O CUME (POEMA) Piadas Variadas

  O CUME (POEMA)

• Piadas Variadas

No alto daquele cume,
Plantei uma rosa.
O vento no cume bate.
A rosa no cume cheira.

Quando cai a chuva fina,
Salpicos no cume caem.
Formigas no cume entram.
Abelhas no cume saem.

Quando cai a chuva grossa,
A água do cume desce.
O barro do cume escorre.
O mato do cume cresce.

Então quando cessa a chuva,
No cume volta a alegria.
Pois torna a brilhar de novo
O sol que no cume ardia.

If you mention this poem on the job, you will have a gruff "meeting" with the boss

 🔔

The More Loving One

W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

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Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time

⛲⛲The birthday of the world BY MARGE PIERCY

 ⛲The birthday of the world

BY MARGE PIERCY

On the birthday of the world

I begin to contemplate

what I have done and left

undone, but this year

not so much rebuilding

of my perennially damaged

psyche, shoring up eroding

friendships, digging out

stumps of old resentments

that refuse to rot on their own.

No, this year I want to call

myself to task for what

I have done and not done

for peace. How much have

I dared in opposition?

How much have I put

on the line for freedom?

For mine and others?

As these freedoms are pared,

sliced and diced, where

have I spoken out? Who

have I tried to move? In

this holy season, I stand

self-convicted of sloth

in a time when lies choke

the mind and rhetoric

bends reason to slithering

choking pythons. Here

I stand before the gates

opening, the fire dazzling

my eyes, and as I approach

what judges me, I judge

myself. Give me weapons

of minute destruction. Let

my words turn into sparks.

Lolita poems

 🍒

Sophia H   Follow

11 months ago

Sixteen Going On Seventeen

I wipe my cherry stained lips
and glance up, unwittingly meeting your gaze,
captivated by the innocence of my elusivity.
I wonder to myself, do I make you feel
how you felt when you were sixteen?
Though, the stumbling dance of your voice
tells me all I need to know.

It is in the way my nimble fingers
paint their tips a Lolita red,
and messily decorate my wide eyes
that I coquettishly bat at the senior guys.
How I twirl my hair and pout my lips,
ever so kittenish as I whisper in the ear of a friend
with a crooked grin and a stifled giggle.

I pull away as desperation washes over me,
a sudden realization that in one year’s time
those enigmatic senior boys I fancy,
known only by wrinkled pages adorned with pink cursive,
will be long gone.
For it will be me walking the halls
with seniority in my step,
to the beat of time’s ceaseless march.
And I wonder what would be of life if not lived
through the heart shaped sunglasses of a little girl?

From where this funny feeling came, I couldn’t say.
It’s simply the way I find calm
in this feminine facade.
My hairless legs crossed as I pretend
to not notice their eyes, gawking at the way I sit,
a cigarette in my dainty hand and Kafka on my lap,
listening to cars pass me by, harmonizing with
voices and whistles of which I pay no mind.

I’ll get lost in introspection
and try reversing time, to treasure
my naivety and freeze it in this rhyme.
It’s an indescribable romance,
like the fire in your loins,
the way I adore this feeling so fondly.
I find myself high on the thrill
of being just sixteen,
going on seventeen,
as I clutch to the virtue of my slipping youth.

First time posting my poetry anywhere! I'm sixteen and this is about the greatest fear that plagues my mind, becoming an adult. I adore being a teenage girl and doing teenage girl things, it's the loveliest thing in the world. © 11 months ago   lolita • teen • love • school • feminine • feminism   

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aspiringpoetv   Follow

a year ago

She

Some believe Lolita was a muse
Mostly because She was depicted as having a choice in the matter
We all knew She was suffering from abuse
So why was there a surprise element at the end of her chapter?

Maybe it was because personalities like her are never believed
How could someone so seductive be so clueless to her actions?
But women like her are always perceived
To like the reactions to their interactions

Men have never understood the concept of an independent woman
A woman that does not need anyone but herself
A woman that sees herself as a competent human
And not as a piece of meat meant to gratify himself

I once saw Lolita as an inspiration
A beautiful girl sought by a man who could give her everything She wanted
Then I grew up and realized She was nothing but a figment of his imagination
A twisted, sick mind in which She was concocted

He described her as his nymphet
His favorite little girl who he could use without guilt
His absence of sin alerted me that there was a limit
But men don’t understand limits until everything is spilled

I was groomed when I was a child, maybe twelve or thirteen
He didn’t care that I was well under eighteen
Only that I didn’t tell anyone and He could see me on his screen
I was so happy that someone finally noticed me, not realizing I was only a tween

I will never forget the interactions I shared with him and the many that came after
I blamed myself for believing they cared about me
I told my friends and we all burst into a bout of laughter
At that moment I knew who would make my life insufferable, He

© a year ago   lolita • pain • rhyme • child • women   

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poisonedKisses   Follow

5 years ago

play with me

in a dusty room, where no-one goes,
the closets locked and the windows closed,
a doll sits quietly with porcelain skin,
her hair, silky brown and her soft lips thin.
cracks stretch across the ancient ceiling,
the aura around her gives you an eerie feeling.

her dress, a lace Victorian ivory,
her shoes made from silk, her ribbons ebony
dorned in her hair, her bangs, an ornate style,
her lips curve up into an eerie smile,
her lashes long, her eyelids closed,
she opens them suddenly, crimson eyes exposed.

she tilts her head innocently to the side,
her lips open slowly, the smile now wide,
her voice was soft but sounded quite haunting
this now seems pretty daunting.
"no one walks within this room" shed giggle as she'd say
"you seem like fun, do you want to play?"

a rough draft of a halloween poem i'd been working on.. may be a little late to put it on but ah well  © 5 years ago, cli furlong   halloween • doll • lolita • horror • fantasy   

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Tina Papados   Follow

8 years ago

Moulin Rouge

Mountains of a million men
A velocity of cinematic lights
giving birth to flames; like rising dragons
transforming into women, into art.

Fires, feathers and golden snakes
caved bodies of femme fatales
hell's transgressive angels
fulfil fantasies of married men.

Crowds, celebrating with beer and cigars
chanting in French, desiring sweet flesh.
No woman resembled his fatal lover,
Lady Moulin Rouge.

In crowds of lust, danger gleamed upon
that young, seductive touch
of a female, lost within
mountains of a million men.

The nymphet of his desire
Soft and stark naked
holding a cigar; inhaling
the sweet betrayal of suicide.

A child, ten years of age
with the haunting resemblance
of Lady Rouge; forbidden knowledge
HE lost his daughter.

© 8 years ago   love • lust • moulin-rouge • beer • alcohol • men • forbidden-knowledge • nymphat • lolita • child • desire • life • smoking • haunting • horror • man • mistake • lover • suicide • fatal • transgressive • femme-fatale • overpowering • dragon • fire • feathers • snake • spiritual • d   

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Kairos   Follow

8 years ago

Waiting on Nightfall

You come to me in dreams
and every second I'm sleeping,
the tiny part of me that is barely conscious
is begging to stay asleep;
because the way you hold me and whisper
my name in dreams is something
nothing I'm awake for could ever
make me feel.
It makes me sad that I can only dream
of your touch; because waking up to you
would surely be a dream in itself.
I want to roll over at two in the morning
and lay my head on your chest;
feeling it rise and fall as we breathe
in sweet synchronicity.
What I'd give to come home to you,
your tie loosened and your top buttons
undone, that familiar worn and tired
expression hanging like a painting on your face
after a long day.
What I'd give to repaint it with gentle kisses
and tender words.
Let me undo the rest of your buttons and pull
you back into warmth;
into me.
You are at the heart of my deepest
desires- these feelings whose
existence I can barely admit to myself.
If there ever comes a night
when my dreams no longer grant
my waking wishes;
I'll stay awake forever,
because anything short of your dreamy
touch would only be a nightmare.

© 8 years ago   lolita • sex • love • dark • older-men • 1   

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Why Do You Love the Poem? Charles Bernstein

 

Why Do You Love the Poem?

Charles Bernstein

For the sentiment. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the sentiment. For the message. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the message. For the music. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the music. For the spirit. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the spirit. For the intelligence. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the intelligence.  For the courage. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the courage. For the inspiration. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the inspiration.  For the emotion. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the emotion.  For the vocabulary. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the vocabulary.  For the poet. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the poet. For the meaning. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the meaning. For what it stands for. — Then you don’t love the poem you love what it stands for. For the words. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the words. For the syntax. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the syntax. For the politics. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the politics. For the beauty. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the beauty. For the outrage. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the outrage. For the tenderness. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the tenderness. For the hope. — Then you don’t love the poem you love the hope.  For itself. — Then you love the poem.

Dada poem2

 And I laugh at the same time.

I laugh and I laugh at my face.

You knew better than you did it?

It is our shame that we are freedom of the world.

It sounds like a good idea to be disgusted by the world of freedom.

If you're going into the world of your own experience,

You are amazing!

This shame that you don't have to be disgusted by your own opinion?

It was nothing but shameful.

If I laugh at the moment I laugh,

It is a lot of freedom.

You have no idea of freedom of being in any country!