"clasps" poems
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
7.2k
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
6.6k
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
5.9k
These clothes, they hide
These clothes, conceal
And when these clothes slide off
There's nothing left to reveal
Unhooked clasps
Undone buttons
Just unwrap this body
'Til absolutely nothin'
My raw self for
Only you to view
Removing this fabric
Is saying that I trust you
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
Hands shaking as they clumsily undo
Buttons, zippers, clasps
Articles of clothing discarded
Every word that passes between us
Hangs suspended in the air
Like dust motes
Only larger, more distinct
Each facet perfectly discernible
By its own beholder's eye
This was wrong
I could feel it
As my synapses fired
Unconsciously guiding my hands down his back
Arching mine
It feels wrong
But mostly it feels
So
right
Now.
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 10:36 AM UTC
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle—
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—
What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?
4.7k
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
4.5k
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
4.3k
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
3.8k
Like some pitted, coal-black dragon egg,
it sits among the other fruits, exuding weight.
It draws my eyes away from the obsequious apple and banal pear,
its shape curving elegantly between their contours.
As my hand clasps around it, I feel its skin
of sinful reptilian texture.
As I place it upon the cutting board, a hundred possibilities
spring to mind.
What will I do with this trove that lies before me?
I will take a knife
in one hand
and the avocado in the other.
I know that, like gold it will be heavy,
and will feel soft without being so.
The knife breaks the skin.
Never has so smooth a wound been made,
as the blade circumnavigates the centre.
And with a twist,
it falls open.
A blinding springtime dawns on my eyes, revolving
around a dark sun,
and the absence of one.
So perfect these halves look, side by side,
the only two pieces
of a sultry puzzle.
There is no blast of stinging scents.
They are the enigmatic philanthropists of the fruit world,
bestowing their riches quietly,
without great shows of favour.
The first long, horizontal slice slides free
and lies, curving wonderfully in and out.
Fingers reach down and arm moves up,
lips part.
The moment the vibrant green meets desiring red, I breathe again.
Nothing else in this world has such a wealth
of subtle freshness,
or spreads as soft as morning sunlight.
And yet it is never airy or thin,
but carries an embracing gravity.
I open my eyes.
The rest of the fertile crescent awaits me.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
I want to be close to you like Mercury
to see your full glow
and brightness of your intimacy
I see you like a Venus
because of your unsurpassed beauty
and your unfathomable, abysmal kind of love
You are like the Earth
where living with you is not a problem
and with you it is always easy to breathe
I see your ardent desires like a red Mars
to fight a war to cover and protect me
even sacrificing your own life
You give a gigantic precious tenderness
and enormously unselfish affections
like a Jupiter
You give me snowball rings like Saturn
that gives remembrance to all the beautiful
things that we had been in the atmosphere
of treasured memories
Your warmhearted axis
that tilts on the rocky core of my life
is like in a deep ocean of Uranus
that clasps me with grasping arms
You are like the depth the Neptune brings
who takes me beyond the known
to what's alive only in my wildest dreams.
On a very far and infinite distance
deep into the darkness like Pluto
you are perfect to get lost with
nothing matters but You and Me
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 5:53 AM UTC
His eyes penetrate the mirror,
And the glass penetrates him back.
Tears rain down his cheeks,
And his semblance undergoes a crack.
His head hits the pillow,
His eyelashes flutter along to dreams.
Mother watches with weepy eyes,
Then sunlight through the window beams.
His heart flutters like a leaf in a breeze,
Excited by the man before his eyes.
For years he has struggled
With this affection he was taught to despise.
Even as his heart tells him what to do,
The boy continues to hide his truth.
It seems there is much to lose,
It seems a way to ruin his youth.
But the secret ails him—
A condition untreated.
Without exploration,
His heart remains defeated.
Destruction clasps onto him, an iron grip,
And his demons come alive.
He begins to hate himself,
Struggling to survive.
Hatred finds him during his adolescence—
Like a deadly blade wishing him dead.
To survive, he learns a simple truth—
His beliefs must be shed.
Now a cloak of happiness hangs from his shoulders—
His boyfriend is in his arms.
He has parted with society’s silly notions,
Of which only dealt him harm.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:46 PM UTC
Velveteen and closed with slim metal clasps
Laying on the seat next to the edge of a dress.
Let me slip my hand inside to find
Nothing but a $100 bill that isn't mine.
The car comes to a lurching stop
I pay the cabbie and get out to walk.
A few coins and an aching heart
Linger with the clasp's top apart.
My silken dress swirls around my knees
At the bottom of the stairs of apartment three.
One single step leads right to the next
Velveteen catching my ragged breath.
The metal clasps held firmly closed
As I knock on the door to fill the hole.
Stolen bills and velveteen held close
And the door unbolts…
But metal clasps remain closed.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
I stand before you naked and bare,
Vulnerable and scared
With trembling hands, and shaky breath
Because you gingerly stripped me
Of the armor I had long ago melded to my being.
You carefully untied the intricate knots
That had tangled my chaotic mind.
You skillfully unfastened the clasps,
Which held together my crippled heart.
You watched as my insecurities
Fell to the ground in a pile around my ankles.
I stand before you naked and bare
With trembling hands, and shaky breath
Because the impassioned stare your eyes posses
Pierces the façade that I had shrouded myself with.
The softness of your caressing lips
Comforts the exhaustion of fleeing love.
The heat of your searching hands
Melts the ice that encases my thoughts.
The pressure of your firm body
Pushes away the worries of acceptance.
I stand before you naked and bare
Because your love has set me free from myself.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.
Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.
Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.
Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.
Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.
As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
The Tingling
Pulsing
Throbbing sensation.
The thought
Of your sweet slow
***********
The approval to claim your
Deepest Redemptions
Your Temptations
Delivering me
Blissful Salvation.
Belly button deep
Seeking for keeps
Your palms grip my hips,
My hips switch
Like a gypsy.
You bewitch me.
Twitching
Writhing
Spell-bound beneath me.
You beseech me.
Eyeballs rolling back into their rightful sockets
If you can pry the clasps open ill give you the key to the locket
Like Future said,
Ill put your heart in my pocket.
Soaring inside me to destinations reached only by rockets.
Fingers tantalizing hard *******
Love fluid gushing with rip tide strength ripples.
Mary Jane modeling between my fingers,
Idoling bliss towards the tips,
My fingers seek a settling seat upon the floor of your luscious lips
-Lust at your own risk
Inhale the kush
Push me to the depths of my mattress
Submerge me beyond the sheets,
Beyond the springs underneath,
Beyond the heights of my wildest dreams
Make me shy, make me fly
Provide me your name so I can surrender and scream.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
What tempest rules the earth
around her girth clasps her axe
Thunderous lightening in twisted gales
forlorns amazon anger with her gods
Her voice screams for victory sought
in rumblings of the earth below
Touch not her heart of many stones
unless you dare to feel her wrath
upon your bones and wrench you
and ****** into the further pit of hell,
where dismal screams are heard
from bitter depths below
And snake like chains grind the cold
stonehenge ground pulled by bleeding ankles to the bone
Seek not merciful guidence from her wrath
or shelter from her axe or kindness from cold
black eyes but quiver from her icy demon touch
Succubus her nature be, she draws the air from you and me and yet a tempest all in one
Be hastened away by her tempest shrill
and collar you for good
Be alert not to roam too far
from your neighborhood
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
She likes him.
They cuddle.
He likes me.
He's in agony.
I like another him,
Who likes me in return.
He touched my feet,
Ever so soft caress.
I dissolved into light and dark
To be awoken by the shaking of heart break.
He asked her for space
But in the moment of meaningless
She reaches out a pinky
Clasps his
He shakes, eyes wide
Repeats
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."
Holds back nails
Which are hungry for flesh
- holds back
Flesh
Hungry for detachment
Sharp pain
Removal of self
"I feel stuck"
Trapped between sorrow
And a desire for comfort
And a desperately needed boundary
- so her heart isn't dragged along too.
But she reaches out and holds on.
And he holds onto me
In minds eye
And I grip another's hand firmly
And he squeezes mine back.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
She thinks if she travels to foreign lands- even if
it is only by dating an ethnic man- that she can
scale the high walls of the borders between what she
was taught and who she hopes she is.
Having followed blindly her predestination programmed life
she can’t resist taking squinted peeks through the
tiny open slits of vision, hoping to find her true self.
“You are losing the faith!” her anxious mother warns
as though to do so would be an inherent flaw,
not a conscious choice.
But Mother’s own faith
has been slipping through her hands for the past
30 years, and only that promised salvation can save
her from the indiscretions that fill the non-rapturous void
left-behind by mister Christian-right-wing-man.
Taught well by mother, father, and god, that men
must be assessed in a purely logical fashion,
“Agree on finances and childrearing and you will
have happily ever.”
But she feels fake, and does not know how
to peel the plastic wrap off her personality.
You can see its bindings in the way her eyes implore you
and how she clasps her hands on her lap by rote.
She is the pink peg in the Hasbro Game of Life car
with guilt trip road blocks, detours and poorly folded
directional maps. Spinning the wheel in search of tour guides:
What should I read? What should I think?
But that only gives her new mind instructors.
Perhaps instead of foreign languages and foreign lands,
the verity lies in the realization that mother
probably feels fake too.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Hands of a new mother gently washing baby's little parts
A little hand clasps around her thumb and touches moms heart
An unconditional love that continues to grow at first glance
Brings new meaning to life makes you want to take a chance
Hands of a Lovers first melting touch
Not being able to breathe when it gets to be too much
Butterflies in the stomach and throwing all caution to the wind
Two innocent souls lost in the present and trying not to sin
Hands of a fighter who helped liberate our lands
Bringing countries together and starting a contraband
Hands of the men who were young and oh so brave
Friends and comrades who lost their lives and wound up in a grave
Hands of a writer, a painter, or jack of all trades
Blue collar living but these hands still need to get paid
Calloused strong hands and a hard working class
Got obligations and bills to try and outlast
Hands of a beautiful woman on her day wearing white
Ring on her finger from the love of her life
Hands that promise to love and cherish through all the years
Comfort those worries and help face all your fears
Hands weathered and touched by father time
No longer seeing your lovers hand...your partner in crime
True love that has gone to a much better place
But the hands remain tied and forever laced
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 6:03 PM UTC
*With you I couldn't offer much
I couldn't give you the life
you're so accustomed to
or the valuables
those material gifts
that so suit your lifestyle
the Haute Couture
that clasps to your body
the perfect fit to your
beautiful frame
oh the body of a goddess
one of mythical dreams
I'm far from any Monroe or Taylor
or any of the glamorous stars you so
mirror with such etiquette
I'm the girl sat in a cashmere cardigan
with chipped red nails, bitten to the skin
no make up and bed head hair
and I know that you are true
to all these things too
you're a person about personality
not mere possessions
you beauty is internal it glows
like the diamonds you sing of
stars in a sky of love
grandma Dolly's leather backed bible
hand written notes that carry your true worth
family values knowing without them
you'd be no where
and here am I, as poor as a church mouse
no worldly possessions
just me, myself and I
a heart
my loyalty
my love
a love for you more vast than all
land and oceans combined
each dollar in your pocket couldn't account
for the price of this love
a chance for love is all I crave
to love only you in every way I know how
a tight hug, a light embrace
a smile, a sparkle, a tickle of your thigh
oh what a distant obsession you have become
like a mist of Chanel Eau de Parfum
so intense
then fading into the background
my sheets, soul and skin
are still soaked in your scent
but you've gone, and taken part of me with you
leaving me broken, split in two
but as one,
not one with you.*
© Sia Jane
---
“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”
Sylvia Plath
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
the vein clasps mentor rr rr s
exposed to coke AND mentos
vehement contamination - - correction
facility of the soul - pull-off / pull-over
push-up - pedestrian, panicking, my
map marks nothing in the nested
rest-stop
CASTLE, CASTLE
correction facility of the soul
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
Watch me closely, God,
though you’ve seen it all before.
I’ve got the universe up my sleeve
and it’s itching for a sleight,
if you’re willing to be conned.
The stardust filling Aquarius
has poured for countless millennia
and it won’t brim the bottomless cup
of your oceanic blues.
That’s the warm-up for Lepus
who, lean and polar-white, leaps
out from my flipped-over cap
and is chased by the steel-plied
Orion’s hankering for roast hare.
Hunger-driven this heaven hunter
has a saggy belt; his sword’s tip drags,
slicing Gemini in two,
but twins can’t be parted long
and divinely grasping Pollux clasps
Castor’s pause anew.
Conjoined, they bow together
under showers of milky petals
kissing no-longer
furrowed brows till black
velvet curtains fall
and are followed by your eons of
endearing applause.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:41 AM UTC
The heat intensifies with my lonesome tendencies, and
I fear palpitation from innocently brushing arms with a stranger.
But when I find myself in a stranger’s bed
(or a wineshop,
a car,
a park)
the thrill is missing.
I am a stereotype, a masochistic statistic. I am becoming the 20-something-sleeping-around-to-stave-off-boredom.
I am an archetype that’s been romanticized to death.
Save the romance, it’s greed and it’s hunger and it’s pure boredom.
These men become gold. Thread after thread
of secret affairs solidify into a piece of treasure,
Like 14 karat chain necklaces that get tangled
into an unfixable knot of links and claw clasps.
I carry it in my strut and that is exciting.
My walk is confidently direct at 3 in the morning.
In the summer, when the heat is outside and not in my bed, I am unsatisfied.
Yet when the promise of romance approaches, I allow myself to make poor decisions out of fear.
So I make a different poor decision to get me through the next hour.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC