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Tom Atkins Apr 28
The house is built
on posts and beams.

Thick, hand-hewn posts of local cedar,
the beams as big crossing space,
held together by a single peg
since the early nineteenth century.

You’d not know it’s age to look at it.
Windows have been replaced.
Walls torn asunder and replaced.
There is plaster and electricity,
all the modern conveniences.

But in the end,
it is post and beam.
Incredibly, solidly constructed
in such a way that space is spanned
and everything between and underneath
can be ripped out and replaced,
renewed and reworked,
becoming new again
without losing its strength.
My house is a post and beam house, built, according to the deed, around 1800. It was redone at least twice, in the 1920s and the fifties or sixties. When I bought it, it was a duplex, and the first thing I did, 24 hours after moving in, was knock out walls to make it a single home. In theory, I could rip every wall out and rebuild from scratch. I could, but I won’t. I like what it is.

I have an affinity for old homes, and post and beam construction in general. So strong, and yet so full of possibilities. It’s what I want my life to be.
Tom Atkins Feb 23
It is a room of chairs.
Their thin spindles let the light through,
visually almost invisible,
easy to move about the room,
to reconfigure as people come and go,
with no sense of mass or weight,
always room for one more, one less,
a different sort of life,
one that allows for constant change,
ebb and flow,
never too much,
never too little,
a shape-shifting goldilocks kind of room.

You feel strangely at home here,
an older version of Alice in Wonderland,
never quite yourself,
never quite what others expect,
never quite fitting in,
at least not in the way you expected.
The world has not made room for you.
You are tolerated
as long as you re-arrange your furniture
in the proper way
in the proper time.

Your eyes soak in the room,
so airy and bright,
and settle into a chair.
There is no one here but you
and the woman you love,
and it matters not where the chairs are
as long as there are two together.
On my poetry blog, this poem is illustrated by a photograph taken at the Thomas Nelson House in Yorktown, Virginia, I love the colonial simplicity of the room, the lightness, and easy reconfiguration a room full of chairs offers. The fact that they are Windsor chairs, one of my passions, makes it even more wonderful.

My wife and I were talking this morning. We had company last night and ended up going to bed without the broad stretch of time talking that is part of our day to day life. We both felt the loss of that time, a disconnectedness that is uncommon to us and to our relationship.

From those two things, this poem.
Taylor St Onge Nov 2018
I am not very good at saying no to people,
                              or at being firm and direct with my patients at work.  
           I am soft and mandible.  
           I tend to let people take advantage of me.  

My physical therapist says the people with the most problems
with their hips and backs are
                                                        the ones that can          
                                                        hardly bend at all or
                                                                                                 that can
                                       bend              too             much.

I am too flexible.  
                              So much so that it is hurting me.  
                                    I fold and I fold and I fold
                                               in on myself like origami and
                                      I let people do whatever they want.  
I can't remember if I've always been this way or not.  

Maybe it depends on how you look at it:  
The woman in the casket could either be sleeping or dead.  She could either be a stranger or my mother.  This could either be the bright, multi-color, kaleidoscopic shapes I see when I rub my eyes a bit too hard for a bit too long, or it could be the dull, grey morgue her body was wheeled down to after they tied the tag around her toe and zipped her into a white bag.  This could either hurt a lot or a little.  It depends on how much you let in.  How willing you are to bend to the emotional blow.  I could either stop writing about this or keep going, but it's been, what, nine years now, and I haven't been able to stop yet—
only able to bend and
                                          bend
                 ­                                      and
                                                                    bend
                                                                                    and
this took way too long to finish
PsycheSpeaks Aug 2018
I feel the cool breeze
dance across my shoulders
and wisp through my hair
welcome at first-
sending a shiver down my spine
not unwanted, but shocking

A break from the saturated heat
nature plays a joke on us all
keeping us on our toes
and flexible to change-
a good lesson to be learned
the lovely winter in June
the turns of life
are many

few of them
we have foreseen or planned

yet somehow we have managed
to survive

to tell a tale
of useful flexibility

and luck
Denel Kessler Mar 2016
an enduring cypress
immortal knotted rings
until death
two as one
held breath

a contorted filbert
purple catkins bring to flower
deeply rooted visions
creativity, awareness, knowledge
enlightened fruition

a variegated willow
to drink up sorrow's rain
in tolerance we bend
but not to point
of breaking

three trees
foretell a future
laced with little deaths
cypress, filbert, willow
lest we should forget
Lawren Jul 2015
Flexibility is the presence of structure
In the absence of rigidity.
Like the valves in my veins
That keep my blood flowing in the
Right direction.

As limber beings we can sway and bend without snapping.
Even under intense pressure,
We are able to return to normal
When we call upon our inner strength.
Our minds, like muscles,
Must be consistently stretched and tested
To remain pliable.
Allowing us to become more accepting of ourselves and others.
The virtue of flexibility
07-16-2015
Cazandra Leia Oh Dec 2014
Scientists have discoverd
the same flexibiliy in thoughts
that leads to creativity;
can also lead in some individuals
to mental illness.
Just Melz Dec 2014
They're feverish with desire
Eclipsed in love
Raging like a black smoke fire
****** scents rising above
The pheromones they release
Must be smelled miles away
They've missed this, the tease
And liquid glances, it's been days
Since, either have touched the other
But they still feel that ****** tension
On every inch of their skin
When they're finally away from prying eyes
Their lips mesh, his hands move to her thighs
And hers slide up through his hair
Gripping on tight
They could be spotted, but neither cares
He pushes her hard against the wall
Bringing her legs around his hips
She thanks heaven she wore a skirt
And quiets a moan by devouring his lips
He quickly, fervently unzips his jeans
Releasing himself and promptly
Entering her sweet, wet heat
He groans as he swallows her scream
Then pounds in hard, fast, ferociously
She rocks her hips with a delicious little motion
Squeezing her core tight, biting his lips
Coming almost instantly when he growls with delight
He thrusts harder, incessantly feeling her getting tight
Moving her ankles to rest on his shoulders
He delves his shaft as deep inside as he can reach
She scratches scars along his back
And they kiss so deep like it's the final feast
She throbs in her core as another wave hits at full force
Starts going weak as she comes once more
Feeling her liquid pour, brings him to the edge
He grips her ankles stretching the limits of her flexibility
Then roars into her sweet mouth as he comes, vigorously
He lets her legs go, but holds her upright
They both sigh knowing it's the beginning of the night,
And that was just a quickie

— The End —