I want to be the potter
and you the clay
I want to work you with my hands
My fingertips pressing
now....against the keys
the board stiff under the sensitive pads
as I feel you press back against me
imagining
your lips
soft
wet
tenderly
pressing
into me.
The clay
soft and supple under my hands
forming you,
widening you again and again
my muscles working
against your stiffer aspects
as we spin together
wetting, re-wetting
and smoothing
my hands against
your silky slick
foundation
strong and yet pliable
seeking relief
from standing strong
and unyielding
need.
You are a deeper container
than I anticipated
and I, a roaring flood
threatening
sweep you
away.
but you hold...
steady.
What Joy!
What Relief!
we never expected
to contain one another
without harm!
without fear!
Peaceful
now
our lines
flow together
the potter
the clay
the hand
and the wheel
we come together.
I love how we feel.
Flinging this out there without knowing if it is good or even qualifies as poetry. Who cares for merely good? If I feel it, receive it into me, and form that experience into words that I share, well, fine. We shall call it poetry.
Who judges the one in the arena? No, not me.
Self-conscious awareness kills the poet gasping for life inside of me.
Click "Save". Post. Live. Breathe.
