Best Romanticized Poems
You possess me with those eyes of pyromania
a tidal wave of temptation thrashing into my need for euphoria
romanticized on appetite for agile reckoning of kiss ravishing, harnessing my hysteria,
plumed with lashes lent from love's wings, curling wet wishing
brows preened sexy mean, fur strip stiring me,
hypnotized by your hot umber rings
I learn how suspense stings
circles of crave unbuckling my brazen brandishing,
deep set on my desire I'm unraveling for the vixen fire, heart sweating,
born from the brown of beauty's sweetest warmth
eyes that bite and suck the stress
right out of my soul's duress,
for you I go forth...
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
You possess me with those eyes of eagle blue
you use a single glance my hesitancy to unglue
soaring in the sky of my sweetened fantasy
these blue crystal orbs foretell of ecstasy
But first...the hunt...looking for prey - it's true
it's you - the Eagle
brutally brave and fiercely famished
you glide on the wind of my desire
your wings ablaze with fire
your eyes fierce, Oh, how they pierce
again and again
my inner sanctum deep
their hue puts the sky to shame
demanding passion and cravings untame
they bore deep into me
slashing bonds of inhibition free
Our eyes speak
Brown and Blue
Me and You...
in your eyes the need to seize
in mine, the need to please
yours dominate
mine capitulate
yours subjugate
mine consummate,
your eyes speak...
mine respond...Bonded, we belong
Eagle and Dove
poetry love
Our eyes speak...
A Collaboration Made From The Quills Of Justin & Eileen
as the wind whistles
warm wishes
echoing the
sea-salt silence
flowing beneath
silver-kissed waves
I think of synonyms for
love
illustrating hate
in elusive rhythm...
for stars never
envy the moon
but silently orchestrate
a cosmic choir
of coruscating crystals
in incandescent cadence
swirling confetti across
the nocturnal sky~
a compelling
commemoration
that you and I cherish
in technicolor tercets…
I ponder
why do green-eyed gazers
spinning
lilac lies
within
jaded journals
along jeweled realms
rage with
j e a l o u s y?
pushing my quivering quill
to question:
am I not art
am I not the muse
am I not worthy
am I not the ache
romanticized with roses...
perhaps these words
are mere
remnants of ramblings
ricocheting
rhapsodies
within the
breath of perfumed heartbeats
that the kohl-cold souls
can never taste...
so I purge
inked petals
upon the digital canvas,
that feels not
lyrical lifelines
bleeding ballads
h i d i n g and
h e a l i n g
behind
murky metaphors
and
alliterative adjectives
weaving h o p e
amidst
the
crestfallen
sighs
of
bittersweet
horizons…
This Aphrodite rose
slowly unfurls
pink ombre balms
of sun-kissed
springfalls,
as the luminous
lake of tears
cascade in
exotic wreaths
of honey-soaked
velvety sepals,
there succulent seeds
of zestful dawns adorned
our silken sheets
across luscious meadows
sprinkled with
glistening cosmic dust.
Yet neon streaks
of longing unveiled;
romanticized rainbows
engrossed within
fire opal clouds,
awaiting to drizzle
pleasing odes,
amalgamated with
drops of opium
meant to reveal
skeletons and secrets,
sculptured as
sultry souvenirs
of seasonal streams.
But ripples of reminiscences
reflect how
you and I
weathered howling winds
through unseelie storms
of oppressed lovers,
gliding in sync
to the echoes
of midnight screams,
rising from
sumptuous seas.
So, tonight, as curtains
fall in
hues of dusky dews,
cover me in sunrise
when the bleeding heart,
of blue-laced estuaries,
rhymes with
sangria vesper time,
where tomorrow’s
ocean ferries
purge prose
that never denies.
Let fervent
pearls pulverize
my colossal tarp
as the morning glows;
I ponder,
do mourning petals show,
the folly of
moonlit melancholy?
For you’ve devoured
the alluring depths
of campfire stories,
burning
untouched edges
within our twin souls,
whilst
cosmos
trembled
and sighed
in poetic ecstasy ~
we seized our
unsung melody…
For this
remains
as an
untold version
of our
dangerous glory~
etched on cupid’s
amethyst arrow.
The kindly old man, had become irritable
Over the death of his wife
Not one iota of happiness left
Those golden years, ripped from his life
She had been, an excellent, engineer
Keeping everything in order
He had learned, to appreciate, her generous ways
Tried to always, be genial, toward her
A knock at the door, caught him off guard
Since no one ever came by
He opened the door, to a noisy orange box
When a puppy lit up his eyes
Admiring the dog, he first thought how costly
This kink was simply absurd
It emits, those whimpering, puppy cries
He comforts, with baby talk words
Holding it close, a kiss on his cheek
His heart melts, as he takes her inside
He's caught a new girl, names her Iris
For the flowers his wife romanticized
First visit to the vet, to have her checked out
She immediately chases a cat
The smiling old man, gathers her in
Softly gives her head a love pat
an original poem by Daniel Turner
As the last petal falls
upon trembling twigs,
and the heart withers,
like nocturnal stars
weeping in a casket~
of ice-laced sepals,
soaked in searing silence,
cloaked in thistles of nothingness,
let Cleopatra’s amulets
dress your blurred horizon,
embroidered with
empty promises.
I wear our forbidden love
like a bleeding epitaph,
inscribed with
gusts of grief
and twisted tendrils,
emanating memories of us~
a mystical reflection of
how once we danced
like daffodils sipping
spiced gold magic
while the satanic sun
burned the flickering
flames of felicity within twin souls,
weaving poetic pansies
across the symphonic sky,
brushed with Sahara crystals,
unfolding a canopy of unbreakable
c o m p a s s i o n ...
O beloved black dahlia,
if I could, I would
fetch you the moon on a spoon,
steal the galaxies~
wrap them in
supernova serenity.
I’ll paint lakes of longing
with opalescent silver,
sculpt Swarovski swans
glazed in iridescent bliss,
tempting the alluring twilight
to drizzle aurora threads
across mysterious silhouettes,
engrossed in
an ethereal orchestra.
But if tomorrow
these words weigh little
less than the dreams
we’ve dreamed in stillness,
remember my soul is tied
to your rain-kissed metaphors,
and even if rhymes cannot
fix what’s undone,
these verses ache
to cleanse every stain
left within lifeless leaflets.
For no shift in season
could veil the vibrancy of vermilion
still rushing through these veins,
singing your name
in scarred cadence,
resting my quivering quill on
the cusp of the cursed springs,
as I embrace darkness before
the dawning of dulcet wings,
to lure you back
to the land of timeless trinkets,
a lachrymose lament~
romanticized as the requiem
for bewitched orchards...
I am your inked inamorata,
enamored and heaven-drunk,
sipping courtly creed
from the chrysalis chalice
of what love could unleash ~
as the heart heeds what’s unsaid
when stellar heat waves
thunder in sync with lightning,
still musing with
the monotony of muted music…
It was never the radiant rhythm
of romanticized rhymes
that pulled me,
but the arcane gaze
of your trip-uh-licious alchemy,
the ice-flame blues of
a draconian dreamer,
still intriguing this
intuitive incandescence
like a dangerous desperado
sailing me to an ocean of devotion.
O primal paramour,
purify this pained pulse,
heal the hurting nocturnal Helios
amidst your eyes that roam,
reaching for the rhinestone flickers,
blind to this burn.
While your hallowed hands
unknot the sky, wedded
to the thrilling threads
of my mourning moon,
calm your vagabond psyche
and listen to the evocative voice
of my unwavering verses ~
veiled in vermilion,
within the purged pages
enveloped in sand-soaked silk.
There you will hear
the black-cat moan
footprints of faithful fervency,
the lifelines of loyal luminescence,
clawed to compassion
generously giving,
serving the aromatic air
that carries your mystical musk ~
So let the ghost awake,
let the forgotten rise again.
Watch the wickedness unweave
the faults of an untamable warrior.
Are you satisfied being
vehemently investigated
by an emotionally intense telescope,
holding you viciously
to the lethal lens of feral ferocity?
Here comes the grace-giver.
I am born to dominantly bestow…
you,
dear
were my depraved,
inelegant
swan.
envisioned in the moonlight -
romanticized,
wearing your cheap,
red lipstick - and
desperate to ravish me.
if you did not love me
the succulent fruit upon
lip and breast would diminish here and now.
i said, what man is without his mistress,
and you smiled, exposing those crooked teeth.
i love you,
much more than i loved you then.
you seem to have adopted the image of an ill bird,
and in my dreams misery has approached you,
shackled you;
condemned you to love a furious man.
i am sorry i could not endure with you,
the tempestuous love for beauty.
i did not wish to search for you,
because i feared that you might be more appealing
with those poignant bruises upon your face,
declaring your mistake.
i remember, in the morning,
your breath was like a toxic thunder,
as you prepared your quivering lips to kiss me,
i did not know i loved you then,
but i love you now.
and when daylight breaks through the aperture of the night, my lovely sin,
i will perish, because even now i love your transparent shadow.
the earth, too, is harsh to me
on burning sunlit mornings - and
i love you today,
much more than i loved you then.
and only on this day i have been told by the wind
that you are alive and well,
but not happy.
Shelley
(The Birth of Science Fiction)
I.
Young Shelley at Eton imbibed the mystique
Of science romanticized into extremes:
He gave his poor tutor a shock and a shriek—
Electric jolt!—eliciting screams.
II.
Explosives and fire-balloons were his joy,
Chemicals tainting his fingers and arms,
Steam engine blew-up—(another mere toy).
Mad Shelley continually causing alarms
III.
His tutor named Walker is wholly forgot—
Blueprint for someone whose name we’ve all read—
Frankenstein’s prototype, likely as not,
Mixed up with Shelley in wife Mary’s head.
Strap on your guitar,
tell me when you heard the words
my face came to mind,
you don't like country music
but you like this song;
you think Tim McGraw wrote it
just for you to play for me--
"Just to see you smile I'd do anything"
your voice is monotone,
you're missing all the notes,
but when you look me in the eye
to say the things you're singing...
"When my world goes crazy
you're right there to save me"
we all want to be love's savior,
to give and to get equally with hands
that never fold and play the martyr,
that can always hold and take away pain--
I'm listening to Tim McGraw's words,
only hearing all the ones he left out--
stories of friendship, of care,
how it came before this love,
how he loved the girl too much
to tell her, at least for awhile.
Is that too romanticized,
or is it hope that will get us there?
Am I playing the fool
sitting here, writing love poems
to no one?
I ask these questions every night
though they always answer the same--
we've got to care before we can love
we've got to love before we can be loved
I unchain the caged darkness
to surrender willingly,
taste the warm, wet drips
of liquefied lament and life
tracing the cold cracks
within bruised veins
kissing patiently the searing surge
of anxiety caging and clawing
the pulse of pain-struck peace
the flesh beneath
the fragility of hope ~
purging the siren’s poison
of Beelzebub’s breath
love-drunk on dangerous desire
christening the mayhem devotion
carving temples from tempests
as the needles wake me to
a reality romanticized with nails ~
O reaper ... my beloved knight
aching to seize my light
fool me once more
seduce the stars
without a script
lure the lake of night
stripped of pretense
for I am your eternal flame
this heart, a mausoleum of
cremated calmness
and skeptical skeletons
a panoramic capture
of insanity unforgiven…
listen as the clouds spill
a thousand secrets
follow the shadow
of me and my truth
watch my skies abandon
the beautiful lies
I once worshipped ~
as I am now one amongst
the survivors of hearts I broke
while trying not to break,
the ruthless rhythm
of the game of musical chairs;
only the ones
who ran could chase ~
a memory condemned
as the cardinal sin ~
an alluring curse
damned with
Lilith’s signature, evermore…
You possess me with those eyes of pyromania
a tidal wave of temptation thrashing into my need for euphoria
romanticized on appetite for agile reckoning of kiss ravishing, harnessing my hysteria,
plumed with lashes lent from love's wings, curling wet wishing
brows preened sexy mean, fur strip stiring me,
hypnotized by your hot umber rings
I learn how suspense stings
circles of crave unbuckling my brazen brandishing,
deep set on my desire I'm unraveling for the vixen fire, heart sweating,
born from the brown of beauty's sweetest warmth
eyes that bite and suck the stress
right out of my soul's duress,
for you I go forth...
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
You possess me with those eyes of eagle blue
you use a single glance my hesitancy to unglue
soaring in the sky of my sweetened fantasy
these blue crystal orbs foretell of ecstasy
But first...the hunt...looking for prey - it's true
it's you - the eagle
brutally brave and fiercely famished
you glide on the wind of my desire
your wings ablaze with fire
your eyes fierce, Oh how they pierce
again and again
my inner sanctum deep
their hue puts the sky to shame
demanding passion and cravings untame
they bore deep into me
slashing bonds of inhibition free
Our eyes speak
Brown and Blue
Me and You...
in your eyes the need to seize
in mine, the need to please
yours dominate
mine capitulate
yours subjugate
mine consummate,
your eyes speak...
mine respond...Bonded, we belong
Eagle and Dove
poetry love
Our eyes speak...
A Collaboration Made From The Quills Of Justin & Eileen
I waited... I surmised
I know I agonized
Of course... I never realized
Springtime was disguised
I pondered... I personalized
I know I criticized
Of course... I never recognized
Spring had improvised
I questioned... I vocalized
I know I dramatized
Of course... I verbalized
Spring had not arrived
I charted... I analyzed
I know I hypothesized
Of course... I never was more surprised
A third Nor'easter materialized
I remember... I fantasized
I know I rationalized
Of course... I never romanticized
That spring would be winterized
April 4, 2018
For Michael Vacek's Spring Monorhyme Contest
A perfect storm they had created.
Two lovers destined to be mated.
Living life upon the edge.
Forged in crime, their love was pledged.
Wanted posters with each name.
Loved and feared, the pair became.
Evading law from state to state.
Alas, this was to be their fate.
Romanticized through history.
Sprinkled with some mystery.
Running, hiding till the end.
Celebrities, some may contend.
The two had once been quite mundane.
They hungered to be free of plain.
And even now they are well-known.
From need and want their seeds were sown.
For Nette Onclaud’s ‘Soul Partners’ contest
Bonnie and Clyde
By Samia Ali Arroyo
Erasure Poem
So many fake Indians these days
Elizabeth Warren is one
And according to my DNA results
I am too
But my grand-parents spoke Cherokee my mom claims
And they disappeared into the hills
She claims
Is the DNA test wrong?
Was I adopted ?
Or is it possible
That I am a real deal
A real Cherokee
Or am I fake Cherokee???
A Cherokee weighed in on this on Quora
First, I would never call them “fake Natives”.
They are 99% white,
mostly Blue-collar, and New Age Hippie,
Anglo-Americans
who are simply
lost without their own specific identity
that they can proudly Claim,
so therefore,
they search for a certain Popular,
Romanticized segment of Indigenous People
that will “fit”
into their Family’s historical Lore.
Second, it just happens to ALWAYS be …
the Cherokee …
sometimes,
either Blackfoot or Lakota.
AND, “My GGM was a Cherokee Princess”,
as an add-on VALUE.
This is primarily
because of the vast area
formerly inhabited by the Cherokee.
However, the tribes’ interaction
with European immigrants since colonial times,
led to a great deal of intermarriage
with non-indigenous populations.
In many cases people have limited knowledge
of the other Native American nations,
that inhabited the areas in which they live.
However, a lot of this is wishful thinking,
and these people have African American
or other non-European ancestry.
It is fashionable to claim indigenous ancestry ,
in an attempt to legitimize t
Their sense of belonging on our lands.
The reason is simple,
they don’t know the names of the other tribes.
There has never been a song called
“Indian Reservation” about Apache People
or any other tribe but, the Cherokee.
“Indian Reservation”
by Paul Revere and the Raiders.
So if those people aren’t Cherokee
by blood at least it’s in spirit.
And so I conclude
I may be part Cherokee
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee
But who really knows
My mother took many things
With her to the grave
Lots of family secrets
Things I will never know
But in my heart
I know
That I am part Cherokee
And so I will proudly
Claim I am part Cherokee
In spirt
If not in blood
Zenith ~
a fatal lie written in forged gold,
but to read the bruised ballads I’ve bled
upon the palette of pixelated peridots
in ominous silence,
must I speak the
romanticized rhymes of funeral roses?
Perhaps then I’ll nestle
in the crest of nothingness
like a failed poet
numb to the power of thorns…
O embers of raven’s feathers,
I feel the unseen heat
of Hades’ wrath,
burning the lucid mirage
of sakura moon-glade,
and my soul sways along
the razor edge
of a stainless sword,
drunk on white-wine illusions,
oblivious to the
faceless phantoms
mimicking Reaper’s requiem
in spectral synchrony,
summoning wings of dusk
within my eclipsed heart,
to soar as a fire-dragon
kissed by blistering sins,
as if ticking sparks of time
did melt and merge
with psychedelic coals,
where I’ll rule as
the mistress of Lucifer,
hypnotized by
the deceased daffodils…
But I’m not lost.
I crave perpetual peace
away from the
prying eyes of society
that pushed me into
a whirlpool of whirling insecurities,
a maleficent maelstrom of trickery,
dying for a searing sip of afterlife,
where ashes of deceit
will no longer suffocate the sleep
that abandoned me
like the splitting stars in my mind
sprinkling scorching confetti
upon fragile fields…
O beloved, save me
from the dance of death
I long to taste the
tears before the sunrise.
I am frozen,
like an insomniac
gasping for love,
reaching for tender twilight
in a tortured tomb of cryptic tulips,
weaving my heartbeat across
your horizon,
pondering in elegies:
If I were thunder’s sigh,
and you,
the timeless starlight…
Why do lifelines still unravel
your love
in soft, velvety cadence?
For amidst jinxed lakes
between us,
this soul,
r e m a i n s
achingly tied to your
elusive heart…