I just want to look at you—
your blonde hair, poodle-like eyes,
that artistic nose,
and your soft, pouty lips.
You stir my heart like a cyclone,
stealing every thought I try to hold.
I want to hold your hand
and tell you—
I’ve kept this feeling buried deep,
like a hidden capsule in the soil.
I want to carry your burdens,
just to see you smile
a little brighter than before.
I want to pat your head
as you drift to sleep,
the way a mother soothes her child.
I want to trace your forehead,
to ease the worries you hide.
Will you look at me,
just once,
with those gentle poodle eyes?
I’d be happy
just to hold your artistic hands,
where our unspoken love
could finally be understood.
At the end of the world,
let it be just us—
laughing, forgetting,
leaning into each other’s warmth.
Just us,
and our love.
Ah! Here sashays the pouty Miss Scarlett O’Hara,
the Southern belle bombshell of Tara.
The center of hoop-skirted ballroom attention,
she bosses and causes her beaux hypertension.
Margaret Mitchell’s charming yet flawed character in her novel, “Gone With the Wind”.
The beauty of passion
In a poisonous fashion
Attention feels rationed
It’s a fatal attraction
Ravenous biting
A scandalous whisper
Addicted to fighting
With Lady Love’s sister
A burning temptation
An aching sensation
You lose all orientation
When she’s on rotation
She makes you melt
Can’t take the heat
Best lips you’ve felt
They taste so sweet
Perception is cloudy
Her lips turn pouty
Her touch is inviting
She keeps things exciting
She sneaks up from behind
Takes control of your mind
She’ll rob your heart blind
And keep you confined
She’s the primal urge
The desire to merge
To be skin to skin
It’s the sweetest sin
She’s love without trust
Pure chaos that’s unjust
Push her away if you must
Or keep dancing with Lady Lust
To love is to burn with passion, like flames of a fire.
~ by poet
On canvas, her loveliness was yet a vague concept
A beginning sketch in shades of charcoal grays
by the hand of one who knew her in greater detail...
the gleam in her eyes; curve of her lips when she smiles
Her pleading expression bemoaned when her lips parted
The artist's masculine hand trembled as he painted her
Tormented with need, she looked at him while in a pose
His eyes replied, "Not yet. I need to paint you in this light."
With brush, he quickly began filling his palette with colors...
peach blush for her cheeks, soft rose to tint her pouty lips
She opened her eyes to reveal irises dancing in hues of blue
He'd captured her beauty's nuance with the eyes of a lover
Plush lips and a pouty face,
still I can’t hear a thing you say;
Distracted by all the work done
in the name of high fashion;
Now you look just like a toon,
sponged with what’s real covered up;
Pineapple skin seems a bit phony,
leave all that at the bottom of the sea;
Starved for attention;
I see it in those sparkling eyes,
plush lips, and a pouty face;
To erase such natural beauty? Tragic.
Morphed into a filtered edit,
straight from the bottom of the sea;
Plush lips and a pouty face,
still I can’t hear a thing you say.
Response To Beauty Queen By Bailey Underwood
I’m a full-dressed villain,
Wearing the iron maiden’s cape.
Squint eyes,
Pouty lips:
“Be careful who to throw those rumors,
You cannot escape.”
As faithful as sheep,
As treacherous as fox.
You will never see me coming:
I hunt,
I kill.
I’ll put your chopped-off head inside the box.
Smashed
into oblivion
that pouty lip;
You asked for it
silently.
A skin, bit rough, and brownish fair;
A rounded face and short black hair;
Fine vignettes on a wide forehead
that seems to think the ways ahead.
Cherry red lips, thick and pouty;
Two big ears, a nose that's humpy;
Big black eyes with flickery wink
seem to fathom the way you think.
Self portrait poetry contest
7th place
Burning blue eyes like shining star
Like sunshine with a fiery flare
Her gleaming glare from near or far
Tames the heat of a flaming stare
Her pouty lips of cherry red
Speak in silence of her great charm
The luscious look like heart that bled
Rouses a true love, sweet and warm
Her shiny skin, fairer than milk
Lights up the bleakness of faint nerve
Her glowing hair, softer than silk
Reflects the bright glow of her verve
Wondrous beauty without compare
Like a goddess from up above
Treating her ill would be unfair
For, life is the gift of her love
Poetry is moody, she can be pouty and sad.
She can be vibrant, dancing the chicken dance.
I allow her freedom to be herself.
It does me no good to feel I am the boss.
Poetry is a chameleon. He is flexible.
He wakes me up in the night with an end rhyme.
What the heck!
Poetry is a teaser.
Poetry is not just a he or a she.
They is also a we, an us, a them, collaborating.
Going off in directions I could not outguess.
Doing what I never knew they could do.
Poetry slides onto a page with loops and whorls.
Laughing at my consternation.
Taking me totally unserious.
Poetry does not listen.
Sometimes I have this weird feeling I am in charge.
Poetry laughs
Pokes fun at me
Smacks me upside the head
Flies out the window with a hamster on her back.
Reminding me who is in charge.
pouty painted lips
long luxurious hair flips
leather red bottoms
Swimming makes me feel lighter, it lifts me up and gives me joy.
I gave it up awhile back, but have no idea why said Mrs. Loy.
Maybe it is because you husband pouts? Her sister-in-law suggested.
Or because when you swim your head clogs up all congested.
Mrs. Loy had to admit she did curb her behavior, so her home not to sully.
Trying to do whatever she could to please her husband who was a bully.
Her sister-in-law said, “Maybe you could leave the lout and swim with me.”
But Mrs. Loy did not want to trade staying home all day for a life of joy and glee.
Afterall, her days were nice until her husband came home from his job.
Her weekends and nights were horrible, but she did not want to leave Rob.
She had a job once upon a time and she truly did not want to spend time at work.
Trading for a miserable life she lived with a sullen, pouty, put-down-artist of a jerk.
I am a steampunk mind whirling against the face of new
Colorful in all directions, I like what is happening inside
I live my truth, my dendrites dancing in happy rhythm
Others complain they are stagnant, I live not to be
My pouty lips are natural, no liposuction or faux injections
There is blue green in my eyes with flecks of gold interest
I am an erudite, talented, eager, enthusiastic, and joyfull me
Stand back if you do not understand, for I am ready for lift off
Her sweet smile is like the rising sun
that brightens my heart when it is faint,
like a brightly blazing star
that sparks shimmer to stir my blood.
Her sparkling sights are so divine;
They heave hope for my dying spirit
like a fully flourished moon
that lights my path till break of dawn.
Her pouty lips gloriously glisten;
Their scarlet shine bolsters my courage;
They rouse resurgence to my dying ember
like a silent spell that rouses my faith.
Her spotless soul is like perfection,
like an exam that got no wrong.
Her cheerful charm is like diamond;
It beams beauty to my livid horizon.
For the most precious thing of all
is the treasure hidden inside her chest.
She gives me hope when I'm so hopeless.
She pampers me when no one cares.
Truly, she is my best blessing.
Being with her makes me feel serene.
To be around her this yuletide season
is my greatest gift of all.
I don't need to look at the mirror;
Seeing her makes me see my own face.
She's the image of my better self;
My own flesh and bone.
November 17, 2022
Best Blessing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Why you taking all that energy and time
Being ungrateful pouty wasting all of your life
You hourly daily time disgusting unredeemable on making up lost time
Complaining sustaining in your sorrow in your brief lapses of unbelief
Miss spoken unspoken silently and loud you're disbelief
A wise man once said you may kill time but one day time's going to kill you
Revelations part sometimes hard but yet so true
Lord I ma stop mine confession find the right now confessing I'm praising I am in worship with you in my mind in my heart continually so second by second by minute by minute by hour by hour audibly and intangibly in my mind now that I praise you been made free, in Jesus Name always
Amen
9/15/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.