? It begins with a choice. We know from experience that to keep our cars running well we need to follow the instructions in the Owner’s Manual.
Follow the instructions and your car runs well and you get to enjoy it for a long time. Ignore the instructions and your car will finally break down and leave you stranded. The choice is yours.
After this Brokenness invaded God’s plans for a perfect life for his creatures, he devised a plan to combat our Brokenness and finally effect humanity’s healing and restoration.
Like cars, we have a Maker and he has provided us with an Owner’s Manual, called the Bible. Read it and become familiar with God’s plan for our healing and restoration.
By following his instructions, we can mitigate the effects of our Brokenness. When we ignore his instructions, we experience break down in one or many areas of life. The choice is ours. Healing and Restoration or Brokenness.
Archetypes flash straight from a pack of Tarot cards
anti-terror Jing Jang synthesis with neuro-spiritual precision
implants explosive animation from the deep unknown
like a taro rootstock growing wings to fly with found suspension
Stereotactic stereotypes archetypes semi-circling soothing storm clouds
thunderbolts and enlightening darkness are my enema of anxious anger critique
of the mono-morph collision of the scalpel shadow ‘Prozacian’ nemesis
neology of ‘animusity’ of ‘newfoundlandel’ comprehension
Dialectical complementation rises higher and higher culminates in
ethereal transcendence where collective personal unconscious
presents my animus in wishful thinking and projections as
soft and gentle revel rebel raising entropy in tender conservation to escape from
Dogma categorically demanding artificial classification replacing with dimension
flow and rivers stagnant pools of stream of consciousness evading
sexist fragmentation disenfranchising marginalisation assigning male
and female emasculated o-variation where seminal origin implantation
Precedes nurture socialised indoctrination assignment of celibate promiscuity
My animus refuses to accept in emotional rejection whether Jung and I read
symbols from the same page or not of masques façades and liberated self
where academic artistry split hairs and personality for the premise of debate
I am a rebel and claim no higher lower ground of superior distension
He or she who animates friendly animosity is right and incorrect whatever
common ground belies the provocation I propose but possibly my
presentation of what others mean in kindness is too neutral neuters psyche
While anima and animus illustrate conclude a symbiotic destination
the starting point of this and that left right up above and side by side
is far too circular an argument when we should start not end in union
Male and female are constructions of disparity of power and repression
Archetypes are not therefore I am
11th June 2016
Animus-Anima Part II—Animus – Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tom Quigley
"Not everyone who drinks is a poet ... some of us drink because we're NOT poets" - Dudley Moore, "Arthur"
Not all poets are lonely and envied, apart,
Broken, dark souls straining for light, outspoken and proud.
Not all musicians struggle with substance,
Or the need to be introverted exhibitionists, misunderstood.
Not all artists are quiet, brooding spirits,
Searching for answers in the intoxicated arms of promiscuity.
Not all bards are creative genius savants,
Pressed to the pulse of passion, fools for a provocative smile.
And not all multi-talents dance for demons
Under the wan of a mocking moon, resolving life with ellipses.
But if you look, feel and listen very closely ...
There are still, for stasis' sake, a foolish few of us, remaining ...
With waves splashing upon bended knee,
majestic mountains rise from the sea.
And Angels peek from heaven above,
admiring the beauty of our love.
Frothy curls caress a sandy shore,
subservient to time: nothing more.
And a nightingale's melodic tune
grieves for the sun yet welcomes the moon.
As Venus awaits the rise of Mars,
the Night is freckled with twinkling stars.
And paradise is where lovers lie,
under a teal and indigo sky.
Darkness inks the land in shades of black,
while Luna rises, to push it back.
And the sand molds to body and soul,
consistent with love's passionate role.
Our promiscuity makes Mars blush,
inking this warrior's reddish flush.
And as cool breezes tickle bare skin,
enamored souls meld as one, within.
I was born into darkness, a world full of lies,
Sold by the one meant to shelter my cries.
In the hands of strangers, my worth was defined
By the hunger for drugs, my body confined.
A child turned slave in my uncle’s cold home,
A Cinderella with no fairytale to own.
Cooking and cleaning, no dreams to explore,
Just a ghost in their house, always doing more.
But school was my freedom, my breath in the night,
Where I could escape, even just for a while, and feel light.
Then came the man who saw nothing but skin,
A baby maker, a punching bag for his sins.
I wore his bruises like chains on my soul,
And soon I was lost in a world with no goal.
Homeless, with babies I couldn’t protect,
Forced to give them up, my heart wrecked.
Living on the streets, the sky my roof,
Despair wrapped around me, relentless and aloof.
I chased every high, every fleeting escape,
Found solace in bottles, in wounds that would gape.
Promiscuity a mask for the pain I denied,
But each thrill was a dagger, cutting deeper inside.
State to state, man to man,
I thought I could run, but never outran
The weight of my past, the shadows in tow—
Each new place, a prison where I couldn't grow.
But now I stand in the mirror, alone yet free,
Learning who I am, who I’m meant to be.
Outside the chaos, the violence, the noise,
Beyond all the brokenness, I reclaim my voice.
I am not who they made me, nor what they designed,
I am love, I am light, with a heart that’s kind.
Through scars and hurt, I still rise above,
A soul that refuses to give up on love.
For I am a survivor, a phoenix in flight,
And I’ll shine in this world, no longer afraid of the night.
I am beauty, I am strength, I am more than they knew—
I am me, whole and true.
It’s a bit chilly for my liking
Last minute shopping
Not too much traffic
Soft petals dancing
On a chill wind
Yeah, I know, “buzz-buzz-buzz”
Last one back to the hive
Is a Yellow Jacket
Wonder where the Geese go
Can’t believe I graduated
From “Bee U”
With honors
Now I crash land
On unsuspecting flowers
“pollinations gigolo”
Yeah, Yeah, I know
The “Queen”
And her minions
Depend on my
Promiscuity
Well, must bee off
There’s one Rose left
And I think she likes me
How lovely, isn't
It, to have an 'off' switch, shotty wiring
And all,
And a presence lined up to ****?
They are always there
To cauterize the wounds of emotional castration
Without desire to examine
The blood pattern forensics,
Chalking the splatter up
To an affinity towards Jackson Polluck.
Tears are to the meek
As injury is to the bold,
Chastity is to pureness
As promiscuity is to curiosity.
And what
Supplemented activity relates to the character
Defect of an over-eager search for validation?
How surreal a menagerie constructed from
Syringes full of sunshine.
Currency crusted by blood in place of worth,
Hopeful scribbles of the pale and placid carrying
Small flecks of over packed bags under the eye
Can seem when sunlight filters through rose colored lenses;
How frighteningly apparent
Connect-the-dot freckles and
Spasms of the left cheek and
Teddy bear smiles and
Xylophone ribs and
Bits of skin ghosted from lips become
When refracted by a Narcissus pond—
How I m p o r t a n t,
How appropriate these sentiments:
Perfect companions for the rolled-up-carpet's journey
Of finding permanence along river bottom
Set into the silt and framed with waving algae:
A'voir, piggyback consistencies,
Meet oblivion in shreds
Blown out the back end of the skull
In the instant chapped lip worshiper meets collarbone shrine.
Such ready to leech services are no longer
A necessity
In the four hours of chemically enhanced rawness
Stuffed with bile and bruise and suck and lie
Hollowed of meaning,
Save for the proverbial cholesterol of hope clogged in pores.
But I awake in numbness,
Cold and invalid,
With my head pressed on Doubt's chest
And my fingers knotting in its own
Begging to be warm again.