Best Scarlet Fever Poems
scarlet streaked with yellow
I lean to breathe in her scent
I reach out to feel her touch
she pricks me
and I bleed...
bleed her scarlet fever
bleed her yellow fever
she needs me to bleed
so gladly I bleed
scarlet streaked with yellow
scarlet streaked with yellow
I lean in to inhale her scent
I reach out to feel her touch
she pricks me
and I bleed
bleed her yellow fever
bleed her scarlet fever
she needs me to bleed
so gladly I bleed
scarlet streaked with yellow...
she grows
she flourishes
in my garden of pain
and delight...
Dedicated to 'The Rose of Texas' - Irma Linda (PD)
Scarlet streaked with yellow
I lean to breathe in her scent
I reach out to feel her touch
she pricks me
and I bleed…
bleed her scarlet fever
bleed her yellow fever
she needs me to bleed
I need her to need me to bleed
so gladly I bleed
scarlet streaked with yellow...
Wild like the rose, I must have
vicious when in bane
Swallow the aroma... Passion
acknowledge the tropical beauty
enjoy the inspirational tease
bondage and bandages of needing,
aroused by the pain
aroused by the danger
Inviting... Touch my wilderness
I stick, you bleed
stroke, with fever, chills
viral & unexpected, "I am The American Plague"
Wild like the rose, you must have
This poem is a collaboration by Tim Ryerson and Linda (PD)
Submitted for: 'The Heart of Seduction contest sponsored by Justin Bordner
Gotta be me.
No one else.
I tried to be,
Someone's clone,
And it gave me an uneven tone.
Gotta be me.
I don't care if you don't like it.
I don't care if you strike it.
This is my life.
And I can't hitchhike it
I probably tried to be you,
But it's not true to me.
I tried to be people in my family.
I can't do that either.
Gotta be me.
Whether it sends you colorless chills,
Or give you scarlet fever.
Gotta be me.
It makes me free,
To be only,
Who I wanna and gotta be,
Me.
4-23-11
Let me tell you a story...
It has not happened often in our neck of the woods;
I can remember only one time we've had snow on Easter.
The Ohio River had flooded earlier
that March of 1964
causing many disruptions in our lives.
Our town had a floodwall which protected
its low-lying residences from damage;
but my aging grandmother had to evacuate her area
and come to our home ten miles north.
This flood was second only (in her lifetime)
to the disastrous cost and destruction
triggered by a 1937 deluge.
Her visit was haunted by the memory of
severe damage to their home and business
twenty-seven years earlier
during the worst flood ever on the Ohio.
She worried the whole time - re-telling stories
of how folks had taken sick with scarlet fever and pneumonia.
How they had to stay with higher-ground relatives
and the back-breaking clean-up after the water receded.
They had just bought a new square grand piano.
She told of how they put ropes under the
legs and hoisted up it to the ceiling to
protect it from the water damage.
This was the first time I ever remember
her spending any time away from her home.
She and my grandpa ran a small grocery store
and made their mark in the community
by also selling homemade ice cream.
Just prior to the era of swirling soft-serve,
Tom's Ice Cream was known for miles around.
When grandma finally returned to her home,
the damage was more than her eighty-five years could bear.
My German-immigrant granny died on Good Friday
and was buried on the following Sunday, March 29, 1964.
I remember well, we had a light dusting of snow that Easter,
a kind of heavenly eulogy
marking her entrance
to eternity.
April 22, 2022
Sponsor Constance La France
Contest Name Form N - Narrative - New Poems
I chose a family theme
I.
What a darkness it is,
that as the planets rotate miracles
with cosmic power bestowed,
The Fall of Lightbringer
deadens the bleeding branches in Spring
as a requiem masked by your skin
paints onto the sun in a cloudless sky
The Stranger.
II.
What a darkness it is
when laughter lark detonates atom bombs in your heart
and you join me in my scarlet fever,
gazing thoughtlessly at a rainbow stream
of cars holding minds that also fear tomorrow
and are synced with Soundtracks for the Blind
underneath the sun in a cloudless sky
in April.
III.
What a darkness it is,
melting chocolate promises on concrete;
the promises of Locke Cole I cannot keep
streaming from a destitute human Roc
crippled beyond silencing waves in starless space,
smashing the guitar, he cannot fake it anymore
from a bleached sun in a cloudless sky
on Cape May.
IV.
What a darkness it is
to manually delete from your cyberspace
the immortal morning dew of a once eternal friendship,
for we all know that those imprinted souls linger
in our own, impossibly carved into reaches metaphysical,
especially when your favorites coalesce, reminders constantly
following like the sun in a cloudless sky
to nowhere
hello, my name is deadly nightshade
and I bring the nightfall of scarlet fever
down the endless winding stairs
I am the cause of malice in Paris,
tentacle spectacle and bullet ballet
fear my endeavor, this is my caprice
through shifting mirrors
I'll vanish in Venice
on eve of delight
I realize, tottering
scarce but not fanciful
starlings are on their way
starlings with green irish eyes
blazing upon me as witches sing
that art of war is not the same
as war of art (among the insane)
and so crooked count sleeps unaware
through the night shift
till the dawn of flames
The maiden's nipples
swollen, her bosom
flush with excitement,
hailing her goddess as
she slighted very
eloquently, puissant.
The goodness they
shared was of sinful
reproach, a somber
obedience of lovers'
admiration.
The dusk laden sky
flickered with prose,
the sorrows of
Belial's romance of lost
mysteries and his
vengeant domineer,
his bravado, his
masculinity, cascading
like spirals of chaos
and the chimes of
instilled darkness
climaxing to the
sojourn of forbidden
pleasures.
Gently now,
Belial eased this
fair lady to her lover's
demand, her patience
swelling between her
thighs, burning. . .
eternally.
- - - -
I.
Awoken from a dream,
a fair common was she,
her beauty unsurpassed
only by her soulful
demeanor and natural
prelude. Her femininity
and subtle prowess
always the victor,
her passion a hearkening
rose upon a lonely
desolate scorn. Her
feelings a bit feverish,
there now, nothingness
and the harlots of
misery and the massacre
of saintliness. The venom
there pulsing now,
was evermore raspy,
and only to the
delight of our royal
antiquities, vespers
of envy, of anger's delight,
of beckoning glee, a
madman's exuberation to
the deafening hysterias
of mischief's vertigo.
A marriage. . .
arranged, a stiffening
King to his Prince's
triumph over darkness.
Yes, this common peasant
and her divine bounty
was as a peril of Eve
searching for her lost
Eden.
There being no more
reprise, bitter, for her
burden, she was to share.
Somber eyes and
a broom for everyone
to take hold. Yes, the
beauty of a fair maiden
this, so vast and of
such masterful drab,
splendor to all of
the shared treasures
in spirits.
Rage!
A taunting basilisk,
enslaying our vat of
christendom and devotion.
To this day, of prayerful
morn, maiden Geinere,
awoke, scarlet fever.
You don’t know intensity…
Red…
Everywhere…
Scarlet walls… painted
And it looks BEAUTIFUL…gushing out tainting the canvas, what a rush… wish you could feel it.
I lick the blade; my accomplice, and an abrupt sting kisses my tongue
I am exhilarated… I am Alive!
Flashbacks of my hands on your neck squeezing the life out of you, my blade in my hand taunting you…
And your jugular just pleading for an opening. I carve a smile from ear to ear and I kiss it deeply…
What a Pulsating flow… I drink the remnants of what seemed like an eternity of crimson water.
My hands are soaking, so is my shirt and my neck… your body is shaking and I hold It against mine as if to protect you from the cold.
I lick your newly carved smile dry to clean the water off it as I lay you to rest
Scarlet heart, smile for me now or never
The thought of you brings me scarlet fever
Your red pigment reminds me of saccharine caress
Your orange tinge reminisces sour-sweet embrace
Your playful voice brings thundering rhapsody
Your luscious lips are like zones of fantasy
Your beauty is perpetually exquisite
Your daring look, only fools would resist
*For Cordillera girl*
May 4, 2023
When I was a small child I caught
every germ that came my way.
It is because of Mama’s nursing
that I lived to write about it.
I succumbed to every illness
in which I came in contact.
One of my older brothers caught the dreaded
Scarlet Fever and then one after one
we all became ill. There were seven of us.
We were quarantined for seven weeks.
Before one child was better another was sick
and all the time Mama was caring for us
with no outside help.
She did it all with love
and a lot of common sense
in this day before antibiotics and
other magic drugs.
Mother took her skills into the homes
of her neighbors when the mothers
were laid low.
Two neighbor women sickened
when the flu was running wild.
My mama went to nurse them
and stayed there. Daddy kept
care of us.
She was devastated when the women
after she had nursed them back to semi-health
arose too soon to assume their accustomed duties,
relapsed and died.
Of course she wasn’t paid a cent.
She though it was her duty to
help neighbors in their time of need.
There was only one doctor in
the sparsely settled community and
he couldn’t be everywhere.
Mama was especially happy
when she had a child to care for.
We had a bell beside our bed.
She would come at the first ring.
Mama insisted that we stay
right there in our sick bed
if we had the slightest fever and
she kept us there one more day
after the fever was gone, just to be sure.
She was remembering her good friends
who had risen too soon.
I had pneumonia at six months
and again at nine years.
The doctor had no medicine to cure it.
It was that mom of mine who spent
day and night giving me the
best care she knew.
I remember mustard plasters.
She put them on strong and hot to pull
the fluid from my lungs.
And then when I was better
she brought Jello to my bedside
and spooned in the liquidy,
delicious treat.
There was no refrigeration on
our farm at the time and the
gelatin could not set and hold
properly. But I still remember its
cool goodness.
When we were sick it seemed,
our mom loved us most of all.
There are those who scoff at near death experiences but I happen to disagree.
I was born on my parent's farm in Indiana and around about the age of three,
I contracted a very serious case of scarlet fever and nearly "bought the farm!"
But due to the fervent prayers of my folks to the One Who can ease all alarm,
(And, of course the doctor's care - they made house calls in the "olden" days!),
I survived that scary situation and I shall ever give to Him the praise!
Perhaps He saw some redeeming value in me and wanted to keep me aroun',
So I've tried to walk the straight and narrow - I hope I haven't let Him down!
It was during that malady that I had the mysterious encounter with death,
And was later told that I had nearly breathed my final breath.
I saw that long gray tunnel spiraling heavenward and at the top a light,
The most unearthly and brilliant light I'll every see, so very, very bright!
I would defy those who make light (so to speak) of this mystical event.
After all, what three-year old child would have pre-knowledge of what it meant?
I’ll Wait Forever
She stood with him on the veranda,
Looking resplendent in her flowery dress,
And he in his Confederate gray uniform
Tears fall down her cheeks as he said,
“My darling Catherine…I truly love you so
“Yet I must go…go and fight the Yankees
A dreadful yet formidable foe”
She pulled him close to her for a long embrace
Looking into his eyes, she gently caresses his face
“My precious Stephen, I’ll wait for you
“I’ll never stop loving or caring for you…never
“No matter how long this war lasts—I’ll wait forever!”
He returns in December for a two-week leave
They attend parties, and go for an afternoon carriage ride
He expresses that his love for her will never be denied
Before he left for Georgia, he said, “Catherine…please wait for me
As I continue to fight for Southern honor and glory”
Each passing day, she sits with her face pressed to the bedroom window
Her thoughts are of her Rebel soldier, whom she loves so
Spring, 1865, Catherine falls ill with scarlet fever
Getting weaker by the day, the end is near
Lying in her bed, she sheds a tear
In a voice so soft and clear,
She’s heard to say, “My darling Stephen…I’ll wait forever!”
--Allen Baswell
© 05-30-2022
There's a flower that looks like a pair of hooker's lips
Strangely, they're called “Hooker's Lips”
Agencies are paid big bucks to come up with these gems
Crazy ideas at their fingertips
Got some brilliant ideas too, give me a call
Just charge a small fee for expenses
Extra if my ideas lead to a million dollar campaign
Then serious negotiation commences
Charge a fortune for these award winning ideas
But for you if you act before 3 A.M.
As well, there's a discount for a quick tussle in the hay
Seems a little off topic, not was my intent
Okay back on track talking about pretty flowers
Another unusual one is an “Escariata”
A Spanish word for scarlet or scarlet fever as well
Not too romantic, sounds a bit like pasta!
Now back to “Hooker's Lips”, gonna put some by my bed
To help me in my reverie each night
The hookers I frequent will be clamouring for me
And my “Rhododendron”, what delight!
Narrow cobblestone lanes
The clop-clop of horse-drawn buggies
The crack of the whip...
Pots of Steam on blackened stoves
Whooping cough, scarlet fever
Stale bread, castor oil...