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kevin wright Jul 2020
The docile cork passes us by
as we struggle between the waves
torn between moon and sun
drawn out to open waters
followed by megalodons of our world
viewed by haughty fishermen

plummeting below the frothy waters
spun around in vertical vertices
turbulence taking hold
crushing pressure pulling down
the light above fades
red hands start to turn blue
lips start to tremble
bubbles trickle
up up up

a presence appears, I am not alone
a dolphins beak nudges me gently
the eyes ingratiate my being
I feel my breathing ease
my lungs now as one within the space
tension around my head is released
audacious colours are diverse

the motion of the water provides comfort
the dolphin fills my being
at one the boundaries of sanity are established
I power for the surface in confidence
the water erupts
suspended in air folds
I bark in delight

fingers drill into my soft tissues
my breath is warm amongst the towelling
toes and fingers tingle
my nose walks through the lavender field
drifting banks of pollen powder my bare back

carefree, what a great time to live
the door closes
I enter my world again
same time next week
out of control, taken to another place, release of the body,  a dream,  power of the massage,
Äŧül Nov 2019
Massage it,
Shake it,
Think about her.
Massage it more,
Shake it till you blast,
Experience the ephermal joy.
Avoid premarital pregnancy.
My HP Poem #1796
©Atul Kaushal
Kiz May 2019
Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.

Dang....the hour is up.
annh Jan 2019
Blind man walking - heals through touch,
Carries coconut oil in an old jam jar,
Trusts in the magic which guides his hands,
To carry his dusty feet home.
Based loosely on my brief acquaintance with a traditional Fijian bobo (massage) practitioner and healer named Rupeni from the village of Vunivesi, Vanua Levu. Vinaka vaka levu, Rupeni! :)
Danielle L Cook Jul 2018
Outline the moon on the skin of his back,
he's never ashamed when I help him relax
Tracing the moon, the stars, and your smile
You sink into the fresh cotton ocean
fragranced by the oriental softener
I want you to reach into your inner
most abyss, while I pick my lotion.

We are alone my love, tonight
I owe you with my hands, give up the fight
Trust me, while I weave a warm thread of
tenderness on you, with me, you tread.

My fingers cascade and snake along your spine
I dedicate this moment to you. My message
is carved into you during this slow massage
To me, you are truly defenseless, thus divine

Imperceptibly, I skim your skin,
your breath, I appease
my angel, dream with ease
fallen asleep at my shin.

April 9, 2018
To Laurentin
Poem a Day Challenge Day 7
“Write a senses poem”
wraiths Aug 2017
skillful fingers drift across a deck of cards
finding nooks in between then shifting them like magic
the golden patterns across the backs shimmer
as the cards glide along one another fluidly

the same strong hands trail along bare skin
slipping between crevices and massaging softly
they trail sensitively and run along a spine
evoking an enchanting sort of pleasure
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