dedicated to an aubade you hear,
calculating observe i gift; accompanies with a tear.
what made this dawn tight and secure alike womb, my friend;
coquetry of horizon, lacking effulgent.
the last four just to torment us can you tell?
cinematic shimmer it gives upon lake:
as navy as it's lachrymose,
also ephemeral.
watching seasons passing down,
and the moon phases.
gift another glance to crescent,
so it reflects on my manners.
18.07.2026
Dark louring clouds,
Golden hues of flirting pirouettes,
Hushed waters,
A gentle breeze in whispering conversation,
Lovers' bliss,
Dream's honeycomb,
The soul shall have its sweets,
And taste love floating free,
Where the shore kisses the sea,
With subtle coquetry.
I shall meet my heart,
Where her emotions are soaked,
She will lure me into her depths,
To caress that special flame,
I shall not resist the urge,
Standing on the edge,
Where my fall will be splashing delights,
And when you have had me,
I shall confess,
That never have I loved like this,
Where everything in me is consumed,
By delicious flows,
Of sea song and heartbeat waves.
A governess, a guardian of the young, so known and dear as to be called “Mother” and a noblewoman, just barely 12 by age, named Portia, sit talking as the sun sets the stage for a cool, cloudless night.
“Mother, who invented candlelight and the slow, delicate brush of lips?”
“Some rakish boy, pawning his experience for present pleasure, no doubt.”
“Say true, Mother. If you were a man, would you find this common body worthy of love?”
“You show no blemish child, and display a certain bony voluptuousness - I should think.”
The governess begins to comb and braid Portia’s hair for sleep.
“I saw Portincio this morning, in the courtyard.”
“The boy from Padua?”
“He’s a man Mother, and his cast portents a passion so sweet - it shakes my very frame.”
Mother chuckles, “Even hopeless birds sing in cages.”
“I am not hopeless!” Portia writhes angrily, like a snake about to strike but mother calms her.
“Shoo, shoo, now,” Mother purrs, brushing all the more gently, “I meant nothing of it.” After a moment, she continues, “Love is more than coquetry, little one, and it soon passes - like a parade, or a rash. For now, be happy, you are like the chaste stars - unreachable.”
Lady Melanie with silver locks
Loved her bonbons, bagels, and graved lox.
Curmudgeon geezers viewed her a fox,
But she loved them less than chicken pox.
Melanie kept free as best she could.
She allowed no time for coquetry
Or Penelope-style stitchery.
But three bores persistence understood.
Trini, a jet jockey CEO
Lived his life allegro con brio.
As his lovely red Lamborghini,
His love raced too fast for Melanie.
Claude, a failed nebulous maunderer,
Gossip, post-modern philosopher
Believed everything in life was free,
Which made sweet Mellie his property.
Her third paramour drove flat-bed trucks.
When Bo misspoke, he would say “Aw shucks!”
And then, hands on, wordlessly switch gears.
She cast him off leaving him in tears.
Single she may wait until too late,
For a blissful bridal altar state.
Should her three bores e'er face a hot date
At least she shall stand at heaven’s gate.
She
exudes
coquetry
with such flirty
eyes
In soft gentle breezes he felt her touch so light
her fair cheeks' alabaster glow on a moonlit night
The magic of her sweet breath in deep waters' allure
her shy coquetry in rolling green meadows demure
She was with him in storms, in the calm just before
her voice, a whippoorwill's wings on which to soar
And in single dewdrops that fell from the sky
he tasted her moist ruby lips in whispered goodbyes...
The ballerina with her coquetry
and prince with yawning tights his legs stump me.
Her twirl a-spin with graceful poise so long.
The twaddle of his movements poor ping-pong.
Unhandsome chin and rabbit ears so dull
But Alice charms before the queen of bull.
Her ruffles white, she curtsies with a kiss
the redness of a playing card’s abyss.
A timed waste for the prince - he scorns his watch.
His buffoonish pants made of trips and starch.
The queen, she’s not amused — “Off with their heads!”
“I shall have rabbit stew and corset seeds”
The ballerina begs with lashes long
The queen so flatly states her wish “S’long!”
Just then a storm reshuffles deck - a win.
The queen’s been tossed - the duo rides their Schwinn.
To find a finer ballet stage just in
The precise time for girls and rabbit-spin.
10/22/2018
Try Something New Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Nina Parmenter
With dodgy rhymes
She pauses, slender figure poised on
slenderer heels,
five inches of coquetry
ready to duet with
fifty feet of parquetry,
play a wicked staccato on
dinner-jacketed libidos.
Then she pushes open the double door
to find a newly carpeted floor.
Claudelle, we must go away and start a new life.
This fruitless sharecropping has just cost me my wife.
Believe me, in every way, I loved your mother.
Frustrated and annoyed, she left me for another.
I know you were heartbroken about what happened to Linn.
You will love someone else after we begin again.
A bunch of other men want to hold you in their arms.
They fall peril to all of your feminine charms.
Your mother wanted you to marry a man fat and old.
To her, he seemed to be worth his weight in gold.
You knew deep inside he was not right for you.
Never did you have feelings for him that were true.
What sadness and grief love sometimes brings.
Your flirting and coquetry have made a mess of things.
Too many men are now competing for you.
We will leave these surroundings and start anew.
Based on the novel "Claudelle Inglish" by the late Erskine Caldwell and the 1961 film with the same title.
I feel a nauseating revulsion to see scraps of prose
Bundled together in a neatened pile in the name of poetry,
And prizes being awarded for such otiose verbiage
And praises being heaped for such boring coquetry.
Poetry, my dear uninitiated impostors,
Is the language of the mute solemn gods.
You ought to choose your nifty title well
And thus commence your verse against the odds.
Avoid Soyinka’s worn-out style of incompetent blank verse,
Instead, give it the rhyme scheme of the unbeatable Yeats;
The superior verse that one Tom Mboya has never read,
The taste that a Kenyan editor will haul over the rooftop sheets.
Line after line beg the company of some higher Muse
So that you may pen the will of the gods and not your own;
Alliterate here and there though you must not make it your aim,
Then lunge into deeper thought with a deity-like melancholy tone.
And never seek fame for your sacred poetic tasks.
Leave the young to sing your lyrics centuries upon your death,
And remember a great weaver of rhymes long deceased
And pray and wish you immortal blissful health.
I drive an appetite that never tires;
A gaping heart engulfing all it seeks.
I own a will that constantly misfires;
A mind subverted by its own critiques.
I navigate the valleys and the peaks
Of life's complex terrain with clumsy cheer.
Not prone to many extroverted streaks
I am the man that likes to disappear.
The common coquetry that love requires
Imbues no flush of passion on my cheeks.
I need a discharge from the jolted wires
Of hunger, or a sparkle from mystique's.
Cosmetic valentines are dull antiques
Compared to appetence which has no peer.
I know the damage disappointment wreaks;
I am the man that likes to disappear.
In solitude the social self expires,
And something in that swathe of silence tweaks
My maddened matrix with judicious pliers
To harmonize the inner strife that shrieks.
As loneliness begins its pangs and creaks
Against the bars that keeps its cravings near,
Denial is the only guard that speaks.
I am the man that likes to disappear.
Sporadically a rare disclosure sneaks
Around this skilled, theatrical veneer.
The man I am appears in tiny peeks;
I am the man that likes to disappear.
She
exudes
coquetry-
with a flirty
smile
Portrait of a Younf Woman by Roger Van de Weyden 1599-1641
http://brianspoetrybio.blogspot.com/
Is wedlock the true route to all conjugal bliss,
Nuptial excitement that starts with a kiss?
Or is it the halter after the altar,
That threatens to fetter and make life not better?
The fondling and cuddling and nights of long snuggling,
Changed overnight to ones, of alcohol guzzling.
A churlishness now in the partner is found,
From a beloved spouse to an obnoxious bloodhound.
She a fabulous cook,now sports a grumpy old look;
He's turned from intimacy to reading a book.
Love and coquetry has come to an ebb,
Finding affections in a new kind of web.
Monogamy turns to Polygamy slowly,
And perhaps doing things even more lowly?
From celibacy to intimacy and words we can't shout,
Now their connubial contact lies down and out.
They denounce and renounce and have their say,
To begin a life in a new kind of way.
Leaving it all to their legal belief,
Divorce now brings in,some kind of relief.
But where it will lead is anybodys guess,
For the ball is now rolling and lifes in a mess.
=== Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
The frosty is the heart
Is all the blood,
As if there is any!
The chilling flame of an evil,
Erupts and soaks.
The love is lost,
The lunge of an eroded part
Passes and squawks
A new angel, sent the God
Erotic and hot is she,
The coquetry of a light at height
So the immortal rust is now,
Full of lust, roars and yells,
The childish of a lover!
Grabs and tries, but nothing finds,
So he is a kind!
The reddish talons of a vulture
Now, chase and trace like a child
Glean and sing
The lovers’ honor of trust!
Flies and sighs,
Soars and falls
Like the birds of love,
But nothing he grasps,
Through the virtue of light
Then,
The wild and crazy he becomes
Sweats and swells,
Swings and sweeps,
As he really is,
The swan!
And the most common of its type
Is the three times he bowls
Howls and shouts:
“Is really the only merciful a Torturer?”
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