"bracing" poems
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
43.4k
If this is how I feel
Then it must be real
I can't explain how my mind runs
If I'm still alive
When you say goodnight
Then my life has just begun
I'm climbing across the room
Bracing the monsoon
That's gonna take me down
And if I'm still alive
When you say goodnight
Then I hope you stay around
I'm perfect. No I'm not
I'm happy with that
I think it's better to change yourself
You'll never be the same
You can even change your name
But I can always be myself
Around you
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
She broke my heart again
It failed as she skipped out of reach
It’s okay
Little things can go unnoticed
How big can a heart really be?
She gave it a kick as she stumbled over it
That paled in comparison when she stepped on it
I gift wrapped my heart
I even sang a little tune as I tied the bow
She had that look though
A little moue of surprise and a stutter
My heart dropped and I leaned back
Bracing myself always feels like it should help
But, then she broke it
Kicked it
Stepped on it
Scuffed it for sure
It got a little blurry
I knew as soon as she said
“We can still be friends right?”
cc062911
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Thoughts of cotton candy kiss laced with guilt.
Bubble gum wrapping the shame.
A deceit told through a mouth sewn closed.
But eyes held wide-shut.
A lie supported by another lie, bracing itself before falling.
Should I let the guilt be known through a cotton candy kiss?
Let the bubble gum wrapper shunt my shame.
Will I hold our secret behind stitched sewn lips?
All the while, holding my eyes wide shut?
Could I support this burden, bracing it with another lie?
Before I let it slip and fall?
A dangerous dance our feet have started,
where it goes I am not for certain...
A wicked path we've lain before us.
where it goes I am not for certain...
An affair of just wanting,
but nothing of taking.
Where this is leading I am not for certain.
For: where I hope we are going,
Well now,
that is another matter all together.
Fin
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
My heart I bequeath you
O’ stillness of my universe
I bequeath you my sanity
Spreading this cloak of being in your dust
I bow to your twinkling stars
To the waxing sun and scented grass
I bow to your springing rivers
To the parched grain and blossoming flowers
I bow to the warmth of my lover
And want of my beloved
I bow to your saccharine figs
And honeyed nectar in chalice filled
I bequeath my mortality to your transiency
Blinded by this light in game of ruse
Into your cohesiveness, I fuse
In blinkers to win the race
Espying a king in glass
Presage of being a slave
Yet when darkness falls
I furl my cloak and solemnly rise
For I bow not then
To your barren fields and waning suns
I bow not to your garish colors,
To the cloying drupe and wilted blossoms
Bracing my feeble transience
With my tenet and trail of faith
I bow to the King of kings;
Whilst I beseech for emanating hope,
In my tigers clasp, my God’s rope
I beseech,
Till the noise becomes music again
And as I gaze in the glass now,
All I espy is a beseeching slave
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
got to eat them as they darken
reddened ruby to black constant opal
berries will rot quickly if you don’t
or they’ll taste real gooey and wierdy
if you let the drupelets’ colors get
unsynchronized like summer and fall
...why am i telling you this?
because i learned that the hard way
and the days go away in the gleam
heavy showers and peak-a-boo sun
the east barely bracing for the storm
and the sweetness decaying like the leaves
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
You know what I like; a fight.
Nice touch; and you love to bite.
We love the rush; you struggle
no match for my might.
Your tiny frame, twisted right.
Bending to my will.
Passion and skill,
screaming in pleasure-- you will.
Getting our fill, this little kink--
Heightens your delight.
Your body so petite, **** and tight.
squirmed your way to sweet surrender.
Gripping tight; it's now or never.
My weight pressed you to the bed,
Face down, pillowcase bracing your head.
Your *** up,
looking back at me,
just like I said.
My commands,
So stern -- you wet the bed.
Reaching down, I watched as your lips
Slowly they spread.
“command me!” is what they said.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
I lie in the sand under the palm tree
Sand between the toes, crashing in the sea.
I count the stars, for the seventh time now
With the moon out, I nearly forget how
My meals come few, and far in between.
Could the fish be sparser, so it would seem
There's so much time between my feasts to think
Ocean surrounds, yet not a drop to drink.
I ponder at the moon and recognize
How its hue reveals the deceit and lies
You, my misty moon, I remember you
When I saw you last, in agony, too.
Those I held dearest left me here to rot
To wander about, within pain and thought
To fend for myself and survive alone
And march ahead in bracing the unknown
I lie in wait tearing my own nails
Wondering what first will come, death or sails?
Until then, I'll forsake those who left me.
And draw closer to the sun whilst I be.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 7:15 AM UTC
Beneath the bracing maple tree
Awaits a beau, pursued heart's key
Cold sweaty hands, timid was he
As if he's dosed with ecstasy
To woo this beautiful princess,
Hath played a fiddle effortless
Heart beats loud beneath pastel dress
Mind's been puzzled, soon she'll confess
She don't regret, she won't forget
For that so moment felt kismet
Will they be lovers? Make a guess,
It all depends if she said yes
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 9:37 PM UTC
Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.
When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.
And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.
5.5k
It is the thing we create from within.
From the depth of our soul
Where our passion does live.
The place we seek to find the unseen,
Those things that are seen
Within our minds and our dreams,
The things that others have not yet seen.
A vision where those can gaze and be free,
By a master at play while capturing his dreams
Upon the canvas where the art lives and breathes
Away from other influence, that he may have seen.
The art does not copy the others of known.
Instead, each piece is the artist's very own.
By bracing his feet upon the ground where he stands,
The art comes from within, from the master’s own hands.
Sep 3, 2022
Sep 3, 2022 at 9:17 PM UTC
Your Approach...
Mine eyes behold
The view you're gracing
Your beauty unfold
My heart starts racing
Your Encroah...
The tension grows
While towards pacing
Your radiance flows
It's fear I'm bracing
My Abroach...
The entrancement
Has my mind failing
Your smile's enhancement
Sends my heart sailing
My Reproach...
I'm Insecure
My secret endure
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
so much to say
violence in head
everyday, I
say something stupid instead
So much to say
bracing the salt-waves
that skin me more red
I bend over laughing because I'm so brave
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch
Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin
I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse
Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin
If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin
Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain
Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin
Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...
Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Anna's kiss hit harder,
than most ****** climaxes--
left me stuttering,
sidestepping, scared of the
what's next?
Anna's hair on fire,
billowing smoke and
beckoning me to come in--
left me boiling,
bracing, barely conscious
of what's left?
Anna's bed of nails,
bled out and breathing--
left me dangerously
dumb, deaf
of what's she saying?
Anna's sharpened heels,
daggered the docile beige carpet--
left me sweating,
sighing, searching for further savior
in what are we?
Anna's black fingernails,
sunk into my shoulder--
left me lonely,
lusting, lashing in empty parking lot
now knowing,
rebirth requires a death.
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 10:18 AM UTC
I wasn't always so easily discouraged.
I used to bristle with enthusiasm.
I glowed with it.
It didn't matter if the task was simple, or tedious, or daunting, or boring.
As though on rails, I slammed into each and every task with terrific force.
But I got older.
Things that used to come easily grew slippery.
What I used to do without thinking twice, I found myself over-thinking.
I threw the brake. I ground to a halt.
Finally, I became idle. A left-over husk of a kernel that's already been popped.
I drowned myself with doubts. Hypothetical situations that might never happen.
I lived in fear of what might go wrong.
So I began to watch everything go wrong, as though I was helpless.
I was no less able. I was no less compassionate.
But I had grown wary. Of what?
What was it that, out of nowhere, caused me to slow down?
I guess I looked down and realized that if I fell, I would not be getting back up.
When you're young, you have no worries, because nothing is relying on your success.
So you mess up a math problem. You'll get it eventually.
So you botch things with that cute girl who sits across from you. You're young, you'll get it.
Re-assurance, faithfully, unwaveringly. A safety line should I fall.
But I never really fell, did I? So why am I laying down like I have?
Get up.
Get up.
I worry about everything. I worry that I will fail.
I dread what comes, what I can't avoid. But time, and time, again, it comes, and I miraculously don't die when it hits, because I've been bracing for a train-wreck impact, a force that will really, truly, finally, definitely lay me flat for good.
I close my eyes, and brace. But the crash never comes. The silence that was continued to be.
I turn behind me, but there's no train there.
I'm starting to realize, with relief, (with horror), that maybe all I needed to do was step off the track.
I look down, and realize, with a first-creeping then-howling laughter that I was never on the track to begin with.
I look off where the track is. There's no train there, either. Maybe there never was.
Maybe there never will be.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
You my friend love to run more than anyone I know
You run so fast your body has to catch up and when it can't it slows you down pulling a hamstring
Then the other
And then your left one again
You had bruises for months trailing up and down your legs-your battle wounds
Weeks upon weeks of stretching
Icing massaging caring bracing eating
Trying so hard to sooth the pain
So bad it hurt to sit
Slowly but surely your legs came back
A tedious process of long nights and good mornings
One day you were new again
In the sweltering heat you taught your legs what it felt like to run
And they loved it
The months flew by chasing you down
You were unstoppable getting first and second a states in the winter
Things were looking up and you started to get anxious about college who would choose you?
But in the end, you chose them
You are an official member of OSU
Proud to be a buckeye
Outdoor season started and you are oh so careful
Spending an hour every day before practice to warm up slowly to not repeat last year's trial
Hours spent after practice to ice and stretch hoping that this horrendous day would ever come again
Today I watched you
I was sprinting on the field while you were meticulously counting and calculating your speed and steps by doing drills
Our brothers strides by-racing each other in the 600
You strode along their side-beating them all when you started to limp
Your eyes turned glossy
Your face crumpled in despair
I to you asking if you were ok
You looked at me like a deer in headlights
To scared to tell me-hoping that the devil couldn't possibly come back to haunt you
Your eyes told me everything
Two pops and a pull
Bad
Very bad
But it's your right leg- your good leg
Impossible
The emotions hit you like you were on a bumpy roller coaster
Frustration
Angst
Anger
Sadness
Frustration
Anger
What did you do wrong?
What variables didn't add up?
Why you?
Why?
I wanted so badly to comfort you
To hug you
But it would put you in so much pain
Who knew that a hug could do so much harm?
I helped you to the trainer
Every step was another test and another reminder
Why can something you love so much it hurts you?
Why should someone so good feel the pain of a pulled muscle?
Why?
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Every so often children throwing tantrums
Catch parent faces, bracing fallen sourness
Where outlines wrinkle rosy outlook sadly
Raisins having pits
Logan Robertson
1/16/2019
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 8:07 PM UTC
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
I lie here lost
in the
memory of you .....
Mind racing
Body bracing
Blood pumping
Heart thumping
******* throbbing
Fingers probing
Legs shaking
Arms aching
to hold you
as
I ..........
ahhh h h h h h
And the
Boom Chica Wow Wow
Plays on .....
(C) Pixievic
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
The wake of nevermore
To be forever and more
Flowering
Through the doors of metamorphosis
With whorish twists
To twine the submissive slits
Into bracelets bracing for a face lit
In joyous glee
Cheek to cheek!
The sheen of sheep
Greased and ready to eat
Oh Gristlesworth
Smiling from a bag
Bahhh!
Don't eat the tag
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
No books in my shelves.
No songs in my head.
No hearts in my heart.
There are not enough drugs for the pressure to ease.
The struggle to feel baby, nothing can release me.
Highs always come crashing down.
Every bridge burns to the ground.
A chest with no toys.
A board with no pieces.
You tore me to pieces.
Stealing all my peace.
Hurricane winds and messy minds.
My thighs around your waist, nothing can ease me.
Night loving never seems to ease me.
I am a ghost of who I'm not.
Just a person filling this slot.
Emotionless robot bracing for a fall.
All just leading to no healing.
Wrapped around your heart.
I am just another knot you cut off.
Dropping to the floor.
The fire burned me.
There is no fight left in me.
Nothing I can do to make it right.
Take my armor and, put my sword right through me.
Leave me to die, there's nothing good left in me.
I'm sorry but, I'm leaving me.
Put a peace sign up.
Nothing can come from me.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
There is a hollow in her hand
That needs to be filled with mine…
A beach of powder white sand
Where we cheerfully recline…
There are two lovely lips
Aching for a tender kiss…
A cliff top where the wind whips
Up a bracing breeze, sheer bliss…
Warm tints nestle within her hair
And seemingly skip with pleasure…
A buttercup meadow so rare
Where we picnic at our leisure…
Right in the centre of her chest
Her heart beats a rhythm sublime…
Wherever we are, that place is the best
As long as I’m with her each time….
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
To be perfectly honest this was one of the more difficult poems to string together for the sheer fear of possibly jinxing it,
as there appears to be a pattern to every story involving a boy and me lately,
which begins with the same overrated butterflies in the stomach sensation followed by a poem,
sleepless nights, cigarettes, ***** and a tragic ending.
So having reached the poem stage my instincts and the part of my brain receptive to pain are already bracing themselves,
I can feel them clenching in my gut.
As this three nights stand situation burns the lines between a ***** call, friendship with benefits and something to the extent of a budding romance,
my expectations are protesting against being so fiercely oppressed,
frankly they are getting out of control,
as the dislike of not wanting to be clingy, chivalry of not wanting to subdue to any labels nor the fear of yet another heartbreak itself,
are no longer sufficient to keep these rising hopes in place.
Ironically, when I think of you I think more of who I become when I'm with you, than actually you,
even though I do sincerely adore you. Very much.
I'm bemused by how comfortable I feel in my own skin,
naked and burnished, next to your warm, ivory touch.
Each time you trail your fingers down my body and take in a quick breath as if you were seeing me for the very first time,
I treasure the look in your eyes for later in the week when the going gets tough.
I idolize your rough, blistered, bleeding palms with all its calluses for they mirror my own much subtle bruises,
representing our shared interest, commitment, strength and transformation.
Your new found superpower to completely eradicate my necessity to socially smoke when socializing with you, speaks for itself really,
and we haven't even got to the laughter, the banter, the top notch sarcasm, the conversation, the warmest embrace,
breakfast ending in a ridiculously serious spectacle of coffee making,
which I thoroughly enjoy from the best seat in the kitchen wearing your shirt which fits me far more perfectly,
and the skip in my step as I head home.
So when the day comes for the revolution, of my expectations, overthrowing this rather tiresome governance of fear,
I just might pop the question, will you be my forever one night stand? ,
in the hope that you might just say yes...
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC