Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Third Mate Third May 2015
as is our wont, she cooks, I clean.

a division of labor, that reflects
skills levels celebrating
les différences vivent!

sink-bent, over the grill pans,
with water thundering,
soap liquid armies/battles concocting
(secret, shh!)
nonetheless overhears her
chilling in bed,
veg TV watching
thunderous interrupted by
what he knows
will be minimum six or
seven sneezes

which is her wont.

one/two won't ever do,
she a veritable sneezing machine gun,
ever alert, the scrubbing man
becomes a danseur fluid,
performing a triple tours en l'aire
from kitchen to bed in three bounds

with swift and mighty leaps to new heights,
he makes his way to her side,
having plucked tissues,
from a nearby, overhanging branch
upon his way.

seven sneezes immobilize,
kinda like being tasered,
snowball-in-the-face stunners,
requires her man to be a her-o-dancer
to be a savior, gift bearing
of relief-aid to her side.

he returns to the kitchen work,
you cannot half wash dishes,
it's an all or none thing,
it's a man self back slap/clap of the hands
when satisfaction of job completed visible.

satisfaction of just rewards
should always be given
to heroes,
one and all

so when he slips in beside her,
greeted with seven kisses
for seven sneezes

and this children
is no love poem,
but one of daily stories of
lives well lived in love,
where the mundane,
where the ordinary,
traded up into precious extraordinary
are ever on poems of life,
and ok,

now slap/clap for jobs well done....
  May 2015 Third Mate Third
Sia Jane
A moonlit dance beneathe constellations
      not Taurus or Gemini, Delphinus or Orion
                 but stars we named together
                   linking lines from star to star
       hands pointing in air so cold
a tear falls and
  leaving a roadmap on my cheeks
            that you
                           ­            chase
   ­         lifting the palm of your hand
                 so cold to the touch I shiver
            feeling the beauty of my tears
         that glisten like Venus in the midnight sky
             of this cold Parisian night
  you smile in jest and
     I misplace the space
  between you and I and that sky
  whispering "do you love me?"
    how could I resist the beauty of
                 our second to last kiss.

© Sia Jane
how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...

lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...

be the
operative word,
is the operative...
is but a
it just depends
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...

every story has a different
author, ending...

sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that

eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination

oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente

cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...

is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes  better,
sometimes different...

is a question needs no asking...


when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...

she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming

tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking


is when
the how and
the why

the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...
Third Mate Third Apr 2015
but I have been to Kent,
back, thrown forth and back again,
so oft
that my words cannot
properly best
the nature of my
welling affection
sufficiently well

nurse us,
the world,
children, old souls, family,
in a big old house,
with poems of ribboned words,
that come daily(!)
like the sun riding up,
ending our days
with a sunset color collage
and always a
sweet good night
to her princes and princesses

unasked for, but so long overdue,
I over do what needs
not just saying,
but witnessing,repeating

this woman
upon who mine eyes have yet to
yet upon me,
she has so oft touched,
with deft phrase,
poet alive read,
I have no need to go to Kent,
for she
thru words,
resides inside my humbled
palate of
poets admired...
Third Mate Third Mar 2015
she makes my coffee
she makes me think
she makes me
that two words become
one exclamation,
that is precisely

7:52 am
oft on bus seated next,
every one of your senses
adjusting, modulating,
to her unpredictable
solar flaring

you don't ever risk
that first missing
your entirety is
sun bursted
in unhappy joy of her
consuming presence


you laugh
years later
re the topic of
your first shaky
foot in the mouth
a classic misstep
first bow shot,
opening one liner

and each storied retelling  
is nature!s
snow and rain
the love of your
groundwater table
welling up


you love her scent
the silly hats she wears,
her short skirts arouse,
that last open button
a misstep invitation,
angry it incenses,
her every solitary everything is
pervading a daily
oxygen? starved soul


her umbrella is a wet
selfie stick
accidentally opening and dousing
an un random next door

just another unlucky misstep for
someone sitting next store,
oil on the fire of
happily ever after

two selfies are last seen as
un selfishly
toweling each other off and
with wet kisses


you eavesdrop on her
earbud music,
weep internally you do with
crazed jealously

The Temptations
are so unfairly
singing to her
"Ain't to Proud to Beg"
and neither are you

you heart is misstepping
to every beat,
your fingers
you idiot, not quietly enough
in the next seat

the first,
will not be
the last

smile exchanged


poem writing on the tablet,
amidst the groaning awful
no moving
city traffic

overheated bus
combustible with
winter snow dampness,
wet dog sweat smelling people clothes

all you want to do is get home
shower off
the daily dirt

the poetry writing pastime
is the place
where you put yourself
to better to pass over
your sour surroundings

her finger rattlesnakes,
misstepping over,
noisily invading,
the invisible boundary
constructed to hold up the
Keep Out sign
to momentary,
too neighborly

her red painted
pointer finger
smudge prints on your tablet,
accompanied with
bespoke words
"try this"

that smudge suggestion
won't come off

insisting on crediting
a shared authorship,
you ask for her
email and cell,
so you can share

co jointed tangled
bus and bed sheet first efforts
on writing, all about
what you play~argue
what should your entitled poem
be titled

you think

endless short love story bus poems

but she prefers,
with red fingers persuading

the first misstep is the best

both see the merit
in each other
I love this poem. I do.

Lyrics to "Ain't to Proud to Beg"

I know you wanna leave me,
but I refuse to let you go
If I have to beg and plead for your sympathy,
I don't mind coz' you mean that much to me

Ain't too proud to beg, sweet darlin
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me, girl, don't you go

Now I heard a cryin' man,
is half a man with no sense of pride
But if I have to cry to keep you,
I don't mind weepin' if it'll keep you by my side

Ain't to proud to beg, sweet darlin
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go

If I have to sleep on your doorstep
all night and day just to keep you from walkin' away
let your friends laugh, even this I can stand
cause I want to keep you any way I can

Ain't too proud to beg, sweet darlin'
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go

Now I've gotta love so deep in the pit of my heart
And each day it grows more and more
I'm not ashamed to come and plead to you baby
If pleadin' keeps you from walkin' out that door

Ain't too proud to beg, you know it sweet darlin'
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Ain't to proud to plead, baby, baby
Please don't leave me girl, don't you go
Baby, baby, baby, baby (sweet darling)
Third Mate Third Mar 2015
It Must Be Done Lovingly -
this  title comes easy,
leaps from screen,
jumps in between
my eyes,
where poems electric start,
starting line tween the
head and heart circuitry,
followed by a
thundering silence
of say what...

the notion, face smacks
a five fingered lighting bolt,
feeling the meaning, the ******,
but the body, the text, not,
the explication, the purpose singular,
not so much

it's gonna make me work,
this entitled commandment
"it must be done lovingly,"
sure, words from heaven sent,
what does it mean precisely
it doesn't come with liner notes,
just empty sleeves,
no compact disc,
to explain it well
to your ill-written soul

brain pulsating images, lyrics, tunes,
mr. memories working overtime,
but no catalogue,
thematically a disaster,
blue lined paper
crawling with scrawlings,
notes from a blues guitar,
jumbled bojangling riffs discordant

boy's locker room,
towel whipped
gonna give up,
exactly what
is the it
that must be done so,
with loving attention

crap cutting, beat the bush,
you know what's driving,
snap, crackle and pop,
it is arriving
with mega doses of
insatiable pain

you don't love her anymore

you knowing,
that she needs
the knowing,
deserves the certitude
of the bad news,
but cowardly lion
don't got
no idea
how to tell her

so the words
on the page
with badass emotional clarity,
a guiding light,
do it lovingly

makes no perfect sense,
but it's sensible
and almost perfect

mr. memories speaks up
at last,
in a sad voice,
the old times flash,
drawing for you pictures,
lending strength,
and whatever else you gonna need,
from history and
tell her her lovingly,
you don't love her anymore

surrender your flag,
hand over your weapons,
you were good at loving her,
some long time ago,

don't say it with stale raisin bread reasons,
soiled explanations,
just hold her in a way,
the way you used to
that has grown dusty rusty
from lack of use

that will  explain everything,
by doing it
Next page