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Riot Oct 2014
the itsy bitsy spider
went up the water spout
down came the rain
and washed the spider out
out  came the sun and dried up all the rain
*and the itsy bitsy spider
has amnesia
Itsy bitsy spider
You aint,
Crawling
Towards me,
Down
Comes the rain,
You run away;
Out comes the sun
And you keep on coming,
I'm just watching you;
Think you've caught me
In your web,
But don't you know,
I'm just strumming
Your lines,
Coaxing you out,
Come to me,
I'm not afraid;
You've got
Those piercing eyes,
You've scared or eaten
All the rest,
But I'm unlike them,
You intrigue me,
Take a bite;
You'll know
I'm immune,
I can leave
At any time,
But I'll sit by you,
Itsy bitsy spider
You aint...
© okpoet
Lily Espy Nov 2013
The itsy bitsy razor
crawled up her thighs last night
down came the blade and sliced, and sliced, and sliced
out came the blood and
drowned her demons dead
and the itsty bitzy razor
latched inside her head
Itsy bitsy spider
Crawled into rabbits brain
Then came the murders
They made bunny go insane
Out came his tiger
To take away the pain
But the itsy bitsy spider
Will take control again.

Itsy bitsy magpie
Pulled bunny down to see
Though the pills he took were great,
he’d never quite be free.
Bunny tried with all his might
to scare magpie away
but the magpie ushered him to the mirror
and whispered “ look, You’re me!”





itsy bitsy bunny
was tired of his game
he wrestled with the magpie night and day
but never felt okay.
Finally bunny had had enough
And threw his hope away
His tiger took him by the wrist and mumbled.
Just one more day.
Explanation:
Everyone knows the story; it’s about a man who wanted to tell stories to the younger people of this world. He didn’t expect to hear the story’s villain escape and enter into his brain. He didn’t think the job he was offered would actually **** people, but James Moriarty did, no matter what name you gave him, he would still be the murderer that lived inside Richard Brook’s brain. One thing made Bunny’s life a little bit better, James hired a trained assassin named Sebastian Moran, but he was known to Richard as Tiger. Tiger played with Richard and made the switch overs a little less painful. He would look after his bunny, work for the spider and live day to day.

Itsy bitsy spider
Crawled up the water spout
Down came the rain
That wiped poor spidey out
Out came the sun shine
That dried up all the rain
And the itsy bitsy spider
Crawled up the spout again.
Kagey Sage Dec 2013
****** affliction of a lack of affection companion
Hand and hand strolling greater than syrupy plunging
and even sometimes buddy shrugging over wooden noisemakers
We whistle with their metal strings
and through the pasta soft ones in our throats
but no nest colored mares seem to hear
our flamboyant feather calls for future fondling
So I scribe slight implied short letters
invites to drink joints and nature jaunts
All too well thought out
hoping your advanced technology cannot trace
the time I spent to type
The overanalysis of our psych: her and I’s
wondering why she doesn’t have an inkling
for a cute fall date where we attempt to bake apple pies
It’s all too contrived, I know
I’ll strive for delusion
Accept a useful interpretation for our chemical inflammation
and let sparks pass it by
Like itsy bitsy flies laying eggs in a wound
for stagnant water maggots
They’ll eat away the thought well
where all my cranial zaps seem to dwell.
Jeremy Duff Jul 2013
The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout

Soaring high.
The reds,
the blues,
nothing could ever be more different than those two colors right now.
It's beautiful and so are you,
my lovely friend.

Down came the rain and washed the spider out

Feeling low.
The headaches,
and the sleepless nights,
nothing can ever bring me back to where I was before.
My horse has a name and he is loyal,
he is my friend.

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain

Thirsty.
The sun,
combined with the noise burns me,
how long was I asleep for?
My enemy will put up a fierce fight,
but not for long.
I can fight this.

The itsy bitsy spider climber up the spout again*

The chain is addiction
and the links are euphoria.
One end is a bent steel pole.
Me.
On the other is a needle.
My lovely horse.
Dedicated to my father
A pearl is kissed; licked
By a gentle, questing tongue,
Ecstasy greets her.
Not a new one, but my sexiest, I think!
BÜG Jul 2014
The itsy bitsy spider crawled from your darkest dream, caught a fly in his trap, life isn't what it seems.

Up came the sun and washed out all the fear, off flew the fly, kept safe in the web, unlike the gracious spider, who ended up dead.
b for short Mar 2014
Texting gloves? Useless.
Stubby fingers fall short of
those heat-sensing tips.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
Ari White Mar 2017
honey on a lightbulb
in the hopes
for shiny bees

and itsy bitsy blankets
for the bed bugs
just trying to sleep

i feel bad for planets
galaxies and milkshakes
unable to receive

pick up my phone call
sun
pick up the moon
dreams

i am sorry for the things
i don't understand
the soap bubbles and the seams
Naveesh Khattar Jan 2015
Blue roads, orange sky,
Gray weather,
No one to say goodbye.
Yellow bricks,
Against an orange wall,
Cold sky,
Against a blue hall.
Bitsy black boy,
Walking alongside me.
Break the chains,
Let his squire be free.
Stefan Stratton Mar 2011
Oh, spider,
how you startle me,
from the corner of my eye,

Are you just as scared as I,
I'm infinitely bigger,
and you may think,

there are 8 of me,
but for reasons beyond myself,
you must be squished.
Kill me slowly Aug 2015
ive spun my web  
and caught little morsals
to pick my teeth with

and when ive
finished eating there skin
i use their bones
as instruments
to make something beautiful out of what they've left behind

i am innocent in less otherwise proven guilty
but no ones on the case

and with a smile of deceit on my face  the whole forest listens to
the melody of my eight legs cascading across my web
as
I pluck the strings
and make music
out of  dying screams
and the breaking of bones.
life in this horror show we call society.
Janielle Green Jan 2016
She ***** the sweetness of lust like taste of  blood. Death hold grips can describes her hugs. They fall into a web, like the ones who finder. And now there all are hers, the Black Widow Spider. lured in the dark of her legs, sleek and black. Disregard the warning sign, Red  hidden  down the curve of  her back. Fall into her into her mesmerize trap, Queen of seducers. lust at first sight waiting to turn hearts into stone like medusa. Dangerously 50 shades of black, which side of her they want? Games on your weakness, Russian Roulettes gun. Blindsided by her deceit, tangled in webs of her power. And now she feeds on their thoughts, like a brain ******* vampire. The beauty of her web, is persuasion of her femininity. Her birth is to gain your soul and her winning is her fertility. Because she will feed their starvation of love, and innocently build their esteem with everything she can think of. Create  *** beyond their wildest fantasies. Drive them wild, begging for another hit down on their knees. Thriving off the lost of emotions, dominating  feelings with full control. Then will leave them hanging when the festivities get all old. But the ones she scared will never understand. That the cuts from their abuser was caused by past life of a sexually abusive man. Is the price they pay worth their time?In the end to be hurt by a beautifully seductive mind. To be caught in the webs of a warm, wet place and lose a hold. Of Reality that this girl is pure selfish, untrustworthy and devilishly cold. foolishly loosing themselves in her body, While she’s alive for the fun but in reality is unattached with her body,a defense for untouchable, if they would only listen to whispers in the night, her body sings. To cope with her pain, A deaf man chooses not to hear this melody. The itsy bitsy spider, went  up the waterspout, Down came her fangs and dried, his lonely heart out.  Out comes the sun and hides her heart of pain, so the itsy bitsy spider waits to eats another one again. Black Widows Game
b for short Aug 2013
They gave me a name that didn’t suit me.
What’s funny is
the universe recognized that
before I did.

She paid me this compliment:

“There’s too much person to you.
You can’t be tripped up with so many
syllables in something so trivial as a name.
Less speaking, more breathing,”
she said.

Four reduced to two.
Now I can exist in half the time.

I became “Bitsy.”
Which means I’m associated
with certain things.
Mainly tiny spiders
and brightly pattered swimwear.
It’s easy to be irked by that, you know.
Yet, I smile and take it,
because they raised me
with the patience of an idiot.

I get automatic cute points
just for introducing myself with a name like this.
Newcomers get giddy,
like hearing my name is equivalent
to receiving a box of kittens.
I always try to drop an expletive or two—
I just don’t want them
to get the wrong f#@%ing impression.

“Less speaking, more breathing.”

I instructed the universe
not to do me any more favors.
I don't mind being Bitsy, really.
Sometimes a lady's just got to ***** a bit.

© Bitsy Sanders, August 2013
b for short Dec 2013
I'm sitting the passenger's seat
of a bright blood orange 1973 Ford Pinto.
Adam Levine is driving.
We talk about the weather,
and sing along to some Hall and Oates on the radio.
(By the way, he nails those high notes—
just like Adam Levine should.)

In the interim, we share a pint of
Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte ice cream—
a flavor which we both agree
is subpar and a total disappointment.
As he passes the pint back to me,
he admits that his abs in half the photos
you see in People magazine are Photoshopped,
and pats his little round belly in jest.
I confess that I can always identify
even the most flawless Photoshop jobs—
and honestly, I don't think
he is the sexiest man alive anyway.

We have a laugh after that one, Adam and me,
and devour the silence for a bit before
I lean in and ask him if he even knows
where he's taking us.
He leans in too and makes some brief,
but serious eye contact,
(his eyes are hazel, by the way),
and he says something to me
that I really need to hear.

“It doesn't matter
if I know where we're going, Bitsy.
You can always get there from here.

I lean back in my seat
and smile as I watch the world streak by.
© Bitsy Sanders, December 2013
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
it's the little things
that please me

color coded my earbuds
so I know my right from my left
in the pitch black.

it's the little things
that please me,
and the big things
that defeat me.

I'm rich in itty-bittys

There are no definitions available for itty-bittys.
Did you mean:
itsy-bitsy titbits itty-bitty-butts?


yeah,
all three, thanks for doing the writing for me.

some-a-day,
gonna get me a big big closet,
a whole closet room,
to store my itty bittys teeny weeny
tidbits riches.

if I make it to
some-a-day,
just can't find it on my calendar,
but every morning
I wake to big things
wishing me cruelly
have-a-nice-day.
David Nelson Aug 2011
Nursree-Rhymed-Rap

you got yer Jack be nimble
you got yer Jack be quick
you got yer Jack jumpin over a candle stick
he jumped so high
he almost touched the sky
you see he burnt his nads
and it made him cry

you got yer 3 little pigs
you got yer Goldilocks
you got yer big bad wolf dumber than a fox
he huffed and puffed
and took a big hit
and they all joined hands
they were smokin some ****

you got yer Little Red
you got yer 3 brown bears
sippin on soup and sittin in chairs
Red danced on the table
yeah she danced really good
the bears gave her money
to see what was under the hood

you got yer Jack and Jill
you got yer buckle my shoe
climbin that hill what they gonna do
Jack played pattycake
according to rumours
trying to get inside
of little Jill's bloomers

you got yer Little Miss Muffet
you got yer itsy bitsy spider
he made a big mistake sitting down beside her
inside her purse
she kept a can of Raid
she drenched his ****
and now he's daid

you got yer hey ****** ******
you got yer dish and spoon
you got yer old spotted cow jumpin over the moon
there's Humpty Dumpty
and the fiddling cat
the little dog laughed
to see Jack Sprat splat  

you got yer round the rosey
you got yer ba black sheep
pullin the wool over yer eyes as you sleep
****** ****** dumplin
so what is my point
whoever wrote these riddles
musta been smokin a joint

Gomer LePoet ....
lil veggie Apr 2016
there's something off-putting about watching the woman who gave birth to you standing there helpless with tears dripping down her porcelain face out of her doe eyes. it's so off-putting that the sight of that turns my sympathetic neutrality towards this woman into irrational fear and a sort of trembling down my already withering spin. i don't quite know how to describe the feeling i get when i see her like this, but i see her, frame by frame. tears still falling and i'm still there, i suppose i'm waiting for someone to jump in and become that home that she so desperately needs, but no one does and she's still there. i remember when i was younger and still stuck on that ridiculous idea that monsters existed, i would be mortified to sleep alone and i would cry senselessly until she came in, picked me up and dragged me into her warm bed. i remember how she sang to me, slightly off key, the itsy bisty spider and i remember how her laughter felt like warmth on my skin. i tried to keep the warmth. i tried to save it for a rainy day. it was raining tonight, not from the sky but from my home. she was drenched with regret and anxieties that splattered on the floor like a broken glass of wine and i didn't know what to do, so i grabbed her soft hands and sang the itsy bisty spider with her until i felt her laughter hitting my cheek like it never left.
remember to always, always,  always be there for your mother because she has always been there for you
Alexsandra Danae Jul 2013
ANGUISH,
a wicked, deafening drum
synced with the brutal,
monotonously thudding rhythm
of my own jaded,
bitter heart's sickly beat
each throb of my
pulse rips savagely
at my seams
the wretched sobbing
of a crumbling soul
trickles and weeps out from me
and darkly cloaked
within the furthest reaches
of my disassembling being
secrets spun into silky
spider web strands
ensnare any shreds of light
holding truth and hopes
captive until they can be
drained to lifeless husks
****** to infinite suffocation
struggling with an unconquerable  battle
a war, the likes of which
no human has ever,
even just once,
managed to have won
there's no cure,
no remedy to mend
what's broken, breaking,
shattering all around

I'M CRYING and begging at
an unseen God to come
come to my rescue
pleading for an intangible,
omniescent being to
destroy the tower built by
my own sinful nature
my own deceit
praying to a Creator
whose very existence I
still can't help but to
question and sink in doubts
but for that miniscule chance
He's real and might
maybe help me...
because the very reality
of such mercy and grace
could bring this
otherwise undefeatable
curse crashing down,
down, down, down...

THE DRUMMING,
banging out its mad rhythm
of anguish
changing, changing now
changing its infuriating tune...
with the final
dying grains of
my imagination,
I'll shove aside my
terror; my unholy fear
of the relentless
force of disappointment
I'll indubitably feel when
I reach my finishing line
clutching onto a
hideous fail
such an asinine act,
this allowing of a bitsy
fragment of hope
to creep and crawl
inside the walls
of my mind
but I've nothing more
left beyond this
bleak black floor
sagging beneath my feet
and a hope,
regardless how quiet,
no matter how
pitifully dim,
could quite easily be
the absolute  final
spark of light that
my eyes shall ever see...
Stephen S Feb 2018
Just a tiny little poem.
Not all that much to say.
A bland uneventful moment.
Just a quiet, boring day.

It's a short piece of writing,
a brief dalliance of prose
A few words splashed around,
in a curious striking pose.

You won't find deep thoughts here,
no existential musing,
Just a few stray stanzas,
of my own convenient choosing.

This is my tiny little poem,
and it could be so much more,
but if we drag it out much longer.
It won't be tiny anymore.

So you can stop your guessing,
as I think I've made it clear,
that if I am to keep this poem tiny,
I must stop it now and here.
Astoria Carlisle Apr 2011
I gazed at her skin, fried and sprayed orange like the flames
That swallowed her soul, dragged her down to hell with ‘em…
Let her burn.

Staring at her sparkly stripper shoes, I wondered how she could sleep at night.
Well, she probably wasn’t alone.

Her hair, so harsh, bleached blonde beyond compare,
Frail, fraudulent, wannabe beauty
Like her shallow, gimmicky, stage get-up for the guys,
Giving the goods in mass quantity, like a buffet.
How cheap could she be?

I ogled her body, ***** that resembled balloons.
Psh.  More like implants.
Honey, you’re not fooling anyone.

Her makeup, tacky and overdone.
It could never be plastered over her tattered self-worth.

I glared at her clothes, or lack thereof, itsy-bitsy and a poor excuse
For a cover-up, of any kind,
Physical or emotional.
Leave something to the imagination, would ya?

Some girls, how pathetic they are.
I’m better.  I have morals.
Even if I don’t abide by them…
Even if I despise the creature I’ve transformed to…….

I gaped at the reflection, in the million-watt mirror lit aglow…
Who could this be?  It never could be me.
Staring between false eyelashes, she was easy to see.
A party girl.  A ***.
No, no!  
It’s not me…
No, it's not about me.
Amara Sep 2013
We faded like fragments
White bed sheet tales now
We used to smoke like trains

I think I can, I think I can.

Ashed in each others hearts once or twice
But I didn't mind
With the sunlight on your face

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

I crept across the sheets
Looking at you hungrily
Your eyes danced down my back

The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout

We collided without a sound
I watched your lips part
And muffled murmurs were all that escaped

Hush little baby, don't say a word.

But those tales are only tales
And these white sheets are empty now
I don't know why you left me

How I wonder where you are.

But I mourn for you like a dying lover
And while I do,
I long for another, to take your place

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. All dressed in black, black, black.

Yet no one aside from you,
Has taken the time to look inside
So, slowly, I find myself emptying

Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.

And so I wait. And I remember.
Amara Pendergraft 2013

I'm sorry that I only write of sad things.
I guess it's the end of my need for some ****,
I guess all I got is thid lsd
     Gee,
but really what care,
I'm not even hear
teleport to the couch,
met a pink bear,
he ate all my hair,
**** In my eye he cussed not to cry,
MR BEAR!
mr bear
you think I wont trip?
one hell of a fry,
YOU **** IN MY EYE!
back to the room bad trip oh woah doom,
hit my head 'Jingle~
      ;oh yea and I'm single
hey mr. spider, lend me your lighter
back in an hour,
I thaught you died in the shower?.
itsy? bitsy? ,
I'm just rather ditsy..
wait why am i wet?.......................

all for one bet,


;)_    jesse *mckush
okayindigo Mar 2014
when I was born, I had
nine lives left, I was bereft
of scars, delicate as fireflies
in a jam jar
(the kind I’d punch holes in the lid for,
the kind I’d bring indoors
and set on my bedroom floor as a fairy nightlight, until I got bored
and one by one they died silent as the pollination of fornicating spores.)

anyways.

9 lives left, age: 2 months
but then one day daddy looked the other way and splash!
the baby’s in the *** and the ***’s still hot
(there are witches in the air but we don’t care)
looks like soup tonight! yum yum
third degree misery etched on her body,
one life done.

And nothing to show for all of her fun
but a twisted left arm and a ***** of a sun (burn)

One life down, eight to go, you know
because she’s a fox, which (if you peek over the ledge of your punitive box)
is like a cat. And that, as we know, means
nine lives, and that’s that.

well, eight now.
if you want, I’ll tell you how she (i) is (now) down several more.
worry not little one, fate always evens out
the score.

The second was me and a boy (THE Boy, if you know what I mean)
it would seem he and I had climbed two stories high
hand over foot over hand over foot over
the parking lot right up next to the sky
and then oh-
wait.

I’m falling.

(breathe in, breathe out)

(the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout
down came reality and washed the spider out)

and there are
butterflies on the tip of my tongue and there is
a word stuck in my stomach.

he held my eyes just like I couldn’t hold
the pipe as I fell, right towards the earth between heaven and hell
now there are hot knives in my ankles and I think (I can’t tell)
I’m alive.

(stop drop and roll)

yes I fell from the roof through the sky. No I’m fine.
just one more life gone, I saw it flash before my eyes in a short space of time
that was roughly
the shape of a stop sign, or maybe a wind chime, or maybe
it was the shape of the sunshine.

Whichever way, that’s two down, seven to go;
the next one I lost when I rolled off the road.

We were going seventy and
the love of my life was sitting next to me and
his skin was beautiful in its caramel coffee complexity and
he wasn’t
paying
attention.

There is air in my lungs when I should be history
but the SUV only bruised my knees as it rolled, glass shattering
pit-pattering over the pinwheel of perfect destruction
around us.

I felt myself decide that it was okay
if this was the end.

At least I’d go with my best friend, there’s some
good stuff. That, I conceded, would be enough,
I could die young
if who I was in that moment
could be the freeze-frame of my song,
the thing that’s left
after I’m gone.

Three lives gone, only five left-
the next one is casually snipped like a price tag
after a theft when I fell
(again)
from the banyan tree and flipped my pancake
(click-clack) like a jacob’s ladder
I should have broken my back.

As I fell I yelled in my head
there’s nothing to fear but fear itself
(till you’re dead.)

four down, five to go Indigo.

Here we go.

(to be continued.)
Sophie Herzing Jan 2015
It’s like you’re a pair of headphones—
coming in two different ears, and I’m bouncing
between one beat and the words that fall from my mouth
like ransom. I swear to god, if you’d just let me fall into you
the wreckage would be small, you’d just have to cradle me
like you do all the other bits that land in your lap
during the so called “suffocation” of your busy schedule.
I get that I’m too big to fit onto a calendar.
I get that sometimes I wear green just because it’s your favorite color.
But picture us together, and not with my clothes in a puddle
on the tile floor while the shower runs. Not with your hand
playing itsy-bitsy spider on my legs as you let your tongue
linger on the dips in my neck. Picture us on the sidewalk
with a lucky penny between our shoes, and how beautiful
our reflections would look even in that tiny surface area. Then,
imagine me in the stands with your over-sized t-shirt
and you could pick me out among the crowd. How about
our hands? Just picture them tangling together, your thick knuckles
knocking against my mother’s old ring. Or even take those circles you draw
on my hipbones and practice them on my palms.
I promise you it’s a lot prettier.
I promise you I know the route, I’ve been around that elliptical
that is your I’m sorry laced with every interpretation that is
YOU JUST DON’T FIT. I know I don’t fit,
and that you think we’re just too misshapen, but do you ever remember,
in that tipsy mind of yours, how slender my body fits into yours
like we’re two half-moons just making a sliver? I just wish you thought of me,
if at all, a little bigger.
Em Mar 2017
It's like you have a Lego house.
You're just an itsy bitsy tiny little lego guy.
You've been working really ******* this Lego house.
Every day it seems to get a little better, a little bigger.

And then one day you see storm clouds
And something just feels off,
like you feel it the moment you open your eyes in the morning
but you ignore it because you think it'll go away,
you've been here before,
it's probably just another tiny storm.

But you've underestimated it.
it's​ not just a tiny storm
it's a monsoon
and now it's ripping apart your Lego house from the inside.
And you don't call anyone for help
because they'd say
"oh, again?"
So you stand there
watching this monsoon tear down something that's taken you weeks to rebuild.
But you understand the routine.

When it's over
you rest.
Because that's all you can do.
And when you wake up
you add that very first Lego block
And you start building again.
You don't know where it is
You don't know when it'll be back
But you keep building
Because that's what they tell you you have to do.
David Nelson Mar 2013
Nursree-Rhymed-Rap

you got yer Jack be nimble
you got yer Jack be quick
you got yer Jack jumpin over a candle stick
he jumped so high
he almost touched the sky
you see he burnt his nads
and it made him cry

you got yer 3 little pigs
you got yer Goldilocks
you got yer big bad wolf dumber than a fox
he huffed and puffed
and took a big hit
and they all joined hands
they were smokin some ****

you got yer Little Red
you got yer 3 brown bears
sippin on soup and sittin in chairs
Red danced on the table
yeah she danced really good
the bears gave her money
to see what was under the hood

you got yer Jack and Jill
you got yer buckle my shoe
climbin that hill what they gonna do
Jack played pattycake
according to rumours
trying to get inside
of little Jill's bloomers

you got yer Little Miss Muffet
you got yer itsy bitsy spider
he made a big mistake sitting down beside her
inside her purse
she kept a can of Raid
she drenched his ****
and now he's daid

you got yer hey ****** ******
you got yer dish and spoon
you got yer old spotted cow jumpin over the moon
there's Humpty Dumpty
and the fiddling cat
the little dog laughed
to see Jack Sprat splat  

you got yer round the rosey
you got yer ba black sheep
pullin the wool over yer eyes as you sleep
****** ****** dumplin
so what is my point
whoever wrote these riddles
musta been smokin a joint

Gomer LePoet ....
these aren't your mama's Nursery Rhymes. :)
Martin Narrod Apr 2016
Come in all you children and dance upon the sea. The coastline tides are dancing and gallivanting on the breeze. The elephant seals are floating in their carcasses, warm blood lakes thicken on the foam, dancing in the ripples the shivers of Leopard sharks party's throw. ***** slugs and combatants, early hours send cries through crustaceans of the spine, and glitter muscles entwined with porpoise to drink their brunches with new recipes of the brine. Fairy starling, aching heartache, shapes each coil of the coast, and tears apart the stardust of starfish sliding up the coast. Drinking from the salt licks that falling waters move, inside the bay the bluefins escape the hunters in their shoals.  The itsy bitsy great white, crept into the beaches cove, but orca and dolphin chased him back into the deepest azures where the fur seals pup and milk.
cheryl love Mar 2014
A gentle squeeze of the hand
A blushing cheek meets his eye
His heart aches, her cheeks blush
Like cherries in a hot pink pie.
He kisses her face, on the side
of her itsy bitsy nose.
She giggles, plays into his hands
Which is holding a **** rose.
His blood rushes round,
he enquires of her intention
She looks at her diary, free  next week
the next day does not get a mention.
Disappointment darkens the hour
He fiddles with his tie
She grabs his tie and pulls him closer
and her wet sparkly lips taste of cherry pie.
So sweer the embrace, so full of "I want more"
She relaxes, his hand slides down
and unlocks the key of the door.
That key is stiff he thought
better loosen the grip
She pants, he blushes and
finally reveals her little slip.
So silky, so divine, it falls to the floor
So passionate, so forgiving
and she bolts hastily through the door.
"Come back" he shouts, but she has gone
"Not likely" she retorts, what's your game?
He is confused, as men usually are
"But I thought you wanted the same".
Men and women are from two planets
Men from Zog and women from mars.
Men, well we cant do without them
their annoying habits and love of cars.
Women, we are good stuff, I have to say
But at the end of the day, we're all the same
We like our love in the old fashioned way.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Hippity hippity hobo hopped a train in mobo, whilst mobo and toe-do flowdoed  down dits bitsy mountain. She-ha and he-haw hast rode bikes to sleetah where burritos were bandits and bandista's on barnyard fence. Smoky and choky were high on mangozee and tis they loved posies of the same tilling field. Geuber and Gruber maketh infants as scoopers whilst dust is their slooper,
Slippery dipsy dask.. . uncle tis and Mrs tas. Tadpole Bennie, neon jenny, Mike and shunny.. Bunnies of two..honey's of few. Crick-crackle pop the hobo didst hop, as I caught him, as he fell, he bumped  his head and yelled...( Hobo forever)
As I smiled to his passions...
judy smith May 2015
There was none of your itsy-bitsy, teenie-****** bikinis at a fashion show of vintage swimwear in aid of the Cleveland Pools.

The costumes on show on the catwalk at Green Park Station were a much more modest affair, with a lot less flesh on view, and with some very interesting costumes which seemed to amuse the younger audience.

The Vintage Swimwear fashion show celebrated the last 200 years of bathing suits – the pools celebrate their 200th birthday next year.

Costumes from the last two centuries were modelled down the catwalk, with some interesting reactions from the audience, many of them design or fashion students from Bath Spa University.

It was a great turnout according to Sally Helvey from the Cleveland Pools Trust.

"We had a great night, and it really was great fun," she said.

There was a bar and barbecue hosted by Green Park Brasserie, and ice cream from a vintage Humphry van.

The audience also enjoyed a photography booth, and picture and video slideshows.

The Cleveland Pools is the only surviving Georgian Lido in the country, with a beautiful outdoor pool nestling in the back woods by the River Avon near the Bathwick estate.

But it is very derelict and will need millions spent on it before it can be re-opened again to the public. Last summer the trust received the welcome news the amenity is to be granted more than £4 million from the Heritage Lottery Fund, so plans are in place to have the pools restored and open for use again possibly as early as 2017.

A lot more funding needs to be raised to try and match the funds given by the HLF, and the fashion show, organised by Bath Spa student Jenny Brown, was just one of many events being organised over the summer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
oh
the seasons have changed again
ten shades darker and climbing
they forgot who I was
who I am
gaining momentum
the whiteness that used to insist
that I am white
is confused
now they are leaning towards
not letting me be white anymore
till next season all over again
but this is the season of darkness
I can see it in their eyes
hear it in their voices
mostly being black in America
has been the epitome
of non violent resistance
in the season of darkness
non violent coping mechanisms
to a violent abuser
an abuser
called law
called psychology
called whiteness
called economy
untreated domestic abuse
whiteness calls honors history
dissociating from the repair work
that the American family must face
ever since I was a little
itsy-bitsy - innocent boy
the thought
the imagination
of being able to take out
a militia of whiteness
with my body alone
if and when they get as worse as they are
always prepared for the worst of whiteness
no matter what you say
cannot fool me
can I be more violent?
better at it
so I can sleep for a little while
dreams like some of the white kids
except lucid
In the season of darkness
I can prove it all wrong
the whiteness
its story
the companies it keeps
I can breathe a whole new world out
and breathe in clarity
in the season of darkness
my afros
my mohawks
mean something different
suddenly
my worth
is being threatened with an officer’s gun
peacefully letting handcuffs on
violently beaten afterward
hand over mouth
face in the cement
should out of socket
sciatic nerve damage forever
put in a cell
for the trauma
to reverberate
and echo
back into itself
in the season of darkness
whiteness was overwhelmed
without fear
domino affected
occupied whiteness
brought it down to its knees
that one percent of whiteness
is enough to get us all killed
America
in the season of darkness
www.barnesandnoble.com/w/escape-from-liberty-elan-gregory/1125516297?ean=9780997491623

— The End —