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Stage One - Experimentation:
I've seen it before, on movies and television shows.
The peer pressure, the giving in, the going back again.
And that's exactly what it felt like to me.
The pressure of your hand against the small of my back,
The way my body fell apart at your touch,
Like an ancient foundation crumbling,
And the desire that stirred in my chest to feel your touch once more.
At first, I only wanted a taste of you.
But the thrill that you brought me was something not easily forgotten.

Stage Two - Regular Use:
It became a casual thing,
Feeling you coursing through my bloodstream.
A knock on the door like the prep of a needle,
And your hand pulling me in like the ***** of skin,
And within seconds, a high I couldn't recognize,
As though I was walking on the sky and the
Grass was tickling my eyelashes,
And your fingers were pressed
Into the dimples in my hips.

Step Three - Risky Use/Abuse:
Before I knew it,
I was lying awake,
Wide-eyed in bed at night,
Imagining your fingertips
Tracing the inside of my thighs.
So I brought my pillow and blanket
And pitched a tent at the foot of your bed.
Then swore to myself I'd never leave your house again.

Step Four - Drug Dependency:*
A minute without your breath against my neck
Causes my chest to burn and my knees to shake,
But every time your breath fills my lungs,
I can feel the years of my life falling away.
Your lips are my nourishment,
Your sighs are my fluids,
And your kiss is my IV drip.
Every part of you has consumed every inch of my thoughts,
Even the dusty corners I have forgotten about,
And with every gentle touch, I can feel the withering of my heart,
Like a flower never to bloom again,
But it's a beautiful destruction.
In my day the only thing that started with I that was used for finding information and checking out women was EYE. No pad pod phone gizmo. I used my own eyes and actually left my house!!
Look on the bright side, things could be worse.
You could've hired Paula Dean to cater your
Kwanza party this winter. ..... Awkward......
This is the first in a series of poems that I will use to release the sarcasm inside of my Grandpap. It is really me, but Grandpap says things I would never say. I hope you enjoy Grandpap!
It's too hot to think
And there ain't enough to drink,
It's too hot to think
And there ain't enough to drink!
I don't know what to do
Cause I can't get over you.
I got those summertime blues
And they worse without you.
I got I got I got the bluuuuues

Yea, I got sweat runnin down my back
There ain't nothin, nothin like that
Yea, got sweat in my shoes
There ain't nothin left to do
Got those summertime blues
Cause there's no more sweatin with you
Yea, I like the way you sweat, baby
Better than the whiskey I can get
Yea, I liked the way we sweat, baby
From the hot day that we met
Now there ain't no more sweatin oooo...
Cause there aint no more of you

I got those summer summertime blues
You gave me the summertime blues
Can't get rid of the summer time blue
There just ain't enough cold *****
Got the summertime bluuuuse

Who you sweatin with now baby?
Who you sweatin with now baby?
Whose coolin in yo love?
I got no more you baby
You took away my drug!

Please come back lady!
Take away my blues
Come on back now baby!
I'm runnin out of *****.
It's too hot for fightin
That's not the sweatin I wanna do!

I got the summer summertime blues
Got the blue blue bluuuuse
The summertime blues baby
Got the hot hot blues baby
The summertime blues
The slang and the ***** talk is just my inner blues poet, not met to be offensive, and I'm not a raging alcoholic. I didn't even loose my baby. This is just a fun type of poem. I love the blues!
Christina sat at the dressing table
to brush her hair, the hairbrush
her aunt had given her, in her hand.
She was still in her nightgown,

her school uniform
was on a chair by the bed,
the bed still unmade.
She looked at her features,

her hair a mess, her eyes
still had sleep in them.
She brushed her hair slowly,
a hundred times, her mother said,

does it best. She dragged the brush
through, pulling through the knots
at the ends. She thought on Benedict,
her friend's brother, the boy she

had become smitten by. She wondered
if she'd see him today; unless she
waited by the school fence and peered
through when his school bus arrived

and he descended and went by the fence
into his playground, she might not.
Maybe if it was fine and they were
permitted to go out on the sports field

she would. They'd met the first time there,
after his sister had told him that
Christina liked him. Thinking about
him now, made her feel excited, made

her insides turn over, not nastily, but
weirdly, as if fingers stirred inside of her.
She had dreamed of him the night before,
dreamed he had sat at the end of her bed,

and she had wanted him to enter, but
he just sat there talking. She stopped
brushing her hair and put the brush down
on the dressing table. They had kissed.

Hard to find a place at school where
they could be alone. They had found
a few moments in the gym during recess
a week ago, just them, the smell of

sweating bodies, gym shoes and feet.
They had their ears pricked for any
sounds, but then kissed. Lips on lips.
His tongue met hers, touched, strange

sensation that, she murmured to herself
sitting gazing at her reflection in the mirror,
as if she'd touched a live wire, it tingled,
rather made her feel open, wide open as

if someone had pressed something within.
She daren't tell or ask her mother even
if her mother wasn't in one of her low moods.
Only when she menstruated the first time

did she mention to her mother about her body.
Oh you'll get use to it, her mother said,
the curse women have to put up with.
Sometimes in bed or when she got out

of the bath, she would put her arms about
her body and pretend it was Benedict,
imagined it was he doing the caressing
and holding and touching. Time to get

ready for school, she thought, taking out
of the photo of Benedict out of the drawer
and kissing it. He gave it to her after she
had given him one of herself. Not a good one,

she had to sneak one out of the photo box
her parents wouldn't miss. Benedict liked it,
said he kept it somewhere safe. His was
good, her damp lips had left an impression.

She wiped it off and held it against her *******.
She sighed. At night she kept the photo under
her pillow and took it out to kiss before
going off to sleep. She put the photo away

again and stood up. Time to get dress
and get down for breakfast before her
mother bawled out up the stairs to her.
Out of the window she could see blue

skies, a sun was rising. Might see
Benedict after all, she said, taking
off her nightgown, and letting it slip
to the floor. Oh to see him always,
and see him more and more and more.
Monica watched Benedict
practise Judo
with her brothers
on the grass
by the fence.

She watched
from her bedroom window.
She had parted
the drawn curtains
with her fingers

enough to see
without being seen.
She cheered him on
in an urgent voice.
She would have gone down

and cheered him on
from the sidelines,
but she was still
in her nightwear
and by the time

she had a wash
and dressed
they would be gone.
Watching him
made her excited;

it was a physical thing,
something she could
almost point to,
sense and touch
with her fingers.

She stared down at him,
watched his every move.
Sometimes he would
take on both boys
at a time and defeat

them both, other times
he took them
one at a time
and they would end up
on their backs

on the grass.
Wish he would put me
on the grass, she whispered
to the pane of glass,
touch me

as he does them.
She couldn’t describe
how he made her feel.
Whom could she ask?
Her mother would

scorn her
for even asking
such a question.
She wished she had
a sister to ask,

but all she had
was three brothers.
There was cheering
from outside, Benedict
had fallen. He had

miscalculated a move
and fallen on his back.
There was laughter
as he rose and dusted
himself off.

Oh, she murmured.
She put a hand
to her lips.
His head turned
towards the window;

she backed away.
Had he seen her?
Heard her voice?
She moved back
to the window

and peered out.
They were practising again.
But this time
it was karate,
they were breaking

pieces of wood
with the side
of their hands.
She wished
she could be out there.

Near him,
sensing him close to her.
He came most Saturdays
to be with her brothers.

They worked in the week
at the nurseries
half mile away.
Sometimes she was up early
and caught him

before her brothers were out
and she talked with him.
Once he took her
to see the peacocks,
riding on their bikes

to get there.
She had wanted him
to kiss her, but he hadn’t.
So near to her,
yet she daren’t

reach out
and touch him, that day.
She stood at the window
and stared at him.
He had taken off

his jacket and was
in tee shirt and jeans.
They fought each other now,
their blows barely touching,
the karate touches

merely skimming the skin.
Odd this sensation
flowing through me,
she said, this expanding
desire within.
Naaman takes note
Of the woman Sarah
as she passes him by.

Her blonde hair
and blue eyes
have him enthralled.

His cappuccino is too hot
to drink as yet, so
sits and watches
as she walks by.  

She is tall,
her figure upright,
her sway is
as a fine ship
about to set sail
across calm seas.

He thinks of her often,
imagines her stopping
to talk, not just
walking by unaware
he watches.

He spoons the top
off the coffee.
Wipes cream
from his moustache
with a napkin provided.

Sunlight comes through
the glass roof, he feels
like some tender plant.

She pauses by a shop window,
stares at dresses and tops
and the dummies wearing
them, perfectly figured.

His eyes drink her in,
sup up her beauty.

There is bare flesh
upon her neck
where the top
of the dress ends.

Her hair touches it,
sweeps it
as she moves away.

Naaman closes his eyes
to file his images.
He opens his eyes
and she's gone,
only space
where she'd been.

The space is empty now,
but holds what he's seen.
I'd turn myself inside out if it would make me happier,
but that might hurt.
I'd walk 800 kilometres if I thought it would bring me peace,
but it would only bring me blisters.
I'd write words on a keyboard,
for you only to keep and hoard,
not because they maybe pretty,
please find me not that petty,
I just wanted to say the things,
to make you smile like joy brings,
You see we really have not met yet
And when we do, and we will, I'll bet,
I won't take back what I gave,
We'll have tea and then wave,

Goodbye,  ; - }
each of us stronger,
I could go on longer,
if you did not guess,
I have to,
own what I don't possess.
sinister eh?
The grey and tan house on the busy highway,
where traffic flowed like the river it was named after,
Halfway from nowhere,
Halfway to somewhere,
"leave your stinking thinking at the door."

The two multi-coloured coats in a warm embrace,
shoulders' held the others face,
long hair mopped up the tears,
they did not pat each other on the back.

But rub the shoulders, the arms and back,
as if a genie would appear so
they could wish it all away,
and start with a new day.

But that did not happen.

Sadly each took a slow step back,
hands dropped through a painful wave,
' Good-bye'
now turning to walk,
nodding as they both spoke,
not waiting for the answer to the
echoed
"stay in touch"

I hope they do,
it will matter much.
it is with our eyes we see,
it is with our mind we absorb
it is with our hearts we write,
it is in writing we share our lives,
it is in sharing we learn to care for one another.
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened  
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED    CODE RED    CODE RED   CODE RED  
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Upon practicing safety drills in a high school
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