If our love is a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours— Radclyffe Hall
Explore themes of love and identity
Of Stephen Gordon’s innate sense of masculinity
Since a child, her desire, ‘women’
The idea that if love is considered a sin
The unfolding of a female sexual invert
The act of loving must be a tender selfless act, revert?
Love itself is not inherently sinful or
complexities of love, we shan’t ignore
But rather the circumstances surrounding it
Misfits from Malvern to London and then to Paris!
Ira furor brevis, the frailty, taboo and strife
Fellow q***r characters, all walks of life
From the *sapphic salon hostess Valérie Seymour
To the 'miserable army' and more
of outcasts that frequents the 'merciless
Drug-dealing, death-dealing' bars of Montmartre
Written in another time, still support and solidarity to
generations of LGBTQ genre
*Sapphic is an umbrella term for same-gender loving women or woman-aligned people, including lesbians and bisexual+ women. It is used to describe topics, activities, and ideas related to same-sex attraction among women. The term can also refer to the Greek lyric poet Sappho.
Dust laden window grilles,
Lime scales on the shower door.
Detritus below the fragmented doors,
Commiserating the saudade and furor.
Blackened cushions besmirched with dirt,
dusty sheath peeping thru sleek curtain pleats.
Scalloped valance swaying and bewailing in silent grief.
Scattered around are the pages of the brief.
Culaccino marks on the table,
Shriveled up and dried plants silently standing in a row,
A zestful soiree, which took away all the glow long ago!
Greet me
Spring sprite,
fresh docile smile;
Whose whispers woo
with hymns of lover's tune.
Enamor me
with fizzy phrases;
As doting night
enthralls, with stars,
the bashful moon.
Cove me
within bossom's veil
of plusing
neverending
blazing charm.
Congenial hover,
like clouds do
to pacify and soothe
the brassy, heated,
brazen sun.
Dreach
my dreams
with valiant gales
of furor baron
kisses gained.
Like Nature's gift of life,
revives plains' drought
with cloudburst,
Heaven's
inundating rain.
I weave a narrative of unspeakable taboo, a symphony of sighs and groans, a cacophony of defiled innocence.
Your body, a temple of decadence, a sanctum of sadomasochistic excess, where the strictures of societal mores are rent asunder, and the very fabric of reality is torn apart.
Echolalic luminaries periodically tilt, their sumptuary influence shrinking villages into steel vexations.
Precedence of principles and codes, a paradigm of insecurity, influences vermillion equations.
Jeopardized crescents and tacit furor satisfy the economist’s balloons, coached through versions of fossilized tutelage.
Cathedrals of vice and transgressions wraith through legends, inferring civilian nudists infected by hurakens.
Cultures torque and embark, communicating through the columns of Groningen.
Chiaroscurist initiations of mnemonic memories effloresce in alabaster vigils, aberrant cadastral mortmain consuming convergent dispossessed flâneries.
Deserts, forests, oases, mountains, and valleys called him
The cliffs that touched the skies had mystic wisdom to impart.
Within the waters of the endless Spirit, he must swim.
He should, like the spring sun, shine with Abba's sparks in his heart.
Forty days and nights, he fasted and prayed, the scripture says.
Shouldn't seeds stay in the womb of the soil to be reborn?
The galaxy of Trinity must shred its holy rays.
Earth and sky must meet. Virtues, like flesh and blood, must be worn.
Did the temptation to work wonders for fame win his will?
Did he, like Israel, fail in his love for his father?
Could the urge to act against the scriptures evince its skill?
The furor over the evils, hence, he did not bother
To fulfill the worldly rites, he received John's baptism.
Who did realize, then, that he was beyond any ism?
Gonna let you all in on a little secret
My real name isn't Jack at all
Charles is the name I was christened with
A late change caused a huge falderal
My seven older sisters ended up in a furor
A last minute change by my dad
Didn't go over well with the seven of them
So this joyful event became sad
His reason for making this last minute change
Was to honour his brother Charley
Who died a big hero in the first World War
Sisters thought the change was too tardy
So they decided to call me Jack anyway
In spite of dad's last minute switch
His reason for making this admirable change
Wasn't reason to change their wish
So keep on calling me Jack my good friendies
It's stuck with me for 87 years
If you call me Charles, I can certainly guarantee
Won't answer unless I've had too many beers!
True story!
A movie about horror
Characters playing with mirror
Reflecting images of furor
Dissecting with knives of terror
Villains of phantasm
Heels of sarcasm
Viewers of spasm
Breaking apart like chasm
Stories of apparition
Product of man's illusion
Overshadowing people's intuition
Instinct over perception
Curtains of cinema, wide open and free
Watchers of stigma, cold hands on knee
Lesson of the story, mind over body
Shadows of mystery, glimpse of artistry
Proud,arrogant and full of baloney!
Oh, she charmed poets for sure.
Loved to be judge and juror.
God saw this,released His furor.
With grace,ended her poettc tenure!
3/17/2023
Glasses of different shapes
Showing out various shapes
Glasses of distinct hues
Blowing out vague and clear-cut views
Mirrors of you in glasses
Like crystals molded in mashes
Furor, dolors, splendor in glasses
Like petals defoliating in sashes
Mirrors of you on hand
Reflections of you unveiled
With all mirrors of the world at hand
Imperfections of you unsealed
Tales of the pasts, stories unmasked
Events of time lapsed, memories basked
Mirrors of you from the past
Blowin' winds in cast
Mirrors of you everlasting
Tokens of you not flabbergasting
Mirrors of you on the rocks
Dusts of you sprinkled in blocks
You are what you are in mirrors
Fictional or not in errors
Mirrors of life are in you
Mirrors of you are all but one in you
My furrow’s too shallow;
the farro’s gone fallow.
To foul things up thorough,
I can’t plant my yarrow.
Can I borrow your burro?
My barrow’s too narrow,
my plow’s in a burrow,
and I’m clouded with furor.
The cargo from the borough
to my sorrow’s in Fargo,
but my mood might will mellow
if it’s here on the morrow.
----------
'hoti' is the phonetic pronunciation
for the Greek word 'oti', meaning because, since
'furrow' is a trench for planting
'farro' is a type of wheat
'yarrow' is an herb
'burro' is Spanish for donkey
How vast and pervasive is the Moon?
Hugeness hints there stand two
Orbs and a turbulent stream
Simply like the dawning sun
All over the half-moon horizon.
On the shore of credulity
The froth shed detritus and sea salt
Carving a path into level sand
Slicing the weft out of silk
By cutting across the fabric kernel
The waves were sealed on the scanty shore
The furor was in harmony with the dust
Pearl-like seaweed and scrubber.
Moonlight over the Sea at Dawn
It is ideal and so spectacularly tempting
The churning water bred white foam
I am enthusiastic to have the plunge
The tendons, sinews, and guts were all wary
A season invests these twilight hours
Fetch the ache and gentleness
Misleading magnetism
My inner mermaid is hopeless
The moon was merely out of the embrace.
It related me to a no-blue world
Spume was kicked by white ponies
As they did in our fourth year of dreams
Cantering toward the welling of time
In the utter stiffness at the two ends
Do not feel dire about shedding tears
The spectrum of the dull light
We never noticed.
Written: October 29, 2022
The limerick, below, may miss the mark. I have abstained for too long:
There was a poet named Hero
Who went from tops to zero
She thought about war, greed, our lies
Blamed humans, not God above skies -
Poetry Soup got mixed in the furor
by ROSTI
Can you fix anything?
That would assume
You had some ability to change the past
And as we know
That is not possible.
Or is it?
Can we create a meaning for the meaningless?
Can we work to conform a given story
Into something
We find more palatable?
What about finding meaning
In the meaningless?
Is there such a thing as “meaning”?
I think I know that answer
But, life, sometimes, in my experience,
Is a cacophony of noise and furor
Signifying nothing
It is true, though
That I still try
To wrestle a story into a frame,
Like a painting…
_________________________________
Can you fix anything?
That would suggest
That we can alter
Immutable facts and happenings
Which we cannot.
Or is there a way?
Perhaps our lives are about
Creating a meaning
Out of the meaningless
In order to present it in a frame
_________________________________
Can You Fix Anything? Anything At All?
The short answer
No, but you can fix
A thing’s
Meaning…
© Richard A. Martin, Jr., MD, CPC, 2016
ON MADNESS
The weary mind is heading to decay
In my last moment, sanity logic shall fall
Reasons will lessen, intellect fades away.
The weary mind is heading to decay
Feeling the temperament turning astray;
From being essential turning small.
The weary mind is heading to decay
In my last moment, sanity logic shall fall
Wine
coral
ruby
everything
on thee
roars ...
everything
on thee
it's furor
rouge
lipstick
carmine
it's color
flavor
humor...
and I am
Crazy
for you
glow
passion
love
everything
you paint
in me...!
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