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They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.
 Sep 2012 Andy Estevez
Janette
I am an afterthought,
...a paper dream...
folded and forgotten
in the pocket of your jeans,
A stolen kiss,
lost in your flee
from the sweet store,
The shadowed curve
of a crescent moon,
half of a whole
dangling in sacrifice
to the stars that outshine,
a final teardrop
before the slaughter,
purged into edges
of loves last breath

I am the jagged silence,
of a broken wish,
a jaded blade of nexus
lodged into the soul
of a heart unguarded,
your fingerprints still linger,
fresh upon the handle of promises,
reflections of a smile on loan,
burned into the sword before the slay...

I am the fragmented child,
in search of a voice, that beckons,
whispers are the only map,
I hold on to the edge of them,
illusive tracks of this runaway train,
screaming through the darkness
into the light of your voice
aimless feet, a step ahead
of destiny,
always two steps behind
the crossroads
of that place
where love awaits me...

Petals from my hair,
blow into the passing winds,
stealing your breath
from their fragrance,
fading the velvet colours
into stone,
as they fall beneath
my final parade,
crushed and torn,
mere remnants
left behind in footprints,

...of a paper dream....
Curves

My body has no limits
The deepest of deep, the highest of highs

I can tell he loves the curves of my thighs
The firm muscle, yet skin so soft to the touch

Curves, that i love and he can't get enough

He says "Love yourself, for you are a Queen"
I look in the mirror, but what have I seen?

African American
Curves that will take another woman's man

The curves that are my eyes
See way past beyond your soul
Lie to me and I'll know
Lie to me, you are very bold

The curves that are my face
show you my true beauty
The curves that are my lips
are so soft and pouty

The curves that are my breast
that bounce when i walk
The curves are my thighs
can cease a man in mid-talk

The curves that are my hips
which sway like a ship at sea
Make a women, by which God has created me to be

The curves that is my ****
is what u see when I leave
The last thing on his eyes, which makes him beg for me

The curves that are my legs
they hold me up to stand tall
When sometimes things get too tough
They also allow me to fall

See these curves of mine, are certainly mines of my own
The right to love these curves have caused me to grow,
into a women who has the knowledge to know ,
someday I will find
A husband to love, and caress these curves of mine ........
Swimming **** in the river,
a forgotten art since childhood;
he and she redeemed it,
during their love's fervour,
tasting fire.

Fire and water, they played with,
after every dive, her gleaming lips,
met his sun blazed pair,
a subdued thunder
exquisitely shook their bodies
uncontrollably for moments
right from the deepest root.

Giddy with pleasure,
her eyes tightly remained closed,
but lips drank sun
from his lips avidly
without stop.

She felt her body taut,
like guitar strings,
ready to sing.

What he thought was this:
my girl is a red hibiscus flower,
that would bloom, fold by fold,
when tantalizing fingers of desire,
caress the buds,
gently first and then passion's currents
sow goosebumps all over.


She is a vine,
that gets him entangled,
her hands emits sparks.
Flames on her lips,
seek downward path,
and lights the unmitigated
embers of *****.
a liar in love
a crow in the cold
beginnings ascend
from the carcass of folly
what remains is the will
what survives is what
was there all along
courage is knowing
Don't cry, this kiss is a kiss goodbye.
Don't cling, it's time to part.
Don't look at me nor ask me why
I've taken back my heart.

No questioning, no pleading;
No door remains ajar.
No doubt your heart is bleeding
Now, and wounds of love will scar.

Don't hope to ever turn back time,
Nor resurrect the flame
Of what became a pantomime
Of love, in all but name.
© Marcus Lane 2008
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