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Posts Tagged ‘beauty’

I do not know

if modesty reciprocates economy,

if morality stands a chance,

let me think now.

 

The shape of your dress

suggests

the promise of contours

of valleys and hills,

rolled into

that voluptuous ridge

your cleavage reveals.

 

Your beauty maintained

on night creams

and anti-aging gels

to appear lighter

and paler. You dab

some talcum

or face powder

to shine

like a nacreous  pearl.

 

You glisten like marvel

of an immaculate gold

in the mirror. While

your perfume leaves

a scent to mesmerize

and hypnotize

on every man’s desire

lost in the art

of your seduction.

 

Your lips is an illusion

of an inner sanctum.

A prized conquest-

euphoria. Only the voyeur

dares to enter,

and touch without guilt,

and tickle

on every man’s fantasy-

its forbidden pleasure.

 

Your body as a trade

makes a woman’s secret

hard to accentuate

without showing,

without shedding

some skin,

some naked truth,

some coveted assets.

 

Like a midnight nymph,

hoping for some man

with happy hours to spare

to shape a dream.

But you know- like others,

he will not stay.

Longer before

the day breaks.

 

You, among the many

became one of every man’s

warm bodies to breed.

And it isn’t going to last,

no promises made.

As soon as his lust fades,

he runs away

taking the shimmer

from your moon.

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Peel your skin

reveal a vibrant sheen. Touch

and push the button.

Don’t be shy.

 

Color the sky red, circling

and swirling with blurred hues

silky and milky in the twilight.

Saturate the blues

in purifying whites

the ebony stars of the night.

 

Swallow my moon.

Dodge a shimmering light

flicker in the distance.

Your mist embracing lens.

 

My fingers trembling

capture your moment.

Beauty is raw.

Ephemeral.

I wait in magic

hours.

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Some say love is never about speed but a slow

unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.

That makes the difference between the passing

of time and the crafting of masterpiece-

not everyone is interested reading about angst.

 

And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged

to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain

to survive and keep up one’s reputation.

 

And if you think that poets spend their lives

holed up in their four cornered walls and a window

looking in from the world changing night and day.

Self-absorbed about  feelings or digging of the past

and wanting for love that they never have.

 

Or won’t have.

 

Some say about exiles to another country

or to another time or another space would

make people stalk on your mysticism.

Or the lyricism of recording things-

one have chosen to leave behind.

 

You can be exiled even without a room.

That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant

and pretend you didn’t carry anything.

You must know how heavy it is to bring

one line of a poem and to bravely express it.

 

Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.

For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds

of men and keep them going on despite travails.

Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise

or lost keys of their hearts.

Or lost childhood. Or lost future.

 

Art that was losing chances and losing hope.

That made poems became songs sung out loud.

It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.

And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy

affection and things people would want

and impress people whom they would want

to belong with. But this will never be.

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What will it take you to remember?

The light and shade of beauty

in minutes and seconds within hours

in a day or a year. A lifetime

 

about colours mixed in a palette

about anecdote in a story

about a scene in a play

about a line in a poem

or a montage in a song

 

I carry within me

waiting to be expressed

in time. Little by little

a masterpiece.

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Silence is a little thread that binds the pages to a life-

closed book of chapters, passages, remembrances,

acquaintances, wanderlust, transience, oblivion. No one

speaks about the truth anymore. About

 

long hours. Segments, anecdotes, soliloquies,

echoes, nuances, ennui, memoirs, silhouettes

of things and places. Sights and sounds.

The mind and senses in harmony. Strange

 

foreign. Beauty hidden in a labyrinth frozen

in time. Never to be opened for a reading

and not for sale. Summer, winter, spring.

Fall.

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The dress fit well

and the gods must have been happy

to mold a gypsum to form,

speechless and never tires of standing up

to impress. Look here, the mannequin is alive.

All would envy, their eyes on the centerpiece,

dreaming of petite silhouette. Her face caked

in make-up and lashes thick with mascara.

And lips enticing like vagina. Perfect attraction

who would not dish out bills from the pocket

envisioning…

 

beauty.

 

She must have been stoned

from entertaining the feet-seeking

fortune swept the marbled floor

day in  and day out of vanity.

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He stares at the frosted window,

dreaming of pigeons in flight.

Probing shadows in his oblivion

while the neighborhood is asleep

on this night bathed in blue light.

 

His heart refuses to surrender

to someone else’s handwriting.

 

He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.

No one knows how he spent hours

imagining a beautiful world.

Unable to express, struggling

for a line to be understood.

 

An empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written.

 

Such beauty, a flower in the field

belonging to some lucky bee.

Jealousy hits his innocence

like a knife to a man’s desiring,

leaving his wounds unhealed.

 

For the lady who reads letters

from some scented envelopes.

 

There is blood in the trash bin

and it does belong to him.

Among the crumpled sheets,

the fingerprints and drops of ink-

a memory of his scarred sanity.

 

How he endured the paper cuts;

this man’s life in blank pages.

 

The postman didn’t come today

and the letters were undelivered.

No one has foreseen death’s coming-

such as his knocking on doors

and opening of mailboxes, each morning.

 

They found a fountain pen in his hand,

motionless and still- in cold blood.

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