"affectionately" poems
Ask me who is the most generous man I know and I shall speak his name
Ask me who is the most humble man I know and him I shall acclaim
Ask me who is the most altruistic man I know and his face shall be on the frame
Ask me who is the most kindhearted man I know and you will hear his name again
In my life, I've never met anyone like him again
A man devoted to his family and his community
Always preaching the word of God and leading us to felicity
Always ready to sacrifice his needs for the sake of love and unity
He taught us family, love, fraternity, forgiveness, religion, compassion, tolerance, peace and generosity
I am who I am today thanks to his teachings
He was a leader, a guide, our role model
There is no one like him
He was a father, a brother, a friend, a companion, a grandfather
16 years since he is gone but his words still resonate like thunder
You are no longer here but your teachings linger
A man who was not afraid to cry when needs be but also not afraid to yell and impose order
Always playful with kids and receptive and caring with adults
I feel privileged and lucky to have known him and call him grandpa
For in my life he has played a huge and special part
The memories I will treasure and keep them in my heart
Although he is gone, we will always be together
And his spirit will live on in each one of us forever
From where he is, he is protecting us and guiding us on our way
He is praying for us everyday
He used to pray God "Let it be I who fall sick instead of one of my family member. Let it be I who die instead of someone in my family."
What kind of man wishes for that, you ask.
Someone special I will say, a man of love
And I would like to thank God above
For blessing us with this man, with his kindness and love
I truly believe that God has gifted him with something special
He taught us not to let this world be in our heart for it is not eternal
I know he is in a better place
Watching us all with a smile on his face
I hope we are making you proud from where you are
We are still crying an ocean of tears
As we feel so empty and hold many fears
If I could just turn back the time to those days you used to laugh with us and made us feel so special and loved
Those days you pretended to be in pain when we stepped on your feet while we were playing
Those days when they were only you and us in the room with your half covered grey and curled hair
Those days we used to watch tv together and whenever there was an intimate scene you screamed your favorite word "Touc" and scared us (not that I know what it means)
Time will heal so they say
And time fades away
While a part of us is taken away
I know we will meet again one day
But until that day
Know that you are truly missed
Mame Alassane Lahi whom we affectionately called Mame Rane
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”
Love you, Frank.
Nov 21, 2019
Nov 21, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
Somewhere between eggshells and landmines
Were the creaking floors upon which I played
Carefully, for her wrath could be detonated
At a footfall, just a bit too heavy
From a word uttered under the breath
A mess left too long in the sink.
But her embrace was warm,
Wrapping around me like sheets from the dryer
And when she put on pause her own life
To tend to me at my sick-bed,
Her eyes showed only tender love.
“My baby goat,” she would say, affectionately,
And leave a kiss upon my feverish brow.
She is a living contradiction, my mother:
Churning disapproval shattering the gleam
That she put into the hopeful eyes of a child
Just a moment before.
I lived in perpetual uncertainty,
Never knowing which mother I might see next:
The raven or the hen.
And now she looks at me with disappointment,
Wondering aloud why her children fear her.
Her capriciousness eroded away any trust
And much of the fondness as well
Her hot-blooded adoration
And her ice-cold tantrums
Have mixed so long now
All that is left is
Lukewarm like the bathwater
Left over from when the
Baby was thrown out.
Sep 11, 2023
Sep 11, 2023 at 7:16 PM UTC
Crushed flowers are beautiful,
dried, pressed
not useful but certainly nice to look at
My sister affectionately called me a 'delicate little flower' one of the many times you made me break down, crushed from false accusation
until i eventually dried up
pressed myself until the pain no longer hurt.
I wondered why i had become such a fragile thing
shouldn't heartbreak build you up, a learning experience rather than reducing you to a few petals and a stem.
i feel more like a tree
green and great during the warm summer months
unaware of the freezing winter winds that will blow away all my protective leaves. barren. cold.
i hope someday i will become evergreen
beautiful, tall, luscious and full- pine or cedar or spruce
staying fragrant all year round
but for now i remain a daisy
nothing special
dried, pressed and crushed between these pages, within these words.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
...for love.
(sonnet #MMMMMDXXXIX)
He jested that he'd write a book whose tale
Was "I forgot to cry" as twas mine thence
For his love drying the endless tears' vain sense
Oer losing Mum, my best friend, and prevail
As bashert where I've never known to hail
Aught soulmate; loved me more than life, to fence
The twinkling hours with him in sheer defense,
And aye, eclipsed my grief oer her, t'avail.
Thus where Death called his lease, or ours as twere,
His last speech mine, he prayed another'd do
That for his Baby. Yet aught else is poor.
I weep sans comfort, maddened while I rue
Whatever sin brought our demise, or fer
What took his life. Cuz I'll e'er love him too.
22Mar16b
He said in closing [giving his full name]that he is mine affectionately forever in love for eternity.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
Did I ever tell you of the day I cleansed my Saturday?
Saturday kept kissing me goodbye, telling me 'I need to be free, please let me be free,'
And I said,
"Acceptance,
Acceptance."
Once upon a time, Saturday weeped upon departure
But now I know that Saturday is fine
Doing a loop around the world
Tasting, touching, talking, taking,
And listening to tales from the Cascades to the Pyrenees
And every Saturday,
Saturday returns to tell me all she's seen.
And she tells me as I bathe her affectionately
Until she stops mid-sentence and we fall into a soft embrace, our essences dipping intimately into one another to recreate the world from those silver square circles suspended in a sunbeam
Saturday undresses me slowly
As if unrobing a long-dead Egyptian pharaoh
Gazing upon my naked body like shes the first in a thousand years
Each time a grand discovery of the New World
And we sink further into one another
As the silver square circles of the sunbeam imprint themselves beneath our eyes like diamond tattoos
And every Sunday I awake alone in bed,
With a note on the pillow.
"I am free,
And you understand
That this must be true love."
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
2.6k
I want to be in a love like this forever.
With your eyes grazing my skin,
Following your circling fingertips.
You touch me in a way, so delicately,
So lovingly, like you actually care.
Your kisses that you place on my forehead
As I’m drifting off into paradise
Remind me what spring love is supposed to look like.
The grass under my toes pull me into the present
While we dance across the lawn with our hands intertwined.
Butterflies zig zag across my vision and you spin me around.
The music drowns out all of our other problems.
And life feels beautiful.
When I’m in my sundress and
You’re watching me from our picnic blanket
You tell me you love me, and my heart begins to flutter.
The last days of cold are erased by your beautiful laugh
The warmth of sunlight and the soft cool breeze
Further pushes our passion and solidifies our feelings.
You grip my waist and lift me into the air.
Time feels rosy and fair, while the birds chirp and call.
With no real agenda, without the controlling menace of time.
We hold hands and spend the afternoons enjoying the bliss.
The newly bloomed flowers and reappearance of green
Feels like a long awaited, highly anticipated surprise
As does our relationship.
We take in the pink skies together,
Hoping we will never have to say goodbye,
Affectionately kissing one another.
Knowing this is a time we will always miss.
Spring, is a time for new beginnings.
It is the perfect time, for a love like this.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 5:01 PM UTC
My beloved friend, i miss leaning my body on yours.
I can still feel your hands caressing my hair while you kissed me affectionately. We touched when our hearts sought for vague eanderment.
Those cups of wine we shared defined how i felt toward you.
Your silhouette in the morning had awaken my passion for romance.
I miss your hands on my face.
Your strong hands, my love.
Your love for me tasted like the last drop of a cup of summer wine that lingered on the tip of my tongue.
I want to share that one drop with you.
My friend, i miss your scent.
As i breathed you deep into my soul each time you put your hands on me.
When i stared at the blue sky today, i felt your eyes looking into mine heavenly.
I miss those summer days, your bed of nakedness and purity.
Your sunburnt skin of youth reflecting the touch we shared.
My beautiful friend...
My long-lost love...
You touched me as i cut my skin and let you in...
You gave me love nobody had ever given me.
Pure and passionate.
You touched my youth like my father had.
He taught me to love like he had.
He showed me the way to conquest when he kissed me.
My beautiful friend, my love, my youth...
I long for your kiss to set me free from this torturing passion.
A passion for journeys, conquests, and love.
My heart, my love, my friend...
Andrea...
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
The dog firmly placed his chin upon the old
man's knee, stirring him from sleep in his chair.
The only light in the room coming from the
television screen. The dog's gentle message
being, "Time we go to bed" dear friend.
A ritual event occurring more often now
and most likely tomorrow night again.
As the man slowly stood the dog pranced towards
the door, to go outside and do his required business.
The man also to the bathroom did retire, brushing of
teeth and to attend to his own urgent business.
Six years of twenty four seven companionship had
bonded them forever, each knowing the other as
only best friends or family can, both fully habituated
to the other's needs and routines.
The dog sat upon his own bed, close by to the man's
bed, patiently waiting as he always did. The man leaned
down and took the dog's face and head into his hands,
forehead to forehead they paused while silent endearing
messages were, like every night, conveyed and mutually
affectionately received. Love as real as any.
The man climbed aboard his own bed, donning his CPAP
mask like a pilot before take off and arranged himself
in his fully-automatic-adjustable bed, then clapped his
hands twice to extinguish the lamp on the bedside table.
"Good night buddy, we'll have some more fun in the
morning." the man murmured, closing his eyes to sleep.
Another day ended as most now do, as will, all their
remaining shared tomorrow's.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
While Waiting For The Train #4
Sitting here, thinking about work
and the inherent contradictions
of housekeeping.
Or, should I say:
Sanitary Engineer,
Building Maintenance.
In reality, all it is
is an old fashioned janitor.
Or, as some of my friends say:
“Old **** janitor!”
Affectionately,
but also with an edge.
oo0oo
But this isn’t what I am thinking about.
No, it’s more the routine
and its mindless activity.
As we often say:
“It’s the same old, same old”;
or, “SSDD”;
same **** different day.”
Today for example,
it was a Thursday Monday.
It’s always a Monday of some kind.
And Monday kind of describes the job too.
oo0oo
This too, is not what I am thinking.
It’s more the executive decisions
a janitor must make.
Decisions that determine
the ‘smooth’ functioning of a factory,
office, or where ever.
You laugh!
But really, it’s true.
Ever go to the bathroom
and there is no toilet paper?
See, I exaggerate not.
Or what if there were no
forks, knives, or spoons
in the lunch room.
Then what?
Are you really going to eat that
crispy green salad
with mushrooms and feta cheese,
smothered in ranch
with your fingers? Please!
oo0oo
But, even these earth shaking decisions
are not what I am thinking.
It’s those ever present,
critical questions:
sweep, mop, then pull trash?
Or should I pull trash, sweep
and then mop?
This monotonous rotation
determines the rotation
of the earth around the sun;
the phases of the moon
and when will I clean the bathrooms,
causing the most inconvenience
to everyone.
This by the way, is most satisfying
and one of the few perks of the job.
Sweep,
mop,
pull trash;
sweep, mop, pull trash.
Or, pull trash,
sweep,
mop!
It can give you grey hairs,
all this responsibility
and decision making.
oo0oo
Sitting here, now on the train home,
a brilliant,
not to mention uplifting,
idea rampages through my tired mind.
Tomorrow
I am going to be rebellious-
an open radical!
A free thinker!
Tomorrow, I have decided
will be “Liberation Day”.
“Janitors of the world unite!”
Tomorrow there will be a revolution,
as I,
the **** Old Janitor will:
mop,
pull trash,
then sweep!!!
(written as~~redzone 5.14.09 - Aztec Warrior)
© 2014 redzone
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
What are the reasons for death? Crime, cancer, car crashes? Sickness, sun burn, sarcasm? Gun shots, gas pedals, gaming consoles? What are the reasons for death? What makes death something we don’t experience every other day, like drinking coffee or smoking a cig. What if it is something we experience every day but on certain levels? Think, think, you’re running out of time, partial deaths are coming to you. Partial deaths are coming when she looks at your soul and discovers the flaws and uses them as a tool for hers. Partial deaths, are coming when he decides to return every ounce of care and infatuation of hers with indifference and insensibility of his. Partial deaths? do you think that in the upcoming years were going to have health coverage for that? “YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT HITS, MAKE SURE YOURE COVERED WHEN IT DOES manly voice for more information about partial death insurance contact 01000000”. All the zero’s in the world…the round hollows of infinite curvature and as soon as you think you’ve reached the end of your misery you’re going to start all over again and again and again, and again. And again. The partial deaths become more complete, the, heart strokes become heart stabs, the kisses become bites, and everything else is just raised up a notch, and a notch becomes a whole new level like never before. Day dream while you can when you can’t because that’s when we usually get our great ideas; the math class won’t end and it extends, like minutes were lifetime in her eyes as she walks up and down the trail of my thoughts and sideways on the horizon of my vision and inwards through my heart back flipping on my arteries and summersaulting on my veins leading her way to destroy my brains. My brains, that sounds odd. It sounds odd because I never located it really, at least not its functional capabilities because it is definitely not what I use to think. I think through a blank page that provokes me till I write, I think through staring screens and flickering lines, I think through a round table that affectionately carries my black coffee, I think through my black coffee, I think through pink Floyd playing in my ears and the other voices that are not mine. I think there for I am, but the more that I think the more I realize what I am not.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
365Nectar #58 Menage A' Trois for Two
Wed. November 20, 2013 11:03 A.M.
When drilling fantasies
conjure up blinding moments of ****** chaos
quench your thirst to the edge of exhausted...
Loosen Love's skirt with lavish curiosity
and plant kisses on her cheeks ever so tenderly
she will appreciate it...
...and will thank you accordingly...
graciously... properly...
... with no hesitations or reservations.
Caress her tightly closed thighs mercilessly
and arouse her passion for you...
observe how her eyes roll up into the back of her head
as you travel inside her
A deep grinding rains of sweat...
Frolicking with the power of an angry bull
you violently plunge faster and harder
stomping out Love's sweet wine.
You swing Love into a mad intimate dance
and passion strokes you in your spinning...
******* on Love's heart
she begs for more...
swallow Love and feel the warmth of her frenzy
put a gentle squeezing on her soul
and her floodgates will pour you out a blessing...
Place a soft chewing on her ripe pulp
and feel her juices flow and run down her limbs and yours.
Firmly massage her ******* and release goosebumps...
employ some devious device
and create double pleasure... for Love...
in the name of love...
a menage a' trois for two.
Affectionately stuffed
Love engulfs you with deep trust
Complete pleasure arises...
and Love returns to her fertile season
overwhelmed by the generosity of a **** ****** servant
Love shows deep appreciation...
from rooftop to porch...
from chair to wall...
sideways planting...
from bedroom to kitchen...
Dress Love in your dazzling sorcery
and she'll wear it like gorgeous jewelry.
nectarfromthebronxpeach.blogspot.com
@365Nectar @bronxpeach #365nectar
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
Observation: People are scared of everything.
I cannot say I am fearless.
But here's the thing.
I believe that we find ourselves in the pain and the ****
Why are we so scared to feel?
Those happy moments, they're great.
Who doesn't love to be loved and to have smiles and laughs surrounding them affectionately?
But to be so low, to let yourself feel the gut-wrenching, dreadful, anxious, grieving, suffering, numbing pain,
it makes those moments of happiness even greater.
It's no longer a happy moment, it's an exhilarating one.
I swear you'll feel so happy that you wouldn't even care if it was your last moment on earth.
It's no longer a laugh, but a bellow that makes your insides scream of joy.
It's no longer just a baby laughing, it's a beautiful little soul that makes your whole day a little brighter.
It's no longer just a song, it's a beautifully crafted symphony that makes your ears explode.
It's not longer just a day to you, it will be a day in which you do everything possible to take that happiness and spread it to others. And that can be every day.
But to feel this, the truth is that you have to go through the **** first. You have to let yourself be depressed and anxious and moody and angry and sad, because once you've felt it all you'll know that you can get yourself out. And that everything will be okay. And that being lost will get you found again. You can't give up on yourself because I'm telling you this: You can find strength in every pain.
So here's to you life, keep pushing me down and pushing back at me. Because it just makes me want to keep being stronger.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
I wish I was her cup
her favorite cup
the cup she holds affectionately several times a day.
The cup she urgently needs to place her mouth upon
first thing every morn.
The kick-start her day cup
her pick-me-uppa cuppa
I wish I was the cup she always holds
the one she never argues with
the same one which helps sooth her.
The cup that receives those intimate thoughts
she shares with a stare
when lost in reflection of its depths.
If I was that cup
I'd not be envious of the others she uses
the ones she disposes of once her needs have been sedated.
Or the fancypants ones
she uses when guests visit
because
she'll always come back for me
and
never
ever
let another hold me as she does,
but
I'm only her lover.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
The sleeping creature in my chest,
The curled up cuddly fuzz-ball,
Is feline, but no tame house cat.
Is soft furred in rest, and porcupine quilled in anger.
Her sharp teeth are usually hidden
Behind adorable whiskers and damp pink nose.
Sometimes her claws worry affectionately
At my ribs for attention,
Just so I don't forget she's there.
Today she is mad, frenzied,
Her proud cat dignity has vanished, she almost dances.
She chases her tale like the simple fool she is not.
She opens her mouth, not to bare her teeth,
But to mewl a plea for a mysterious something.
She buts her head against my heart again and again,
Knocking it off rhythm,
Rubbing it warmer with her fur,
Batting it and chewing it like her new favourite toy,
While I sweat
And stammer
And breathe too fast
And beat too fast,
And all for what?
You gave me your hoodie.
She caught one fragile whiff
Of your vetiver tinted catnip scent.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places
grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira
instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately
The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written
the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
She walked alone.
As the world droned.
With the fog swirling round.
Along the wet grassy mound.
Among the dead trees of autumn.
That flapped in the cold breeze as they hummed.
Distant lights of morning twinkled round her.
Slightly, unsteady, getting brighter.
She hastened away into the gloom of the dawn.
Upon God she wished to fawn.
To instill her hopes into the earth.
To regain her place of birth.
Thither, under a shading sycamore.
Lied a gloomy tomb of yore.
Staring back at her silently.
As if wishing to embrace her ardently.
Thither lied her silent love...
Corrupted through seasons that roved.
Left untouched in the dark.
Like a fading mark.
He used to be a handsome man.
Swaggering along his Father's land.
Smiling at the promise of the day.
Dancing his nights away.
She wist where she had seen him for the very first time.
When the church bell chimed.
When sons of God filled the cold emptiness.
To calm the world's restlessness.
She touched her love affectionately.
For the last time before she left reluctantly.
With tears her eyes dimmed.
She would always come back for him.
She and the tomb shared an old story only they wist.
Of feelings she could never resist.
Her longing for his presence.
Though only exsisted in silence.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 4:44 AM UTC
I.
I wear the stern face of my ancestors,
the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from rock and bone.
My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues
all affectionately name me "intimidating."
They say:
"You're the strong one."
"We'll send you to win the battle."
"They should have known not to cross you."
They name me fighter,
mouthpiece,
leader,
and stand like tin men in legions at my back.
I am obliged to march on;
I cannot remember a time
when my feet have rested.
My banner waves in the northwest wind
and I hold it, dutifully,
fearing its inevitable fall
as my arms shake.
II.
My arms
shake.
Wind camouflages
this constant trembling: the
fabric of my
flag
whips and ripples and any
falter
in its course
is blamed on the wind, but
veins shrink - skin
shrivels - muscles
shake - I am no Atlas,
my
breath slows
sharpens
stops -
III.
I am a dry sand-castle:
one touch will obliterate me.
I am the brittle leaf on concrete:
one shoe will shred me.
I am dandelion spores on a plain:
one gust will erase me.
IV.
In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors,
the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from soft earth and azaleas.
So name me weakling,
broken-down,
dependent;
give voice to all of me.
Lift this banner,
and give rest to my weary shoulders.
Hold me in your arms
when I need to collapse.
V.
At times,
even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
This isn’t for you
Affectionately aimed at my own
This isn't for you
This is for the times I let myself fall into the deep
This isn't for you
This is for the thoughts that I dealt with
This isn’t for you
This is for the loss of souls
This isn’t for you
This is for the intentions I’ve let down
This isn’t for you
This is for my tired soul
This isn’t for you
This is for me not to lose myself
Reservate this living
The selfish part of me wants to exist—
For me
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 4:52 PM UTC
And when you told me about all the things you love,
With mad passion in your eyes,
I fell in love with you
And when you shared your thoughts,
Too private for small talk,
I fell in love with you
And when you placed your responsibilities over your self,
Too demanding for anyone to fulfil,
I fell in love with you
And when you loved,
Loved a stray dog, affectionately working your fingers on his neck,
I fell in love with you
And when you hid your pain,
Masked brilliantly in your laugh, for no naked eye to suspect,
I fell in love with you
And when you sang Chasing Cars,
Humming, unconcerned with the passing traffic,
I fell in love with you
And when you told me about your day,
From the big accomplishments, to the tiny, gorgeous observations,
I fell in love with you
And when Ed Sheeran sang All of the Stars,
Thinking all I wanted was nothing more, than to see you walking in that door,
I fell in love with you
And when they told me how amazing you are,
People unexposed to even a fifth of your brilliance;
Privileged,
I fell in love with you
And a million other times,
In a thousand other moments,
Irrespective of intent,
Forever more,
I fell in love with you
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
This miracle...
I hold in my arms.
Tightly yet gently.
This miracle...
I hold close to my heart.
Affectionately.
This miracle...
I would give everything up for.
I would spend my youth for.
This miracle...
Binds us close together.
Completes us for good.
This miracle...
The fruit of your womb...
Our beloved son...
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 5:59 AM UTC
I forbid it to leave.
Even as my eyes water
Even as the coughs erupt
Even as you tell me that's enough.
You, of all people.
I hold my breath and never let it escape.
I let it burn my throat
I let it suffocate my lungs
I let it out affectionately,
Ever so slowly,
Into your parted lips.
I let it consume me in a cloudy haze
And then
I let you take me away.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Yes! It's another Barry Hodges "Memories" poem!"
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session...
And now I lie back in sweet recollection
Of the many nights we spent in copulation
But how sad I am as, looking at the deserted bed,
I can still make out the stains of your dying turds.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC