A wanton eye is the messenger of a lusting heart.
Related quotes
Molester Lusting
Good fortune can leave anyone to bleed.
When the materialism of its worship,
Disappears mysteriously...
From a purpose thirsted.
Like a thief that sneaks,
And takes from hidden shadows...
Without a word to seize and reap.
Theft can make someone to grieve.
Like a molester lusting.
To pounce upon from darkness.
And determined to satisfy selfish needs.
Like a molester lusting...
People feed.
Like a molester lusting...
To take and seize.
Like a molester lusting...
Hopelessly.
Like a molester lusting...
Invading in a rush!
Like a molester lusting...
People feed.
Like a molester lusting...
To take and seize.
Like a molester lusting...
Hopelessly.
Like a molester lusting...
Breaking trust!
Good fortune can leave anyone to bleed.
When the materialism of its worship,
Disappears mysteriously...
From a purpose thirsted.
Snatched!
By a thief that sneaks,
And takes from hidden shadows...
Without a word to seize and reap.
Threatening to ruin one's invested peace.
Like a molester lusting...
People feed.
Like a molester lusting...
To take and seize.
Like a molester lusting...
Hopelessly.
Like a molester lusting...
Invading in a rush!
Like a molester lusting...
People feed.
Like a molester lusting...
To take and seize.
Like a molester lusting...
Hopelessly.
Like a molester lusting...
Breaking trust!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Messenger
Messenger not to be shooted
It is through messenger
All problems solved
If one tried.
Messenger is supportive
To plan and procedure
No damage of any kind caused.
Time to reform messenger
Cooperation needed and not separation.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love is unsoiled by lust.
‘I love my wife while lusting my maid.’
‘I love my husband while lusting my chauffeur.
Love is not spoilt anyway by lust.
They accommodate each other; no ruins
17.02.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Did Anyone Know The Messenger?
What in the world,
Are they doing over there?
'Well...
It's a complicated story.
You see..
The culprit giving mouth to mouth,
Resuscitation to the messenger...
Knocked him out,
Because of a message read.
And...
Before he even began to read,
The people determined...
They didn't particularly care for his attitude.'
What did his attitude have to do,
With a message delivery?
'That's the point the messenger,
Attempted to make.
Then that guy called the messenger,
A bunch of names.
Then knocked him out.'
What was the message?
'Well..
I had to read it,
Because the others refused to get involved.'
What did the message say?
'It said...
Keep your faith, stay strong.
Love one another.
Seek and attempt peace.
And please forgive the messenger,
Delivering this message.
He has been volunteering his time,
Without any pay at all.'
Did anyone know the messenger?
'They all did!
That's what's complicated.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Destiny
They deliver the edicts of God
without delay
And are exempt from apprehension
from detention
And with their God-given
Petasus, Caduceus, and Talaria
ferry like bolts of lightning
unhindered between the tribunals
of Space & Time
The Messenger-Spirit
in human flesh
is assigned a dependable,
self-reliant, versatile,
thoroughly poet existence
upon its sojourn in life
It does not knock
or ring the bell
or telephone
When the Messenger-Spirit
comes to your door
though locked
It'll enter like an electric midwife
and deliver the message
There is no tell
throughout the ages
that a Messenger-Spirit
ever stumbled into darkness
poem by Gregory Corso
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To The Wind
Hey Messenger, what do you do
Traversing along hill and land and water
Simply pretending to construe
Waving shapeless hither and thither
Kindler of fire, collector of clouds
Aeolic by command natural
Kindler of bombers, collector of tears
In breaths of humans, aren't you unnatural
Hey Messenger, what do you do
Messaging along of love and hate
Simply pretending to be true
Hailing and wailing in conspiring haste
Call your Messiah, I shall ask
Your celestiality be checked up
Of your split hearts He shall hark
Hey Messenger, retort, don't simply pass up
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Two Birds Wished To Be Friendly
1 Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
'Come here, o' dear, come here'
coo~~coo~~coo~~~in rising notes
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
2 Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Warbling, whistling, fluty trilling
Magpie just couldn't let me read
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
3 Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger plucked punished
Gloomed cuckoo, confused magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
Reading failing, messaging failing
Loamy homey cuckoo angry with me
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger plucked punished
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Menaphon: Sephesta's Song to her Child
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
-
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
-
When thy father first did see
-
Such a boy by him and me,
-
He was glad, I was woe,
-
Fortune changed made him so,
-
When he left his pretty boy
-
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
Streaming tears that never stint,
-
Like pearl-drops from a flint,
-
Fell by course from his eyes,
-
That one another's place supplies;
-
Thus he griev'd in every part,
-
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
-
When he left his pretty boy,
-
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
-
The wanton smil'd, father wept,
-
Mother cried, baby leapt;
-
More he crow'd, more he cried,
-
Nature could not sorrow hide:
-
He must go, he must kiss
-
Child and mother, baby bless,
-
For he left his pretty boy,
-
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
-
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
-
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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Weep Not, My Wanton
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe:
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies:
Thus he grieved in every part,Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept;
Mother cried, baby lept;
More he crowed, more we cried;
Nature could not sorrow hide.
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss;
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee:
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
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Of Wanton
Of wanton passion
to have but not possess
to hold but not caress
to tell but not confess.
Like gifts not gotten
or hopes forgotten
or even like the love you've got in.
It was there but lost then.
of wanton
passion! !
poem by S.W. Clark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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O! Daughter of Earth
O! Daughter of Earth
O! Daughter of earth-
When you look with wanton eye
I can read that eye.
When you look with prominent eye
Then any male cannot but look at you.
You talk in beckoning- call in beckoning
To talk by mouth- you feel ashamed.
At lonely field of spring, air makes dance
You go on twinkling anklet looking with curved eye
At the heart of city the thirsty wayfarer looks behind.
O! Daughter of earth when you look with wanton eye
I can read that eye.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mind Masturbation
When a man speaks, he ejaculates
When a man writes, he masturbates
The semen of a heart is infinitely finite.
Silence buds within like lusting twilight
As a poem's evolution to womanhood.
In tragedy her curves are arched,
Each sigh-
A widening bulls eye-
Your words, the darts-
And as your heart marches through the dark
If you deny yourself the light
Of your lust for her, (the lust to write)
It is no sin of incompetence
Simply poetical reconnaissance.
poem by Lazarus Knix
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Hidden Sighs
The gentle breeze as messenger
whispered the words on thy beloved's ears
And make that soulful dream, not fancy
Into the heart of reality..............
On my window the half sung lyric
In shyness when the beloved hid
I take the song from your lips
To the heart a song of love
When I read your eyes speak
A blush on the cheek as I touch
The hands for the ways open
The messenger the breeze giggling
Like lark sing again the broken song
O gentle breeze for the sick of love
Bring a message to rise again
When door I have not neither a drape
How thou say thou shy to enter
Nothing shalt thou find but a rug
On earth when in my arms I hold
To the heaven not nor a fancy
Hidden sighs but behold my love
In lovers paradise I live but a candle
In slow demise while I lit the darkness
13/2/2009
PS. The first stanza is written by Catrina Heart
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Ch 05 On Love And Youth Story 08
I remember how in former times I and another friend kept company with each other like two almond kernels in one skin. Suddenly a separation took place but after a time, when my companion returned, he commenced to blame me for not having sent him a messenger during it. I replied: ‘I thought it would be a pity that the eyes of a messenger should be brightened by thy beauty and I deprived thereof.’
Tell my old friend not to give me advice with the tongue
Because even a sword will not compel me to repent.
I am jealous that anyone should see thee to satiety.
Again I say that no one will be satiated.
Lord, what a Beloved is mine!
Lord, what a Beloved is mine! I have a sweet quarry; I possess
in my breast a hundred meadows from his reed.
When in anger the messenger comes and repairs towards me,
he says, “Whither are you fleeing? I have business with you.”
Last night I asked the new moon concerning my Moon. The
moon said, “I am running in his wake, my foot is in his dust.”
When the sun arose I said,” How yellow of face you are!” The
sun said, “Out of shame for his countenance I have a face of
gold.”
“Water, you are prostrate, you are running on your head and
face.” Water said, “Because of his incantation I move like a
snake.”
“Noble fire, why do you writhe so?” Fire said, “Because of
the lightning of his face my heart is restless.”
“Wind-messenger of the world, why are you light of heart?”
Wind said, “My heart would burn if the choice were mine.”
“Earth, what are you meditation, silent and watchful?” Earth
said, “Within me I have a garden and spring.”
Pass over these elements, God is our succorer; my head is
aching, in my hand I hold wine.
If you have barred sleep to us, the way of intoxication is open.
Since I have one to assist, he offers wine in both hands.
Be silent, that without this tongue the heart may speak; when
I hear the speech of the heart, I feel ashamed of this speech.
Messenger of Hope
Wind,
No matter how strong,
No matter how little,
Will always,
Mean so much to me.
Wherever I am,
In this unimaginable world,
I can always feel,
The wind,
As it comes and goes,
And travels across,
Your imagination,
Across the oceans,
To a land unknown,
And touches the cheek,
Of another person,
Another life.
Which is why,
I like to believe,
The wind can carry,
Anything and everything.
Like the sound of music,
The smile of a child,
The spirit of an individual,
Or the smell fo something you long,
To smell again,
Like the smell of rain or,
The smell of freedom.
Wind,
Is the Messenger,
Between person to person,
Between place to place.
But for me,
Wind,
Is my Messenger of Hope,
Hope to believe again,
Hope to understand,
Hope that I will return home,
And hope to keep my life intact,
For I never will know these things,
If it weren't for the wind,
My Messenger of Hope.
poem by Music Galore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A bit of lusting after someone does wonders for the skin.
quote by Elizabeth Hurley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thy Wanton Hair
THY WANTON HAIR
Thy wanton hair
Thy dimpling cheek
How humble is the mien
Of the meek
To question me, thee and others
Well, nature is rich
In all its hue
Dainty. doubling mumbling and fair
Not the stuff that time outwears.
(karnailsingh Heranwale)
poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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Sin’s Origin
And God rent
the fabric
of design
upon creation
tracing a nightmare
being upon
the silent
cosmic void.
Hot after perfection
inspiration lusting
a sensuous solitary
edenic man
desire flesh incarnate
bound beauty bound bondage
lusting liquids
lunges serpentine.
Thus God rent
self-proclaimed fabulous fabric
previous perfect omnipotent design
upon cross-breed creation
dark angel fell
before edenic man
a third of all angels fell
to intromit earthly hell.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
in•tro•mit Latin intromittere, from intro- + mittere to send or put in, to insert.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sephestia's Lullaby
WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changed made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl-drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another's place supplies;
Thus he grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there 's grief enough for thee.
poem by Robert Greene
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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