Best Risqué Poems
Your honey drips in baths of blue,
with seductive scapes set to woo,
Arousing aroma stimuli arise anew,
A vixen voluptuous Venus to subdue…
Mane of a lioness suave and soft,
provocative perspiration sent aloft…
With erotic eyes that capture oft,
sensuous seclusions within her loft…
With lips that taste like wicked wine,
quixotic quenching of the venom vine…
Bodacious breasts in their combine,
permeable performance will entwine…
The Orbs of passion ambiently attend,
risqué rituals of a burning biting blend...
Carnal kisses upon a salacious suspend,
gravitational goosebumps will ascend.
Nov.09.2019
Goosebumps Poetry
Sponsored by: Delilah Ventura
Placed 3'rd...Plus POTW...Thank You
Dieu, dieu, preterite mon esperer;
Dieu, dieu, preterite mon esperer;
My God gives me hope;
When all things seem to fail;
My God, my God today…
Out to the wiles and wails of satans ways;
Ca ne risqué pas darriver, there’s no hope of that…
I will not fail, fail in Jesus Christ;
No, no, no, no I shall not…
Hope for something, esperer, I hope so je espere que;
Hope that, esperer que
Dieu, dieu, [reterote ,o es[erer;
La la la la la la
My God gives me hope;
My god gives me hope
My God I said my God gives me hope, ma dieu dieu, perterite mi esperer
Praise God,
12/07/10
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2010, 2019
Arranged music by Jonathan Kabore
for Kabore Music
Old Lord Harry put up a good front.
He hid socks in his pants as a stunt.
But, his Lady swore
as argyle hit floor
that no organ was found to be blunt.
6/17/14
It seems some did not get this poem so a wee bit of 'splaining is above for all you Desi Arnez fans.
Definition for
FRONT - noun the side or part of an object that presents itself to view or that is normally seen or used first; the most forward part of something. [i.e. the front of his pants]
FRONT - noun in a military sense the front is the FIRING LINE
FRONT - a fake or false personality
This poetic devise is called a double entendre [a play on words]- a word or phrase open to two interpretations, one of which is usually risqué or indecent.
ORGAN - is also being used this way - The human ***** is an external male sexual organ - as well as a musical instrument made of pipe
ARGYLE - a pattern composed of diamonds of various colors on a plain background, used in knitted garments such as sweaters and socks.
or ARE GUILE - someone who is sly or cunning
even the word BLUNT has another meaning here since a BLUNT sword would be of little use
Loo humour it is my forte
Risqué rhymes, I’ll write night and day
I’ve finished next book
Will you dare to look
It’s naughty – that’s all I will say!
Assassins hot, two pair; black, red
strappy, feminine, slaying men
stilettos risqué; red drop-dead
peppered lust hot shake of cayenne
strappy, feminine, slaying men
naughty ninjas; stilettos black
peppered lust hot shake of cayenne -
beware palpitations' attack!
naughty ninjas, stilettos black
dainty daggers traipse teasingly
beware palpitations’ attack;
high-heels' vamp kills you pleasingly
dainty daggers traipse teasingly
stilettos risqué; red drop-dead
high-heels vamp kills you pleasingly
assassins hot, two pair; black, red.
Susan Ashley
July 29, 2017
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Two Pair of Shoes Premiere
Sponsor: John Lawless
What do I call that young coquette?
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of pithy epithet
will she recall, lest I forget?
Perhaps, instead a sobriquet
for who I was back in the day.
But what would she wish to portray?
Somewhat naive, a bit risqué?
A wounded child or power play?
“All that and more!” is what she’d say.
That girl who played a victim game
(though she would make the counter-claim).
A femme fatale; a wild flame.
A spirit not a soul could tame.
Both full of pride and full of shame,
all contradiction just the same.
It all feels now as but a dream,
that martyr of her own regime.
A fog of war; a distant scream.
An echo of one’s disesteem.
A soldier who would self-redeem
and break her shackles at the seam.
Now when she comes to mind I smile,
recalling each and every mile
we marched and fought in rank and file.
We failed, we wailed, we shed the guile
to wake and heal and reconcile
a misspent youth and life worthwhile.
*****************************
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
Etching your thoughts with a pen to paper
Telling in detail, page after page, your latest caper
A pal of yours, you may never meet, doing the same
Both know all there is to know from risqué to tame
Each of you eagerly anticipating each day’s mail
To enjoy the stories that happened awaiting the snail
**My wife's hobby
When stars come out to play at night
and up above the moon is bright,
the darkness cloaks the light of day
as shadows in the darkness sway
like silhouettes in pale moon light.
The hearts of lovers soon excite
as passions tempted with delight;
they come together quite risqué
when stars come out to play.
And as they hold each other tight
the flames of fervor will ignite
desires from deep within that prey
and light the night with their soiree,
and then the dance of love takes flight
when stars come out to play.
November 21, 2021
Antics dealer
I dealt in antiques as well as antics
Once chased a sterling ‘bronze’, very unique
It stood its ground and just blushed
Till, by and by, I felt bushed
And chastised, quit things risqué and of risk.
03 jun 12
Mercy Mercy Mercy
You’re the most beautiful being I’ve seen,
A glance of your face nourishes me within
The sound of your voice
Accelerates the beat of my heart
The freckles beneath your round eyes
Weakens every limb in my body
It pains me to not compliment
On your curved body
Your dolly face
Your risqué walk
Thus I complain
While am locked in my room
On how life is so unfair
Why wouldn’t I just have even that least?
Of what Lincoln, Martin, Mandela, Rosa had
Just a bit of that courage
To stand and face you
And tell you how much
I adore you, like you and love you
Tell you how much I would give to have you
Tell you how big a world you mean to me
Just a bit of that courage I’d wish
For my life to give
And certainly not this grieve
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy,
It’s the song, the feeling and the name
That I call out silently on your presence
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy
An amoral appetite
Promiscuous at play
Hot, horny, heavy
Romantic and risqué
Obscene unto obsession
Dirty with desire
Indecorous indulgence
Shamelessly salacious
Immoral and impure
Anxiously addictive
Carnal with no cure
Before I date I wish I had a crystal ball to consult,
Then I could ply it with questions for a quick result.
He claimed he was honest, a church-goer, and a stand-up guy,
But all his smooth words was just a pie in the sky.
He wined and dined me, and a pledge of love he made.
But not long after, I realized it was just an unscrupulous charade.
One night he sent a risqué text to me in error, intended for his wife.
He was not divorced, and had a whole other life.
A crystal ball would have saved me from all his lies.
He wasn’t trustworthy, and had lying eyes.
He is single now and after me constantly for a second chance.
I said, “Take a hike… I don’t want your song and dance.”
A limerick ought to be bawdy
A little bit nasty and naughty
So if one should write
Write ones that bite
A little risqué and gaudy
On a market you can see the people run.
The life itself sells here knowing all.
The paleness gets a tan under the Sun.
The smartness is wearing out the sole.
And to and fro here goes a branded flesh,
and risqué tongues suspended scurry about.
It was the want-hag that swept the trash,
With a dashing broom uproar swirls around.
And cheeky grated balls are looking at my eyes.
A spicy smell is near me. It's marked up.
It's teasing nose of mine – my sense is right
to all the rest of senses on that sharpened.
And motley clothes the fruit-green`s putting on.
For hungry women it's a king of strip-tease.
A kind of honey is brought by a brazen drone.
It is the tawdry world of alien prestige.
Persistent hubbub gets my ears on an` on.
Soon goods are thrown by plenty into mess.
By feet as a pair of compasses a horizon's drawn
to ancient Middle East through wild Wild West.