Quotes about heady, page 9
The Contract
Pencil it in, if you're not really sure,
Then if you're not happy, you may want to withdraw,
But I'm sure upon reflection, this is just what you need,
Studying your requirements, of which I have taken heed,
We've viewed all your preferences and now I do feel,
We, at our end, can give you a good deal,
I wouldn't want to rush you, if you're not feeling ready,
Now read it all carefully, it can get a bit 'heady',
There are no hidden extras, to give you alarm,
And I can assure you, that with us, you'll come to no harm
For when it comes down to this transaction with us,
The whole process is one, we will do without fuss,
We will deal with it promptly in a couple of days,
If you get it in fast, I can tell you, it really pays,
Just leave it in our hands, and we'll make this job 'light',
Now your signature, please, What! you can't read or write!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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~ Eve Niv ~
Keep in
Bosoms’ sleeve
Your Eve Niv.
Eve Niv
Many looks -
Smart Street n’ Hip Hop
Cute n’ Tip Top
Vintage n’ Trendy
Blossoming BrunetteBlondie
Ethnic n’ Debonair
O’ Beaut connoisseur
Come-on to allure
Assure I’ll be your.
Says Eve Niv
Hush why?
Flush stale shy.
Will salve
[...] Read more
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Distant Flower
I give long witness to your eyes
Looking for silence.
Where is your child underneath
The mountain- There could be so many
Ways.
I will save her, because I know what
You’re thinking,
And the bus is turning around
Having forgotten so many things.
Maybe she is in the sky, the sky beneath the
Mountain,
Your child, your daughter of so many things.
Words are spit on the window of heady
Vagrancy,
But your eyes are really wonderful,
They go so far away; they see so many things.
The night is a cryptic flower turning in its
Jewelry case,
And you forgot to know who I am in any case.
And your daughter is so far away,
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Sea to the Shore
Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ?
Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ?
Shall I stretch my arms unto thee, biding thy maiden coyness,
Under the silver of morning, under the purple of night ?
Taming my ancient rudeness, checking my heady clamor
Thus, is it thus I must woo thee, oh, my delight?
Nay, 'tis no way of the sea thus to be meekly suitor
I shall storm thee away with laughter wrapped in my beard of snow,
With the wildest of billows for chords I shall harp thee a song for thy bridal,
A mighty lyric of love that feared not nor would forego!
With a red-gold wedding ring, mined from the caves of sunset,
Fast shall I bind thy faith to my faith evermore,
And the stars will wait on our pleasure, the great north wind will trumpet
A thunderous marriage march for the nuptials of sea and shore.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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A Night of Grace
Evening casts early shadows in December.
As dusk falls heart is filled with longing,
I have an appointment, I suddenly remember…
Quickly I put on my coat and stockings.
Stepping out gingerly in the still and chilly night
To meet my celestial kin, for an animated conversation…
Soon, my face is bathed with full Moon’s silver light
And the sky, colour of grey pearl fills me with exaltation…
A light breeze comes carrying a heady fragrance,
I spot Raat ki Raani with its pale green flowers,
Presiding with its crowning glory, emitting its essence
Intoxicated, I slowdown my pace and linger for an hour…
Smiling to myself, of my own volition I return home,
Wistfully selecting logs to put in the fireplace,
Extend my arms to warm my hands, now numb with cold
Stealthily, you come and hold me in a warm embrace….
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Winters Sun
Winters pall dims the vestiges of autumn gone,
lost the laughter and the sun, families fled
past the eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun.
Mundanity dulls the keenest edge, (re) casts
playact in imports stead, each actor caught in
winters pall, dims the vestiges of autumn gone.
In heady, early days, blushing glance was enough
to hold, then break, the rhythm of the dreary drum.
Past the eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun,
each generation caricatured, first by writers pen,
then realigned by victors gun; the awful chill of
winters pall dims the vestiges of autumn. Gone,
the comfort in a hug, entwined hands: now undone,
voices held on memories breadth, fade away into the
past. The eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun,
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poem by Christopher Withers
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Searching for inspiration
I want to write the perfect poem
Or novel, tale or anthem
Don’t know where to start
Nor how to go about that
So I asked a wise man and he said
‘Don’t start writing till you get inspired’
I looked around for inspiration
In wine, woman and song
All three together is heady
And I went to sleep unsteady
[...] Read more
poem by MVJ Simon
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Who's To Say
Cars pull in beside tombs and who should
Get out but the silhouettes of movie stars,
And soccer girls from high school,
And the night is so heady with their atmosphere that
It sways as if being tugged like a table cloth,
Like the sea by the moon:
And even the souls of the dying radiate like the flagella
Of maypoles,
And the water near the shore is so shallow that it brings
All together such wildlife in rapacious harmony;
And Amanda has been to Africa,
But I have seen the corpulent tortoise under the bus,
Tugging out the engine of orchids like a child who is
Not bashful,
And even though I leapt away like a little girl over the
Heads of the disinterested alligators,
Who’s to say now that I don’t care, or that I wont once
Again be beautiful,
Or that my mother isn’t weeping over the walky-talky
Because I am bivouacked so far up I diadem
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Spooning
You are the best wine I ever taste
the heady intoxication which envelopes me;
the candy mint on the bedroom pillow
the bubbles in my champagne
a soft giggle at midnight
the living photograph at my side
the sachet in the sheet drawer
the scent of jasmine at evening tide
where my senses reeling
you read my open book
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Songs of Dead Rivers
I lounge inside the songs of dead rivers
Where better women smile at me naked atop
The tufts greener than all Christmas trees;
But oh, how these lands are wicked, even
If calmed: The king is smiling even while
Possessed, while the traffic is heady and conductive.
I dress out for PE, but don’t work out:
I make laps around the basketball courts and take
Notes, while the Jewish students collect on the
Fiascos which they better perceive, which
They have been working towards, never mindful
Of even the soccer moms’ leggy tresses,
Their dun ring fingers and extroverted scents.
Now in the cacophony of Catholic churches the
Play strums: She is wearing the red dress, smoky and
Ethereal. From Canada, and a thief crawls through her
Window, and her eyes are for him and glowing
Something mythical. Like a fire in a horn up on stage,
[...] Read more
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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