Photo reblogged from with 234 notes
Michael of Chernigov and Batu Khan Vasili Smirnov 1883
Post with 3 notes
The child was born in the snow
the child was born with a knife
and as it grows and grows
it’ll never know her strife.
The girls are chosen by their faces
the sons wed concubines
women were instructed to know their places
giving, is all they could leave behind.
A child is born with clasping hands
its hands in balling fists
in glee and happiness its know
a mother provides regardless.
The simplest things are overlooked
the smallest gestures taken for granted
as all the children grew up like smokes
with all that was done as society demanded.
Nine months from a conception
greets the ninety nine years of vigilance.
Into the night, empty streets echoed
upon the cobblestones, rang our clacking shoes.
Smokes from cigarettes kept sleepy demons at bay,
refusal- refusal- persisted,
from each meaningless lip to receive those intimate kisses.
We raised our glasses to the night,
cheered and jeered through each ticking hand,
and those eyes again caught mine, I could only look away.
Nearness in a moment captured within memories
Where the rumored accounts, accrue,
siege forth its misery.
There are no love here to be sheltered,
Flashed false flattered vulgarities,
there are no tenderness lasting,
lingers a yielding grace.
Neon lights with neon signs,
take comfort alone with night.
Handsome faces with handsome charms,
a conquest none could claim.
Post with 2 notes
in freedom yet in chains,
the scent of spicy peony still lingers it’s traces,
For it was love, allover ..again.
A rueful smile spreads across my face.
‘Click’ the tempo sounded- feet light on cool current
swept and sway it’s way into the kitchen.
‘Hiss’ the bottle cap clinked on the counter,
‘Slosh’ the scoop of fragrant mango find it’s way on my tongue,
Bed hair in tangles where it wisp and bounced
Gliding my way across the living room floor,
hip in sensuality, arms lifted into the air,
embraced and caressed by an unseen lover, as I
with no words gave my salute,
to all the scumbag handsome boys
and their share of hope for a better tomorrow.
A sensational moment in all it’s beauty, sweetness, radiated
against the darken sky,
‘It will rain today’,
‘though all is well, few here will know my name’
Steams rises forth from the shower head,
as the curtain drawn, the door closes.
Post with 1 note
At leisure I went,
masked with mad hair with mad thoughts,
and easy does one smell the moss,
feeling the icy water
against ones skin.
mislead by the imagination;
the weight of the world, too heavy,
with two fat gorging Ifrits on each shoulder,
made to feel each step
deeper into the mud, treading
where a mortal soul would be embedded
that not even the devil could lure, or divinity can resurrect;
and in place as I’d burrow into the earth,
I could only hope for a growth, aspire,
For the sun to touch with a single ray,
and to do but one good service
by providing shade,
in place of a being, who once only stood for destruction.
Post with 3 notes
A Glass Feather
There I stood, all savage, vicious and staring.
Bringing forth the smell of crisped plum
as a child
who appreciated simplicity.
The caresses of finest silks
from warm evenings skies
of purple, pink, blue, gray,
fated to the arrival of dusk.
The path I chose
haunted by sinister shadows
beaten in delicate gold;
from twigs and leaves before me,
I bind nimbly a coronet,
Laden in blossoming jewels.
Behind the mask of pains that trickles,
with roars no beast can roar,
the wrath display unrivaled
bled crimson droplets for.
My crown watched by arrows,
insignia with slights of gain,
and what can last forever?
When moments is given to change.
Béla Kádár (Hungarian, 1877-1956), Baigneuses [Bathers], c.1935. Gouache on paper, 69.8 x 99.7 cm.
Poppylicious (by dougchinnery.com)
Source: Flickr / dougchinnery
Page 3 of 311