Long Promiscuity Poems
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Ten generations from Adam to Noah
Each one more and more depraved
Violence, corruption, promiscuity, theft
And yet a Merciful God had patience left
Noah worked on his Ark for 120 years
To catcalls, boos, mockery and jeers
Though he warned others of what was to come
They heeded him not, seemingly deaf and dumb
With the tiniest of raindrops the flood began
God's tears at having to abandon His plan
Of rescuing the earth at the very last minute
Of preserving this world and everything in it
The Lord desires not to punish us for our sins
He yearns for a sign of repentance ~ Please let Him in
Who told you
to be afraid
of those who hate justice
What has happened
that you let slide
love , joy , peace , gentleness
forbearance, goodness
meekness , faith , and hope
When did become you
a slave
to the vanities of the nations
Where did the exaltation
of loving-kindness
disappear
Why did you hide
the light in your heart
Those oppressors of opinion
where peer pressures
you to run
to reveling and debauchery
greed and drunken promiscuity
a man of ingenuity
is hailed to renown
but a man of virtue
and trust is thrown down
Those who sit in laughter
of the broken and infirm
Whose contempt and arrogance
did no understanding learn
Benevolence of a person
is in mockery reviled
Charity for those less fortunate
and jests the violations of a child
Can you not decide
what character you will wear
conform to some pompous ass
whose opinions you don't share
to sit long hours in drink
and think abuse and rape a joke
minds that are truly clouded
and disappeared like smoke
The nations sell the lies
like many sacks of grains
dense clouds of darkness
conceals what truth remains
These are some decisions
that all in life will face
consider carefully your choices
once set can't be erased
Galatians 5:17-22
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
All alone you sit there in grip of graveyard, hosting demonic thoughts,
Listening to cries of tombstones, squalling from lovers’ somber epitaphs,
Recounting how you chased prospects, innocent souls you courted,
Celebrating your maleficence building bonfires on the burial grounds,
Where you buried them one by one, watching the dance of demons,
As your stony heart laughed aloud, mocking the dead in total disregard.
You lured them with synthetic smiles, faux glamor of loveless stance,
Never meaning a word uttered, attired in stares of spurious glance,
As you prayed on them, then discarded; in landfills of broken-hearts.
Relationships initiated in springs of life, often parched in summer heat,
As passionless encounters burned in flame of hideous promiscuity;
Got washed away by the feisty storms churning scurrilous intensity,
Propelling hurricanes lovelorn, flooding realms of lovesome prairies,
When aspirations of your lust subordinated inspirations of pure love.
Old and fragile, you ruminate now, in frigid winters of your miserable life,
Speechless, motionless, fearful of your pitiful world swiftly passing by,
Haunting your eyes, as paranormal spirits, the silhouettes of the dead,
Mock your decrepit existence, shouting insanities at your grimacing face.
Remorseful beneath moon and stars, you inscribe your own epitaph:
She was a gloom of stygian clouds, shrouding arc of love on sunlit dawns,
She was a dubious counterfeit act; she was a vile curse on romance,
A cooing dove of morn she was not; a phantom of love she sure was.
There is that ever-popular Motel Six version, for it's their bread-n-butter, and then there are less promiscuity five-star types ... like those donning wedding rings, or discreetly rounds of roses of the week.
With my lead in-house, left me her line open to entertain a levy of calls, as sightseeing does not amuse Ms. Sanford explosives, free my time for early use of one of our day-use rooms for leisure, as well as, prep myself a shower prior to my entertaining an elusive quandary.
I checked on Jane, had she any news, other than she called Hog's Breath and was told that Clint had gone out with friends?
Subject: Day use. A temporal use of a room. Subject's topical use of a room as opposed to its thorough use. It privileges the Red-Eye flight catchers to opt for a late check out of their suite at 50% less its price.
If the privileges are abused of its intent, a call justified by the night housekeeping manager, and in all such cases the guest would be long absent till its discovery, the question is then left to me.
Knowing the depth of the scenario, where the proclivities of a maid's list will provide, a 'C/O'-check out room prioritizes the guest less likely to be present requiring thorough cleaning as opposed to a 'D/U'-day use room and its expected lingering guest having a dash and go from it ...
Maid accepts OT or leave as an added for the night shift, nonetheless, a guest surprised by its credit card/company bill ... charge them.
I can’t write about sex,
I just can’t.
My subconscious tells me it makes me promiscuous.
It identifies promiscuity and sensuality as one in the same.
Scared of beauty, so it’s being stripped from me, for now.
How to talk about a part of myself that holds some of the most pain.
Connection after connection,
Experience after experience.
Casual or sometimes epic love.
Solitude at the end of the cycle.
Explosions of magic,
Endless eyes locking.
Now more painful each time.
I can’t write about sex.
I just can’t.
Why can’t I express this part of myself?
Is it because it’s the most holy?
It’s how our children came to light.
I am so sad to see what the world has become,
How I became that world and used myself,
Over and over again.
Glimpses of universes beaming,
Hearts on fire with bodies aligned.
I can’t write about sex.
Because it’s not a recreational activity.
To me anyway.
I can’t write about sex,
I just can't.
Because that’s not what it is.
The innocent criminalized, chased down with pitchforks and torches of fire. Their names dragged through the mire, by the hair, stripped of their humanity.
Meanwhile the guilty cheer with cash and jewels, with measured feet on the demonic beat. The guilty drinking the blood of the kind, like wine.
Headlines say: “God is dead,” “No one’s watching,” “The law is what we say it is.”
Will we be sorrowful for such as these when the armies of God, with Christ at the lead, tread with grapes of wrath?
God’s fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control.
Works of the flesh: sexual immorality, moral impurity, promiscuity, idolatry, sorcery, hatred’s, strife, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambitions, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, …the practice of such things.
Turn! Repent! The suffering will relent for the innocent. The bloodguilty will be paid with unquenchable suffering. Still there is time to turn and repent. See what a good God we have. He truly loves. None of us deserve anything from his hands and yet he offers everything. Why cling to a temporary offering when you can obtain glory?! We are tested and tried. Turn and repent!
*In italics from Galatians 5 of The Holy Bible CSB
A torn tale ere was sewn b' time's tool;
''f haggard hemisphere 'n' nocturnal nude,
'n which porous promiscuity 's oft draped -
furred fabrics, scales embroidery.
This tale 'n which cursed clothing was hexed;
porous past oozing sassy spell.
Makes marred maidens scarce behove laud,
but fractured flaunts cum odds grilled galls.
Tell those who 'gain sew this torn tale,
that nosy needle anon 'll break,
'n' sewn sanity would foster pawn
''f bruised beauties, gaunt graces 'n' plagued pores.
Let throbbing themes ''f this taunting tale
'n' wools ''f sewn silk canvas wits, fame 'n' shame.
'20:07:23:13:41
Note:
a) Of fractured fashion.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Ere - before
ii) oft - often
iii) Hexed - cast spell
iv) behove - suit
v) cum - and
vi) galls - biles
vii) anon - soon
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) "f - of
iii) 'n' - and
iv) 'n - in
v) 's - is
vi) 'll - will
In Pacifica
I despise that portrait of me.
The likeness ends
with the name.
Yes, Jane Seymour, unbeheaded
Queen of England.
No, not of pinched thin lips
and sharp bird-beak nose.
Those hideous wimples
tented on over plucked foreheads
displaying protruding toad eyes....
I was not the smoldering gypsy beauty
of Anne Boleyn
nor the loud, youthful
excess of everything
Katherine Howard
but look what their beauty cost them:
one head apiece.
I was pretty in my watchful, rich-wombed way.
I carried a King in my devoted belly
and a great love for my cousin-husband,
a fondness for estranged young Mary
and a fervent wish for peace.
I carried the scent of my beloved garden
sweet forsythia
nor the harlot’s stink of
Paris and promiscuity.
I was loathe to undergo
a coronation
I did not want to be Queen
and yet here I am,
the only wife to receive a queen’s funeral
and share a tomb
with the Beheader.
Perilous is the journey, sordid is the quest, flashing flirtatious desire,
Treacherous is gaudy aspiration, playing with torrid flames of fire;
No matter how thrilling, how visceral may feel this insidious chase,
Neither it is a road to endearment, nor is it a destination of grace.
Provocative is charming croon, simulating sound of love’s acclaim,
Exhilarating is ephemeral attraction, missives seductive inflame;
Audaciously feigning love, squalid is the phony paramour of shame,
Teasing emotions in tawdry games~ ignoble is his heartless name.
Allures of the dangerous dalliance, dazzle donning a seamy stance,
Hosting rendezvous immoral ~ an illicit dance of lurid romance;
Transient are escapades of infatuation, never meant to forever last,
Buried are their broken-hearts, in cemeteries of jilted forlorn past.
In interludes of life and time, wrinkles weary warn of receding age,
As lascivious phase, in book of life, begins to turn a fading page;
Revealing to glamor and courtship: the aura of beauty is long gone,
And nightmares of regrets have since robbed, avid dreams of dawn.
Obsession of lust wasn’t love~ admonish the sad memories of yore,
Promiscuity of casual encounters, pathos of remorse now abhor;
Wondering if it’s too late to long, for lasting bond of kindred hearts,
Before empathy of love departs, before the warmth of passion parts.
Labelled once as relaxation station
a brothel I was... that offered my hospitality expertise
catering to human nature lusts
meeting carnal cravings
satiating fleshly appetites…
...yet…
the stigma of being a home-wrecker
along accusation and the reality
of being an illegal den of promiscuity
made me guilty, seeing aborted babies
while enriching my operators…
...thus…
grateful am I for laws striving to close my establishment
persevering to end my pleasurable pursuits
(lurking through prostitution leisure I'm ashamed of)
toward prioritizing peace in the family
midst home and community welfare
as God has wondrously designed in His goodness*.
Psalm 33:5 He loveth righteousness and judgment: the earth is full of the goodness of the LORD.
February 20, 2021
2nd place, "Personification Poem 150" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger; judged on 6/25/2021.