Practiced Poems - Poems about Practiced

pretty Polly practiced planting posies purple primrose, pink petunias, plants protected by prideful, placid, preening peacocks. produce provided by Polly’s plentiful garden pleases Peterson, plant president of Puffin Produce....

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I generally don't write sensual poetry. But I did this for a contest on another site and it got some positive feedback so I thought I would share here. ---------------------------------- Hello there, Cutie Do you see my eyes Between your thighs Observing shrewdly I know that it's near You love my dispatch Your rapid breaths catch With shivers down here I rise for the last Your...

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Many passions I have had and many I have practiced long and hard., but it was not until mid-life, I opted for a hobby more artistic. I got myself a new guitar with books to teach myself the chords. Quickly I realized I lacked ability to teach myself! So I found a woman who gave lessons in her home, and once...

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First came a moon Then it was the second Words called me night and noon Pink pearls of passion First it tasted blue Then as birds joined the moon Your love in view Oranges in dune Shadow in the tea Your chiselled poems Crazily desiring me Your lovely haemoglobins I gaze at the crane Flying in the blue Lovely coloured rain Angelina in queue They come and hold my...

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Practiced Passion Faking it. John G. Lawless 11/13/2016...

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I have tried taking a picture of things, without picturing it; clicking a button, and stopping time for a moment, in a coiled film. I enter a faint, red-lit room, carefully lay down the films, and watch the paused moments come to reality. Deep inside the photographs, I see myself looking for a picture I would want to live gazing at, in my lifetime......

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I used to sing to him, my mouth would brush across his shoulders and he would dream... I captured his hair and apologized for staying too long, but, God, what was time when his breath hung about me, the dancing proclamations that I could be... more. I whispered promises to no one but me, I broke every one as...

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You’re dressed in gray, and tattered like the clouds that hover above you. Frozen with the look of a person who knows of his own approaching death. Like the willow that cradles dawn's mist of unwept tears— a practiced sorrow, earned from decades of watching the slow meandering river, as it draws closer, and the banks weather and fall....

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