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Red Poem
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On her terrace where she once had viewed a crimson field,
she stands recalling heroes who were battling their foe.
She still can feel the terror! How her poor heart reeled
thinking of her lover fighting on the field below,
with others on that plain bathed red as the sun dipped low.
The brave men lie in caskets which now are concealed
beneath a plain that ran with blood, where bright irises now grow.
She thinks of her own strong brave man, draped in white and sealed
forever in a casket too. He was her Romeo.
The sorrow flooding her she had never thought to know.
She looks down from her terrace with a heart that won’t be healed.
The mighty dead now lie in grassy fields. . . and lo!
Around the graves are swords, which are green blades revealed
with *purple flags that softly wave as a May wind starts to blow
and she is bathed in red again, there in the sun’s last glow.
* Purple flags refer to the name of the purple iris that resembles a flag
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
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Red Poem
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STRAWBERRY
Can you feel the warmness of the sun,
reflecting off the red tones of my hair.
The sun touching the edge of my toes!
My seasons true nature ignited by a layer of flares.
Can you feel the stars shine for me at night?
While the moon beams a color of envy.
Can you see me lost underneath the crimson tide in the clouds.
Some where out there my eyes wonder for you.
Can you feel the fresh bruise in my strawberry heart?
As it bleeds every day just for you!
Wondering if life can ever be sweet like sugar and glue.
Crying under the night and its skies is how it would seem.
Lost in a midnight red field in a forever dream.
Can you feel the texture of my wounds?
They feel rugged like rocky mountain sour berries.
Covered in daiquiri as I drown under the rivers current.
Attracting canaries to enjoy my wild strawberries.
Can you feel the wings of my broken dreams?
Here I am falling off the cliff and the feeling of love.
Abandoned like a batch of strawberries for its flaws.
Do you see me standing with a sad look.
Can I show you all them hammer hits I took.
That will be the end of story, to my book.
How my strawberries have beauty that you over looked.
by; p.d.
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011
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Red Poem
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I was once a little twig with dreams of being a mighty tree
So people would come from all around just to look at me
As the years started to come and go I fell in love with the wind
I would open myself big and wide swaying to the music of my friend
My rings became many and my bark was as red as red could be
Then the day finally came I was the tallest of the tallest trees
I stood tall and I stood proud and everyone knew my name
As my rings continued recording my destiny to fame
Then the fateful day it came my friend and I had a fight
Looking back I can't recall who was wrong or right
I said, "You are but the wind something people can't even see"
" And I'm the king of them all the tallest of the tallest trees"
That night the wind started to howl she really started to blow
And I the tallest of all the trees learned we reap what we sow
My roots struggled to hold on tight but without a soul around
She who had been my dearest friend knocked me to the ground
The loggers came and cut me up then shipped me away
To my soul that truly was a sad and lonely day
Torn from all I knew and loved wishing I didn't have to feel
I was cut into boards and post down at the local mill
Now I'm back here at home just a few feet away
From where my friend the wind and I used to dance and play
I'm the deck on which you stand I lay below your feet
There is a bench made of me would you care to have a seat
Sometimes in life our roles change just take a look at me
The trick is no matter who are what you are be all you can be
See I was once a little twig who became a mighty tree
And now I'm a redwood deck as proud as proud can be
And of my friend the wind she visits me everyday
So I can thank her once again for helping me find my way
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2007
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Red Poem
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Memories of the North Sea
sift in like sand kernels
on a fast, frigid tide:
events that transpired outside
the confines of rhyme,
unfolding exactly
as they were meant to.
Never before had I seen
so many shades of gray;
the overcast, monochromatic splendor
was awe-inspiring,
instead of being bleak and bleary.
___
The smell of salt and seaweed
awakes something dormant and eternal,
deep within me.
I have a surging desire
to flush stagnancy from my blood—
salty blood and water
come together in a communion
of distant relations and movements.
Beside me, a flash of bright red
digs in the sand; my child
is wearing the only vibrant colour
to be seen for many kilometres.
The colour matches her
enthusiasm and energy,
as she moves from one spot to the next
like a dancing flame;
reflected, a fire glows from my eyes.
Unknowingly, I had dressed
in the same colours of the sky and sea,
blending into the scenery
like a chameleon:
an illusion thicker than the clouds;
an illusion of stone
for me to melt and reinvent
at the spinning speed of thought.
I watch my daughter
drink the seascape with a smile of wonder;
it's her first time visiting an ocean.
With our pants rolled up to the knee,
we wade through waves,
and collect stones and shells.
She knows the chameleon
who walks alongside her in the frothy surf.
Observing seabirds cover the steep cliffs
of the island located further out,
in a blanket of black and white feathers,
I wonder if people onshore
only see a solitary dash of red out here,
or if the chameleon
is more noticeable than I had thought.
2012 North Sea Remix
December 17th, 2012
.
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012
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Red Poem
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In all her glory, dawn has burst forth,
With a slight glow of early morning brightness
I sit in the bower, listening to birds in concert
And admire wonderful, Rosebuds unfold,
Revealing a beautiful red rose
With a precision wisp of light prancing around them
Emitting a velvety feeling, so tempting to touch
Long green stems, prickles,
Full of scallop trim leaflets all in green,
With brown thin veins
Around the red velvet leaves,
Music playing on cool fresh air
Coursing through the whispering leaves
Sweet aroma of moist dew and rose perfumes
Floating gently on the breeze
Gives me an intense curiosity to embrace the rose
Just the sight of the red roses
Reminds me to breathe
By: Eve Roper 12/17/2014
Contest: Roses Roses Roses
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2014
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Red Poem
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When morning breaks in shades of wine...
with claret skies to blush the dawn...
I will stretch and yawn, and thank the night
for this polished, apple day
I will wait until the sun is high, where dew upon the rose is dry
I'll have my cup, .. with toast and jam...
then, make escape, ..........the quest begins,
to seek my small reward
It happens slowly...
gathering reason from an untamed mind
Up into the meadow where the brambles climb
twisted and tangled, through burgandy vines
while deftly my fingers, will probe the maze
and reach for wild berries,.....warm from the haze
Then, thumping their goodness, one after one
into the bucket, dented and worn
A search through thorns, a prick on my thumb
till my back is ripe, and wet in the sun
Finger painting my faded blue jeans
Knowing my cheeks are flushing in pink
Sucking sweet juice from two crimson thumbs
Who cares a lick, of the thorns or a bee?
I am a bee, buzzing serenity...
plucking small bits of reason and sanity
taking home goodness in a battered tin pail
feeling alive, on a wild-flowered hill
Tonight's sweet delight, is warm berry cobbler,
oozing with goodness of juicy red gems
staining my tongue, and turning lips scarlet
dripping blood droplots onto my chin
Yet never as splendid, or tasting as fine,
as warmed by my smile, straight from the vine
Picking red berries, and freeing my mind
* *
* *
* *
*
*
counting vermillion clouds that are spun
then heading back home, with the red crimson sun
_____________________________________
For Shadow Hamilton's Contest: "Colours"
5/4/13
Resubmitted to Skat's contest:
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
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Red Poem
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I'm in me bath here, with a box of red cheer,
yeah a box of red cheer, beer's too bloody dear.
Me mind's wanderin twixt big tits and riches,
bein able to scratch at what itches,
without scratchin the bum out your britches.
If they think you got what,
they'd rather they'd got,
mate, hang onto your hat,
they'll bloody take that.
That girl in black tights, so jam-packed with delights,
nights full of delights in them slow movin tights.
She's not, like Jacko reckons, a whore.
Wouldn't lie on me bare wooden floor.
Christ, I did nothin to get to be poor.
And you can't pay what's due
so your creditors sue?
Funny old world, not half.
But good for a laugh.
I can't help but hear next door's shoutin and tears,
all their shoutin and tears, I can hear em from here,
through the stem of me glass on the wall.
Pray to God he don't hit her at all.
I'm half pissed and spliffed and I never could brawl.
But I stand in the queue,
for a place in the zoo.
Heard you shouldn't have pride.
They wouldn't have lied.
A party's upstairs but I can't breathe their airs.
I won't breathe their airs, them there upstairs.
So I fill the bathroom with me smoke.
All those girls shaggin some other bloke.
I just lie here and soak and suck on me toke.
What's it like not to do
what your needs need you to,
to beg borrow or steal,
to make it come real?
I hear downstairs' soul hit his lavatory bowl.
That porcelain bowl gets the whole of his soul,
as I wring out the bladder of red.
All the sweetest of girls, Jacko said,
have big whites to their eyes that aint never've bled.
There aint nothin so nice
as those whitest of whites
on rich girls
with sweet arses
in slow movin tights.
Copyright © Red OMara | Year Posted 2013
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Red Poem
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Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Year Posted 2013
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Red Poem
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RED ANGEL
I see the fire in your eyes!
This Red Angel, who's not human, intriguing with lies.
Pointing to the path that leads to paradise.
Ending Revelations with violence, breaking every inch of ice.
Blazing wings like the sunset over a field of corn.
A row of roses with rubies sharper than a thorn.
A devious smile covering up a set of horns.
Diluting me with images, since the day I was born.
Goose bumps when your essence is near.
I linger and shiver my lips with fear.
A slithery hypnotic tongue, the Red Angel wipes away my tear.
Holding the reddish key, whispering the word. "FREEDOM!"Into my ear.
Like the crimson tide lifting me from drowning at his request.
I find my heart pondering deeper and deeper within my chest.
Blessed with the curse of 'death' when my demons are depressed.
I'm still smiling to the sweet surrender of your breath.
A halo exploding like the fur of a volcano filled with lava.
Allowing the angel's advocate around~like a tree of strawberry guava.
Swallowing my own drops of red blood from my own saliva.
Living like the dead after a full bottle of vodka.
I beg for mercy at the Red Angels cow like feet.
Collapsing with sweat in his sweet eternal heat.
Gasping for the fresh air to avoid the smell of rotten meat.
I see the aura of an angel with his fangs ready to feast and eat.
Falling into a daze towards the red picket fence.
My Red House engraved with flames, after my feeling where condense.
My soul tormented by goodness at evils expense.
Flowing with every feeling including God's given sixth sense...
By; P.D.
((( Merry X- Mass Everyone)))
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
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Red Poem
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~My Tricycle~
Christmas eve,
I could not help but peek.
There it was, a blue and pinkish bike.
With streamers all for me...
A ride, I wanted to feel inside.
A surprise, I ruined for my eyes.
The joy I felt, a naughty kid like me could not hide.
Running back into my room, jumping with glee.
Waiting and waiting...............................................
Christmas day, comes to life.
I'm all excited.. With the biggest grin...
Mommy walks me to my bike.
My grin slowly fades away.
A red tricycle, I start to cry.
I did not understand, why my older sister got the pretty bike.
My Christmas, ruined by a ruby red tricycle.
Mommies, hug did not comfort me.
I cried all night, and asked my daddy'
"How can this be?"
"It's not fair!"
"it's not fair!"
Daddy, had only one response..
"Sweetie, soon you will see."
New Years Eve**
I sit near the windowpane.
Staring at my sister ride her blue pinkish bike.
Even the streamers were laughing at me.
Night fall comes around..
It's cold and everyone is asleep.
I sneak my way into the barn.
I stare at it~
My sisters bike!
The smile on my face, I still can't erase.
"This bike will be mine tonight."
I grab the bike by the handles bars.
I walk the bike under the stars.
Two hours pass, and still I can't operate the pedals.
Finally I remove my shoes, and reach the pedals with my toes.
I'm off into the night, than suddenly I fell upon them rocks.
If only I waited for that push from daddy's hands.
:To Be Continued:
Lesson not learned,
My scars all accounted for.
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
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Red Poem
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Come an' pick yerself an apple,
Come an' pick a heapin' load;
Come an' pick a bloomin' bushel
An' a couple fer the road.
There's a dozen different sizes,
Pink an' yella, red 'r lime,
Shades that match the pale sunrises
Of the apple pickin' time.
Go an' make an apple pie,
Make it thirty miles high,
Then you'll be in apple heaven
Till the day you up an' die.
Come an' pick yerself an apple,
Come an' pick a heapin' load;
Come an' pick a bloomin' bushel
An' a couple fer the road;
Some for Gran and Uncle Pete,
An' a few fer fighting crime;
'Cause the fella down the street
Knows it's apple pickin' time.
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2013
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Red Poem
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adventure, growing up, hip hop, repetition, word play
A ONE STEP AT A TIME ©
Life is but a hopscotch path
Players vying for placement
Rules to follow aground
Tokens used for good luck
Practice runs lead to safe landings
Over ever-changing terrains
Hop skip and jump!
Land on a crack
You break your Mudder’s back
Marbles fill a bag of loot
Once directed into home holes
Missed turns are your takings
Marbled cat eyes forever coveted!
Crayons come in packs
Pick a colour to your taste
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Black is for rain clouds
Gone is a sun yellow
A is for Apple-
B is for Bunny-
C is for caterwauling
Letters up for a draw
Lettered tongues speak
The bad, good and the ugly
Making mountains out of mole hills!
Name-calling never hurts
Pain hurts from thrown stones
Calling one to take a chance
Towards another hopscotch
With hop skips and jumps
One step, two steps, three steps more!
Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015
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Red Poem
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Roses are red
Violets are blue
I’m up for a quickie
Do you fancy one too?
13th February 2015
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
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Red Poem
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Red is the crayon that I love to use.
So vivid and bright without any abuse.
I color so lively and make each stroke count.
Even making the water red in the fount.
In my pictures the hair on everyone's head.
Yes you guessed it, they're all a bright colored red!
The seasons of summer and winter and fall.
I color them all red without any appall.
So if you're an artist you plainly can see.
Everything will be red if you depend on me.
If you've heard like me, as it's often been said,
That "Passionate people always love red!"
Copyright © Marty Owens | Year Posted 2010
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Red Poem
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(A Kyrielle Sonnet)
The tree stood trembling; red drops spilled
one Christmas day where one was killed.
Sweet daughter they would not see grow
left crimson blossoms on the snow.
What horror that their girl could be
slain senselessly beneath that tree
where every spring she loved to go
and blossoms fell, but not on snow.
The tree of which she’d grown so fond
dropped pearl white petals on a pond.
Oh, that it still were long ago
before were blossoms on the snow!
The tree stood trembling; red drops spilled
like cherry blossoms on the snow.
Andrea Dietrich
For Your "Saddest" Christmas Ever
Contest sponsored by Constance La France
~a Rambling Poet~
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010
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Red Poem
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I, a Red Skin dog, as some may delight to call me,
I have heard the tales of horror, from my dark skinned foes.
I have heard the tales of terror, from others who became my friends.
And I have walked with a dark skinned woman of their tribe.
We walked in the beauty of her courage, together. Tearless.
Tearless we both were as she spoke, for tears, only gods could cry for her.
I am a Red Skin dog.
And yet we walked together and we talked – together, fearless,
I and this swaying ebony sapling, sprung from the roots of my foes tribe.
We talked of the pitiless reality of that life she left behind, of that time
That she has left, far, far behind, like a useless scar
That has toughened over. And made her stronger.
I learned from this daughter of my foes
That true courage is never fearless, but always stronger. Victorious,
Stronger she was by far, to this Red Skin dog
Than the thousand sons who died, in her honor. So they say. Ridiculous,
But I have heard the balance of their sins.
And for all the tales I have heard from those angry young men, and their vengeful fathers
Her horror was a thousand times more sinister. A thousand times more callous.
Horror took up residence in her home but never in her heart.
But for others, I cannot speak.
“…splinters and bursting fragments…in my mind
Ai! Tearing! Memory of tearing flesh, swallowing tears and mucus, blood and bile
…bruising and ripping garments…off my body
…filthy, familiar hands tearing at my dress…
…my legs split and broken like a wild pig slaughter, my screams smashed from my lips,
With the butt of a rifle, just used to kill a Red Skin dog…
Aieee! Clean this floor mama, mop up this spew!
It cannot be mine!
This child is not mine!
It is not mine! It is the devils own creation born in hell fire!
Born in my death!
Aieee! I am dead, I cannot be alive.
I am dead and the Red Skin dogs have eaten my corpse.
Those spirits in their wingless chariot flew over the land and sea, to rescue me?
Rescue me from that black devil who said he was like Jesus to me.
I thought you were my uncle-brother…
Who else could have found us here?
Hidden away from the Red Skins and their Wingless Angels.
Only you my uncle-brother
Only you could have found us
Only you could have killed us.
And now the progeny of your evil deed suckles at my breasts
As I lie dead in the home of those Red Skin dogs you fought.”
Copyright © Michael Dom | Year Posted 2013
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Red Poem
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There were roses on Calvary that day, you know.
Bunches and bunches of roses adorning the skull.
Red roses! For crimson blood seeped profusely that day.
It had to be so for our own sake. Divine blood
that dripped from a thousand and one hematic wounds
as He hang on a brittle tree He Himself had created.
There were sharp, pointed thorns too on the roses.
They adorned His Divine head, piercing the smooth skin,
forcing majestic blood ooze down into His royal eyes,
stinging them abundantly, preventing proper sight.
No wonder the prophet Isaiah said of Him:
"his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any man
and his form marred beyond human likeness....."
Such were the pointed thorns that crowned Him King of Kings.
Yet for those who know, there was perfume there too.
A fabulous fragrance that came down from Heaven
on the wings of the Holy Spirit, a balm of blissful grace,
that we may wash ourselves in it and be justified.
"He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows,"
For He loved us much. And we? Do we return His Love?
23 March 2016
A Broken Wings Contest
Placed 5
Voted POTD on 16 May 2016
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2016
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Red Poem
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She indulges in sensorial delights
Marked with the color of ecstasy
The passion she drinks is diluted with eroticism
The moon melts with her gentle gaze
Honey drips from her luscious lips
Like ruby flames sweeping desert dust away
Oasis of churning lava explodes within her fiery spirit
seducing the sun with her golden skin
Far away from Love's imprisonment
She builds her castle of desires
Imprinted with
FIFTY~~~~~ SHADES OF~~~~~~RED
A Collaboration With Liam Mc Daid and Red Fiery
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2016
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Red Poem
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you opened your eyes but closed your mind
oblivious to dreams I kept inside
you saw the package but not the treasure
all of those late nights we were together
you spent the passion but saved your heart
keeping those two things far, far apart
nothing ever ventured, nothing ever gained
so good at keeping it all self-contained
you pulled the ribbon opening Pandora's box
you twisted the key in a rusty lock
you wound the toy just a little too tight
leaving in haste when you saw the red light
I thought I had it under control
I could play the game and you'd never know
you were much smarter than I thought
you saw the ruse right from the start
gently, you tried to let me down
distancing me with silent sounds
what you couldn't see--failed to understand
I knew your game but couldn't outrun your plan
you pulled the ribbon opening Pandora's box
you twisted the key in a rusty lock
you wound the toy just a little too tight
leaving in haste when you saw the red light
I could see your future and I wasn't a part
you weren't completely honest when we started
I knew there was another, but not the whole connection
how you had already promised your love and affection
so as we go forward with an uneasy truce
bury what's dead between me and you
no tourniquet will completely ever stop my bleed
you'll say you didn't promise to be what I need
you asked me once if the wound was still deep
you can figure that out in this song if you read
what starts with white lies, ends sadly with truth
it ebbs and then flows with each phase of the moon
you pulled the ribbon opening Pandora's box
you twisted the key in a rusty lock
you wound the toy just a little too tight
leaving in haste when you saw the red light
Copyright © J B | Year Posted 2010
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Red Poem
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Dark red lips trace your neck, trailing down your chest
I can’t control my lust once I’ve caught the scent of you
Your smooth flesh burns where my chilled lips brush
Your heat steaming off into the winter night… it wants you too.
But you are only mine as you pull me tight against you
Your warmth is for my body alone.
I belong to someone and you are going to show me who
As your hand covers my red lips, stifling my moan
Pin me against the window pane,
Digging into my flesh.
Let the flavor of me drive your senses insane
Drink from me my thirsty guest.
Rock me, grip me don’t hold back
This is your time to release everything angry in your life.
Make me scream, let me fill up what your world lacks
Feel the waves of our intensity permeate the night.
Then, be merciful after I am taken, and now our burning kiss
After you have bleed me and our lust has taken its course
Discover my true and own yearning motive
And give me my taste of yours…
Copyright © Tamra Craft | Year Posted 2009
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Red Poem
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Hiding into the darkness of the alley
The wetness of the rain
Soaked upon my skin
My nakedness shows through my cotton dress
My hair drips as the rain drops fall
My breasts are potent with influence
Your hand sweeps across to touch my raised nipple
A budding rose lays within your finger tips
A sudden urgency to kiss my red lips
A silence so aloud there is no crowd
A force as you tear away my cloth from my soul
I throw my head back as you pick me from the ground
My tense leg wrapped around you
A must as you take a gasp as you enter
A wildness of the rain a wildness of the act
Nothing to distract as the beating of the rain hits down
Moments of pleasure of once hidden treasure
My breath is forsaken of this making
A pace to hard to disguise
Lighting starts the thunder rides my blood
A love shown through ravishing within
Precious delight reach all magic pulses sing
My scream is cried out
As red lips are kissed at midnight ...
Sarah Hales
Copyright © sarah hales | Year Posted 2010
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Red Poem
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HIS ROSE, HER DEATH
All she had wanted was a red, red rose,
That would quell the love of that handsome man,
Alas! The rose tree was in winter's throes,
Unable to birth a rose of her plan;
So she said she will sing the whole night long,
With her heart against the thorn of that tree,
"Love is greater than life", rang out her song,
As her life blood fashioned his love ruby;
Yet, when her heart burst out in pain thereof,
When the crimson petals slowly opened,
He was not there to see her die for love,
Nor did he feel that love with blood deepened;
"Trust me baby, this is love," her last breath,
He never found out his rose was her death.
07/11/17
Copyright © Jo Daniel | Year Posted 2017
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Red Poem
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Looking up into the sky
a bird pooped in my eye
as it was flying overhead
causing me to see red
It was warm and soggy
making me feel queasy
I scurried into the house
like an upset little mouse
I headed for the kitchen sink
and got there in a blink
Using the faucet spout
I tried to flush it out
When it was expelled
it had a funny smell
and the sink water
had a dirty colour
So when a bird is flying overhead
keep your head down instead
Do not look up into the sky
or you may get poop in your eye
Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2013
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Red Poem
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Red velvet petals, only I, seduce,
With hidden danger under the disguise,
My fingers feeling shyly, I reduce,
Thorns sharpen, ready, waiting the unwise.
Before me, bleeding poison, I assume,
This flower withered, shriveled the entire,
A dark extracted substance, the perfume,
No beauty, only sorrow, I admire.
Withdrawn I wept lamenting the depart,
A rosebud, crimson, youthful, I erased,
A lifeless flower, never I impart,
nor taken with affection, I embraced.
Written by Kelly Deschler October 23rd, 2014
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
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Red Poem
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Is it not enough that you’ve hung me beside
myself from your fraying rope - tendered by
graying wooden clips with rubber fingers?
Must we really soak on dry until we are sepia
toned under-developed photographs, left on fix?
Why is it you still feel the need to marinate
my every flexed tendon in formaldehyde?
Is it the slow bumping up against red glass
that turns you on; that you relish? Or simply
the come-hither thrill of the bottled hunt?
Watching our developing forms (and by ‘our’,
I mean me and myself - I left the party half
cocked and ready for more long ago) submerged
beneath the red tinge of shadow forms split at
the wrists - dividing one truth from the
next - your tapping, impatient, ready to dance
fingers drumming my convoluted tumbler to
halves; throwing tomatoes, cabbage and micro-
brewed beer bottles at my smiling face as it
develops, appearing as every God damn thing
you never could do; slowly, quickly emerging
hung on the next pin over.
O’ how you hate that photo!
The one where I’m smiling and you’re not.
The one where I know who I am, and you
don’t. The one where even though there are
two of me; there are, (at last count) 10,000 of
you. And if you could see your own face through
the wide V darkroom dusk looking back at
yourself, you would see that sometimes even
the best photographers get it wrong. Sometimes,
all there is, is shadow covering up the best parts,
leaving no room for light meters, fixer, or dull
graying clips clutching white Mickey Mouse fingers,
forcing the image still.
© Kristin Reynolds 5 7 09
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
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