No More Clichés

Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you?

The Phoenix Strangler

With promise of job,
he lured her into a cane field.
His gentleness a veil of sanity.
Lurking in his mind,
a perversion of sex instinct:
'Bind her! Torture her! Kill her! '

Deep within comfort zone
suddenly brandishing his bludgeon,
countenance wearing mercilessness -

What Are Big Girls Made Of?

The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed

A Fantasy

I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.

Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean

On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,
In Cassidy's haggard last night,
And we owed them a day at the threshing
Since last year. O it was delight

Perfect Lie/ You Are Loved The Way You Are

Stand in front of the mirror
Either boys or girls, some got depression
Try to find yourself underneath the reflection
Dissect each point, seek for perfection
Dreaming of perfection, adore some corrections

Never know the word of satisfy
Already beautiful but admire to modify
Don't you know who really you are?
You are loved by the way you are

*** Until Death Do Us Part *** In Top 500

I was just an innocent
Caught in a whirlpool of puerile dreams,
Every second I spent with you,
Really was a dream come true.
Around us, was fantasy escalating
Until your daybreak dawned on me.

Love-
Used to be like a dead and inanimate sun,
You came along,

My Sunrise

The chirp of birds in the early morning
Bless my smiles with their innocent calling
I head outside with my blanket wrapped around
And lay there listening to this memorable sound.

Inspiring orange light of dawn, infatuating
With all colours the sun rise is portraying
Its cheerful glow fills my heart with serenity
And takes me to a tranquil fantasy.

Black And White

White dazzles my inner divide,
Black thrown in with my unruly side,
My parents wave me a lingering goodbye,
They have always nurtured my childlike soul,
As I try to fly from my warm nest,
To accomplish and try to be the best,
In a world full of colour so bold,
I'm painted black and white,
Standing out for all the wrong reasons,
I dare to fight,

A Sunset

I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.

Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:

At A Solemn Music

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd fantasy present
That undisturbed Song of pure concent,
Ay sung before that saphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits thereon
With Saintly shout and solemn Jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row

>≫A Poet's Journey

The first poem was a wonder
The second was a surprise.
The third poem made me a poet,
The fourth gave me a name and fame.

The fifth poem fetched me a fabulous fantasy
The sixth one was a striving struggle for perfect beauty.
The seventh poem conceived the heaven's serenity,
The eighth one gave me a fly,
The ninth poem lifted me in the sky.

A Fantasy

Her voice is like clear water
That drips upon a stone
In forests far and silent
Where Quiet plays alone.

Her thoughts are like the lotus
Abloom by sacred streams
Beneath the temple arches
Where Quiet sits and dreams.

Getting Back Up

Life is a bright, long star boulevard,
Where you get good, when you work hard.

But Life is not a fantasy,
or just a love that's shared between thee'
It's a battlefield of broken goals,
A purple sky with empty souls.
The city streets with littered trash,
the wild fire left with ash.

*a Farmer's Fantasy.....

With just a handful of barren land,
And tottering dreams based on the sand.
Yet the desire continued to bloom,
To produce the green out of the doom.

No frill now, can satiate his needs.
A tinge of grass is for all he pleads.
Extracting life out of nature's legacy
So small is that farmer's fantasy......

The Boat

As the sun shone bright
Over the intense deep blue ocean,
The small boat smoothly sailed,
Moving calmly over the mild waves,
Searching for the distant island
Near the lustrous horizon..
The sky suddenly transformed,
From fantasy blue to deadly grey,
With thunder clouds grasping its surface!
Lightnings struck, tornadoes rejoiced!

A Dream

Today I slipped into a dream
And saw a better world
A world of peace and gentleness
Before my eyes unfurled

And in my fantasy beheld
A vision of mankind
All set beneath a bow of fire
In glory full enshrined

~ Désespoir! Pourquoi? ~

~ Désespoir! Pourquoi? ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
28 March,2010

When you call me
Love finds efflorescence why?

When you echo in my soul
Surge of plaudit effulgence why?

Speak To Me

Speak to me
when I am lonesome,
weak, and sad;

Speak to me
in dreams,
in reverie and fantasy;

Speak to me
when my thought

A Meditation In Time Of War

FOR one throb of the artery,
While on that old grey stone I Sat
Under the old wind-broken tree,
I knew that One is animate,
Mankind inanimate fantasy'.