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  Mar 2019 abecedarian
onlylovepoetry
first I smell myself.

the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings


then I smell herself.

sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure

then I smell our sharings.

lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh

then I smell our combinations.

the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem

it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite


Friday, March 29 2019
Aroma olp musk balsamic paprika sea salt ***** martini olp
  Mar 2019 abecedarian
fearfulpoet
Why they call me the fearful poet! (The Razor Thin Difference)

”but who am I to complain
the  razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin,
sometimes are they not, the same thing”

Aug. 2018

~~~

this familiar line, well traversed, lives on the maps
sketched indented on your palms and brow,
at the edges of the crow’s nests, the eye’s keyboard witnesses,
recording every stroke

we tap in seeings, forming letters,
letters into lines, lines into verse,
as we alliterate, we walk unawares,
of the razor thin difference tween blessings and curse,
indiscernible until concluded, perhaps, not even then,
the stanza’s probable outcome,
always unsure, unknowing destiny’s decision

so we walk, tread, plumb, shoutout
“vive la difference,”
hoping the blessing messengers hear us first,
consummating our pleas on their favorable sight & side,
ever fearful, we do not shout loud enough,
do the blind hear,
need me, possess my sacrificial offerings,
my trepidations, burnt on the Temple’s altar

who will breathe their smoke and understand
their fearful origins?

so we-write, cajole that our every moment’s fear,
find the difference, that we don’t bleed from life’s razoring,
the thinner thinnest
needle threaded,

and fear is the threat,
and fear is the thread,
that holds me together


until the unraveling
requires me to write again,
the fearful poet
3/21/19 4:15 am
  Mar 2019 abecedarian
Mara W Kayh
My life is a virtual battlefield
complete with hidden traps,
layered atop cowardly assaults

between highly guarded spans of peace,
Inside my house
chairs and walls
are coarsely blown to bits
by verbal bombs,
and stark fists of shrapnel.

Behind that simple smile,
semblance of solid love
so easily shaken,
lies a ripened mine field

I tread on tiptoes
yet it erupts under
calloused feet unprovoked,
blasting glory to grey
as sacred sanctuary
falls to scarred terrain.

Spears lodged inside ribs
I peel myself from the ground,
shake off soot,
wait for dust to settle
before I march forward, again.

yes I lose the battles
But I will win this war.
Reminded me of the song by Pat Benatar, "love is a battlefield"
But again, hate seeps in as well.
  Mar 2019 abecedarian
Nat Lipstadt
your command is not my wish, Ilion

”give us your entrails of the hidden innocent truths of oft too quiet souls, a soul bearing the realities of who mankind is at its root”   Ilion Gray

it slaps me as a usual unusual,
an unexpected realization thanks to your in-sight,
that all our wordplay is just gardening for life’s lost collections;
out of order, badly memorized memory markers;

one must snout-root around in the backyard for the
entrails and the bones of generations of pets that are
hollowed out hallows,
kept in a sanctified corner crypt rarely visited

a lost treasure of honorable burials with pomp and circumstance,
many Star War figures play-interred by a boy who’s now a grownup, with two children but doesn’t come to visit cause he has man-size responsibilities and his California backyard is so very far
from the ‘park’ of his youth

strange that we hide the innocent truths
that are neither shameless and seamless,
but yet, nonetheless
warrant safekeeping in nearby dirt treasury chests,
lest,  just in case, to see the future,
we need retrieve
brilliant bright flashbacks kept below deck,
just nearby, just in case,
the ball bearings of the soul requiring viscous lubricating

souls grow quieter with age, even as the
grunting of bent-over digging up what is down down,
grows daily more noisy,
as deeper depths require the work of
pluming  and plumbing,
as time adds inches of soil, just as a tree adds an annual ring

you smile outwardly at what you inwardly auto-wince,
as you think twice about
what truths you may uncover, for better or for worse,
too many,
best left soiled encumbered,
for great is the risk of soiling oneself
when uncovering the
recovery of the best buried

but what was your wish dear Ilion,
transmigrates, and is now a command center  of
self awareness, realities, are scars,
some worn proudly and others with unbearable shame,
uncomfortably uncovered in roots of nightmares
watering in the
subterranean subconscious

the dreams we do not wish for,
come and command nonetheless from the way way back of the
chambers of the backyard brain, a reminder that
quiet souls should avoid the trails possibly leading to
grand entrances of entrails,
sadly admitting full well,
one cannot hide from risible, mocking, loathsome,
guilty truths to the surface rising

when I give you of myself,
exposing old roots hastens their endings,
exposed, they cannot be replanted,
not in earth, not in concrete, not in brain cells,
is that old friend,
what you truly wish?
March 12, 2019 8:52am

those of you who react and comment so eloquently and insightfully to my poems, too often seed the next one and the next one! who can claim no inspiration when the commune nourishes me continuously...
  Feb 2019 abecedarian
Nat Lipstadt
being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas


~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
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