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onlylovepoetry Jun 2019
head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
james m nordlund Dec 2017
A million monarchs lie dead, though,
No less sociological programming of
Upper-middle to rich classes with
Decadence, affluence, inclusion, is.
No less societal determination of
Middle to lower, being excluded by
Division and conquering, privation.
Yet, they, on wing no more, still fly
In our spirit's eye, heal humanities' heart.
While their silent cry echoes
The 33,000 species extinct each year,
A rate not seen since the last ice age
Ensued; does it move you?
Does your curiosity ask why?
Will you, on this 33rd Earth Day, allow
A tear for all life's fallen? Consider
The losses economic apartheid incurs,
Mirrored by the divide humancentricity
Has levied? Our underlying duplicitous
Disregard for life, greed and oil fueled,
Won't abate for our existence, will you?
(For the beautiful butterflies, 31 st Earth Day, 2013)

Inspired stylistically by Dylan Thomas   :)

There is no separation, and not no separation, at once.  Life is relation.  Sociology, art, nature, economics, politics, spirituality, Earth, hummingbird, human being, a tree treeing, all one evolving Cosmos.

reality, james m nordlund
profane is the word you seek
when it comes to
looking up
this vicious word
called
love...

for how can one live
in deeper lies
than the imaginary
of permanent belonging?

for what is eternity
but a mortal's illusion,
and what is love,
but the sum of all of mankind's fears
and insecurities?
Cugetari naïve - partea a V-a: Cateva atribute incalcite ale iubirii

Profan este cuvantul cautat
cand vine vorba
despre intelegerea
acestui crud cuvant
numit
iubire...

intrucat *** ar putea sa se traiasca
altfel decat in adancile minciuni
imaginare
ale apartenentei permanente?

caci ce este eternitatea
altceva decat iluzie,
si ce este iubirea
altceva decat suma temerilor
si nesigurantei umane?
cher Jul 2017
profanity--
a fun ball of words setting fires, unleashing
a world of endorphins and adrenaline, yet
seen to be shamed, a shameful act indeed,
so much in fact that we rectify these acts with
a payment of change and coins in jars.

****, ****, ****, ****, ****, and *******.

six entire dollars, gone to the swear jar, a
jar holding value for every 'mistake', mistakes
meaning freedom of speech, creative, raw, and
honest expression, and despite how there's no
difference between them and 'clean' words.

that's utter *******.

another dollar falls in, the sonorous ring of metal
falling into this closing container now silent, coins
cushion and muffle, marking my clearly abundant
profanity, a loss for worth and value to my poor
wallet and poor name, the money simply pooling.

oh, this is freaking hellish.

a couple of bucks lost now, the last ones losr for i
shall now shatter this glass, nicks and cuts on my
shaking fingers from the shards as i pick my coins
back up, knowing i shouldn't have to have to pay
for mistakes that aren't at all mistakes, just simply
--profanity
i don't know guys, i like to swear and i don't see whats wrong with it at all.
Zero Nine Jun 2017
I'm confused by the caustic whispers
What I do, I do for love, they say
I'm profane.

Of course I'm atheistic,
I'm under the dome
of this upset city
with my badge and gun,
what do they expect,
my broken home?
I of all the answers,
answers, I have none.

I know their caustic whispers well
because I am one of
the inimical voices
spraying my name.

My name is in lights,
while I wanted this, I never asked
I never asked, but
now my brain is awake and I'm profane.
Marcus stood in her kitchen
sink to the face
hearing her name,
seeing the little girl.
Knowing full shame,
a person of poor success,
falling from grace.
Michael Lechner Feb 2017
The Sacred
is as present in
The Profane
as the wind in
the stirring of
the leaves

© Michael Lechner
JGuberman Aug 2016
after Yona Wallach (1944-1985)


Let's have it!
I came for the show!
Strip the Torah
to its essence
where not one word can hide
caress it with your Yad
singing in a lovers voice
an ancient burlesque
and when it's done and dressed again
parade it dancing through the congregation
a fitting encore
to a fine performance
as we almost fall over each other
to touch it
slipping spiritual dollars into its belt
the temperatures rising
like a finished prayer
that even makes the Malachim sweat
in their heavenly heights.
Yona Wallach was an Israeli poet known for her suggestive and sometimes explicit work that was often both sacred and profane.

Yad is the pointer used to read from the Torah

Malachim are "angels".
Miles Halter Jun 2016
It was quick, fleeting, and will always be remembered,
It filled this inner void I had, but left me dismembered,

It was a feeling I craved, The one I lusted after,
For what it’s worth it wasn’t the worst or some kind of ultra disaster,
It hasn’t hurt anyone, well I’m sure she wishes she could forget faster,
But I will never forget this page out of a dangerous chapter,

It has my favorite quote,
My favorite hope,
My favorite thought about getting lost and experiencing a desire to cope,

There won’t be days in february where she gets flowers,
There won’t be strollers, weird reunions or baby showers,
There won’t be scrapbooks, letters, or home made meals to devour,
There will be sleepless nights and well spent hours,

She may not want a relationship but she made me feel love when I needed it most,
I want to feel pressure from her fingertip but have to settle for thoughts of when they were close,

Was it a make up - make out it sure didn’t feel that way?
Was it a wake up call if so it didn’t work out that way,

I feel like it was the perfect decoration,
The way we locked into the perfect formation,
Cliche poems written about how it was salvation,
Are my summation or translation
Of working out the equation,
That being real... I was thirsty and needed ******* hydration,

But you love me,
Well that feels really nice.

I spent hours up late trying to figure out if you did,
Thought about the small stupid things I should change about the way I live,

6, 5,
This is where I should say I love you and I would never lie,
But rather, the us line would be about our *** drive,
The back of a van, folded down seats, Ed Sheeran playing through the night,

Funny how I always write about a memory,
It’s like I wait for the right day to listen to the words of this inner me,
Wait for the right time to reignite our synergy,
Moments with little action, a lot of adrenaline pumping into energy,
Promises to make sure we aren’t alone when we are elderly
Speaking in private, I want to talk to you really but it always becomes generally,
Except for those nights with sand and stars I remember so tenderly,
Flashes of what could never be,

But is that the truth. I don’t ******* think so.

I don’t think that is the case,
I think with a little faith the sixth could live to the eighth,
And the eighth could go on further into time and space,
Sure we would have less patience, less “nice” lies, less grace,
But I feel the embrace was a showcase for what could take place,
I don’t want breathing space let alone breathing room,
This isn’t a proposal, I’m not asking to be a groom,
This isn’t a disposal of throwing away what is now to doom,
But without being boastful, We would’ve been the perfect match and epic in the bedroom.

I have no idea what this piece is supposed to mean I just knew I needed to write it,
Kinda like I knew I should’ve kept my hands to myself but I didn’t fight it,
I think back to sand filled jackets and wondering if that was the night I should’ve quit,
But I never gave up even though now I understand that marked under ridiculous never-happenings is the fact we might kiss,

Friends,
It’s fine, Playing pretend,
Waiting for your mind and my heart to mend,
Like a accidental picture you didn’t mean to send,
Or a series to finish so you can finally place the bookend,
Or a lousy boyfriend, Hey I know a guy,

Who would wake up in the middle of the night head in the sky,
His “life story” slowly becoming a long lie,
Nearly sweating to death feeling choked by his bowtie,

At the tournaments where you seemed preoccupied,
There were those special moments where we locked eyes,

But honestly I don’t know how to feel anymore.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what to write.

I don’t know what we are.

I need to hear your opinion, your thoughts formed into words,
I need to hear which one of my thoughts you thinks hold worth,
I need to hear your laugh and tell me which are stupid,
To quit acting like a love struck kid,

Tell me to grow up, shut up, relax,
Get out of being lost but how can I without the map?

Cliche as ****.

Yeah,

It’s what happens when you spend all night writing trying to find the words to say to you only to delete them over and over again until you get to the point when you start writing so much and you just want to flood out all the emotions until you have nothing left so you can finally fall asleep only to have those dreams be fantasies and burn into night terrors full of hate and swearing and ….

Me without you.
Yeah. Sorry?
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