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L B Sep 2017
The ocean through an opened window
Frontier between all that's known
of here
and sleep
riding out the waves as they come

A gull cries in passing

Waves sating themselves
in the womb of the earth
kissing the neck of Bride's Brook
Her seaweed streaming hair
in wind of tides
The moon's pull to release
coaxing spent and tender moans--

the farthest reach of sighs
Actually, this was from a place where I stayed on Cape Cod, MA.
solc liveson Jun 17
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference

through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings

my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems

funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission

I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice

my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Michael Briefs Jul 2017
From white canvass,
a blank ledger of potent
awaiting form and function:
the seminal swirl of
her brush signals,
simple hue,
subtle structure.
From flesh stroke
sanguine blush of
satin seams
and outstretched limbs,
the artist invokes
shade and light.
Spring greens, rampant peaks,
reaching aloft into
gossamer mists; calm swells,
verdant bosoms,
inviting fields of
luxuriant temptation.
From an eternal cool,
the (all too) temporary warmth
of her embrace
lies just beyond:
enticing, luring, coaxing
into heady desire.
From whence,
the dream
See a photo that inspired this poem:
kclantern Apr 2017
i traced my fingers on the ceiling,
coaxing Alpha Centauri
from the corner of the wall.

i dipped my hands into pools of
silver-glassed milk,
forming a droplet of slippery onyx.

i mailed the constellation in a
waxy manila envelope,
yellowed by the moon’s teeth.

i licked the edges with my tongue and
pressed the folds together.

for you
from me.
seconds / I don't even know how to write poems ****
typhany Jan 2014
my arms remember razor blades and spiked needles
and my veins ache to feel the warmth of her
swimming perfectly through my bloodstream
and engulfing my every fear, my every desire
until i am nothing but a pool of sticky tar

my nostrils burn without the powder
flying into my brain, and dripping down my throat
keeping me awake for days on end
and opening up my mind for my pen
shaking as i hold it to the paper; scribble

my tongue dwells on the bitter taste of hallucinogens
that made me dance in the coldest rain
and swim in the smallest pools of warm blood
that erupted from the belly of an orange tiger
who held my hand, and danced to the beats

my stomach remembers the feeling of pill bottles
emptied out; the tablets dissolved
coaxing me into warm slumbers, and forgetfulness
i miss the feeling of letting go
of love, of pain, of regret
Kara Jean May 2016
Deranged and rearrange
Obsessed and repressed
You skim the surface,
Proudly believing you know the inbetween
*** is a flame,
Still tamed
Perfect doll patiently coaxing
It's a hoax,
Attention you spent
A rotted scarred, heart
Depiction of the girl who giggles and says yes
She died when she was thirteen
Along with her virginity
Lily Peacock Jun 2017
These eyes of yours,
Coaxing me into warmth.
You gather around me,
Like moss on the bark of an old oak.
Palms pressed against the trunk of me,
You seal the gaps in my fractured heart.
bekka walker Apr 2016
I am an old stool that sits at the corner of a soggy bar.
Peoples names etched into me like rigged little scars.
Surrounded with scraps of sad saps coaxing demons from within their repertoire.
Shadows of pretty pale faces twisted in the dim light collect over the years.
I'm sticky from thousands of spilt beer and silent tears.
I cling to your worn jeans as you rest upon me.
You find it cozy; I am the only one that holds onto you with desperation and not the other way around.
But don't be outfoxed.
I don't need you.
I don't need you like the juke box ****** needs the needle hidden in his socks.
I don't need you like the bartender needs his private bottle of Jamison to soothe his own life's hard knocks.
I don't need you like the blonde at the end of the counter needs someone's beer stained breath hot against her coin slot.
Because I'm just a stool.
An old fool,
forgotten in the corner of your soggy cesspool.
jcl Jan 6
there is hope
like a rising sun
on a distance horizon
lighting up the morning sky
pushing the darkness aside
melting the clouds away

the rays warm my face
coaxing a smile
squinting my eyes
i take a breath, savoring being alive

the sky is blueing deeper, clearer
morning haze is lifting, disappearing
life is awakening, stirring, moving
the beauty is overwhelming, awe inspiring

i see anew, with an indigo eye
things i’d sensed but never knew
i feel too deep, intuit too much
beheld as a curse, repressed, suppressed

i burned, screamed, fell into ashes
my soul lay fallow, quiet, healing, waiting
resurrecting from cold dark depths
heart beating, eyes opening, arms reaching

vindication from self doubt
forgive me Cassandra, Cairn, Mother
i weep, openly, proudly, for your grace
it is the 9th and final gift
indigo flower photos
"You're cold."

  He said as he took her hands and he couldn't be more right and wrong at the same time. Her gaze simply fell to her feet as she let the silence envelop her. She felt cold, her soul quivering somewhere in the corner of her heart, obscuring its rhythmic beat and creating a swell of off tempo chaos in her veins. Her memory of his whispers were akin to the sudden rush of wind that hit her skin, wet with the storm of tears and caused chills to cascade their way across her body.
  But he was wrong, it wasn't she who was cold, it was him who was stealing everything that made her warm. Coaxing her with his silver tongue, murmuring the words he knows she wants to hear, testing his skill and bringing her to the edge of the flimsy fortress she calls defense, to where she's just barely out of his reach, a paper thin wall separating his will from hers, and he nearly giggles in delight when he causes her to tear it down herself, like a spider tearing down its own web.
  But of course that isn't enough, not when she's standing there, all walls down, vulnerable and tender, her heart so soft he could cut right through it with just his fingernails, and Hell be ****** itself if he wasn't the slightest bit temped to try because he knows how easily he can, like shoving a pin through a butterfly, simple and smooth, and it'd be so interesting to see her squirm. But instead he's interested in how far he can cause her to do it to herself.  
  All he has to do is let a few of his venomous words drip from his teeth, promising he isn't like everyone else (because he isn't of course, no one else would be this thrilled to watch her crumble so slowly ), that he understands, understands that she's so incredibly weak, and that her heart is so big it oozes to the surface of her skin for everyone to see, and it's so **** easy that she must be begging for it, and suddenly he's caught her and he loves it.
  She's hanging on every word as if he's holding happiness over her head, but this is boring him, he wants to see what makes her tick, how she is the way she is, so it's time to step up his game. He moves his hand from hers and slides it up her arm, resting ever so gently on her shoulder as his other hand moves to her waist, and as if to further prove his point about how she basically wears her heart as her skin it turns a rosy shade of pink, and sends its pulse so strongly he can feel it. He lets his breath ghost across her susceptible ears and pulls her against him as he gives his orders.

And she does.

First go the clothes, but her skin isn't what he's interested in, and he makes it very clear with the expecting look he gives her, so she goes again,tearing skin from muscle one piece as a time. He knows it must be painful, from the tears pouring from her eyes and how the exposed muscle throbs with its raw appearance, and yet the look of concentration on her face just pulls him in more, and yet it still just isn't enough, and finally that red disgusting throbbing ****** mess is pulled away to expose her shining ivory bones. He can't help but marvel in how gracefully they curve, the very core of her frame standing before him, she's completely bare with nothing left to expose, and that gorgeous  pearly figure before him is only more defined by the red  heart that's left behind those ribs, as it pulses and drips and beckons him with each flutter.
  It glistens like a slimy rotting apple, and it couldn't be anything more since it belongs to her. But you know what they say, fruit is always the sweetest just before it goes bad, and it's too tempting for him to not take a bite. And he couldn't help but marvel at how warm it was, or the sudden chills dancing down his spine.
Saint Audrey Jun 2018
A blinding
Hopeless inclination towards a blending of nostalgia
And something just a twinge surreal.
Too enraptured, perhaps, or too locked inside the senses
The search takes me places, to small shards that I don't quite comprehend.
Still unsure why, if I can't, or I just don't want to.

It's old and familiar
Soaking in solitude, rife with memory.
Touched lightly by the hem of rose tint, blooming in the spreading flames.
As the old wooden paneling, tried as a tinderbox
Begins to peel away, affected by the heat.
A fire, awakening with the first rays of morning.
To warm up the little room, as the walls softly fall, turning to ashes.
Revealing the bare frame.
And the fauna outside begins to show itself
Sprinkled with dew, gently coaxing away the flames.
Rooted too close, it would seem
As they progress, slowly wither under ash

But for now, I still crawl through creation.
Hopeless, I'll never recapture...
Ignoring new context, engulfed in this fruitless rapture
With the past still dancing through my head.
Julie Antonic Apr 2018
I gave up sweeping that year
Like a penance
As sand permeated
Everything in my condo
Clung to my scalp and feet
Blew in with the fog and landed
In my tub, between my sheets, the sink, the carpet
Gritted between my teeth in the early hours
When i would reach for her still
Before the memory would detonate around me that she didn't come.
I would follow you anywhere.
Morphed into
I can't.
I hate those dagger give-up words.
Unlike the sand
I reviled in coaxing the beach closer still
And sand blurred the boundaries of my life
Inside.  Outside.
Past.  Present.
Old.  New.
I could pull the blanket of crashing waves around me in hypnotizing hues
Breathe in the turquoise or gray or navy blue
Of the mecurial moods of the sea.
Each morning ritual of coffee and perching 8 foot tall on the sea wall studying the swells and tides
I could palpate the energy of my spirit rising around the waves
Curling and mixing as
Aqua-purple-red dragonflies hovered at my veranda hibiscus that murmers truths
I do no want to hear.
And in all that aloneness settled a great quiet still emptiness.
Because I couldn't cry I'd go diving in the persistent waves of salt and kelp.
The cold violated my eardrums and for a moment I'd go spinning-disoriented and weightless-suspended
Surrender without air as the Pacific held me buyouant
Only surfacing to breathe like a Baptism.  I was ok being alone.
And sometimes I wasn't.
As the sand exfoliated my old self I'd grasp hold of the new wonders of phosphorescent tide under a harvest moon
And the fading memory of her would rise like a helium balloon I held down for 2 hrs and 4 weeks at Surfers Point in Ventura
Then let her go into the abyss of acceptance
Like granting permission to the invading sand
Gathering like whispers
In disappearing corners of her absence
And leaned into the redefinition of myself:
Barefoot.  Sandy.  Expectant.
The memory of sand.
She feels like a young woman,
once again...
It's not like its
her first kiss,
first date,
or first love-
but it feels like
Her First All Over Again...
Its almost; as if,
she's gone back in time.

Her hands are cool,
palms sweaty-
Her heart is beating rapidly,
her tummy full of lil' butterflies-
She's a woman now-
but, the excitement, is just the same.
Should she have these feelings,
as she is, even though,
she isn't a young one anymore?

Her and her beau
are sitting on her bed-
He leans towards her,
she closes her eyes-
as he brushes his lips upon hers.
His lips...
so warm, soft, and giving!

He puts a hand through her hair,
along her neck, pulling her towards him-
closer, to deepen their kiss!
She puts a hand on his chest,
the other on the back
of his head-
keeping him right where she wants him.

They kiss for several long moments...
She moans softly,
he pulls her upward
and gently sits her upon his lap.
They melt into one another!

Each kiss;
more intense and increasingly
demanding, as the previous one-
he wants to taste her fully-
he flicks his tongue along her upper lip-
coaxing her to open up to him,
hoping she'll allow him access-

She parts her lips
with a hunger like no other
she had felt before!
Oh, the passion they feel...
the enticement that builds-
His tongue teases hers
with a seductive tangle...

as their internal heat is high,
their clothing; too constricting-
they undress one another-
throwing articles of clothing
this way and that-
They have this bite of Heaven-
these stolen cherished moments
to just him and her... alone!

Passion, and pure desire
heightens them to anew.
The friendship
these two have built;
has been turning into this love
they now feel.
This love these two
feel, has been growing
for several months,
is right at their hands;
becoming deeper-
making them come alive!

Feeling so right, he takes her-
entering her in one full deep movement-
claiming her as only his!
Taking their passion
to a high- neither
could remember feeling before-

As they ****** together,
and lay in one another's arms'
totally satisfied- they cuddle
and close their eyes just for a few moments-
Then, he tells her he's never felt
so loved before!
And the twinkle in her eye
tells him she feels just the same!


COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey,
haley Oct 2017
with her
the sun rises
at midnight

sets when she leaves in the morning

clouds curl at the tips
their edges unmasking freckles of stars
but still the sun rises
at midnight

she is the sun on weekends
coaxing children's toes to bounce along
cement streets
and elderly women to pass lemonade stands
and order
"just a cup for the road"

she is my favorite chair to sit in
with a good book
and a blanket
missing a patch of leather
that i run my hands across
while i read

and when i sit outside with her
at midnight
when the sun peaks its blonde hair
from behind the mountains

i know that she
is my favourite person
to bounce along cement streets with,
my favourite person
to pour a cup of lemonade
"just for the road"
my favourite person to sit with
a good book in hand
a blanket wrapping its arms around our shoulders
my favourite person to hold while we
watch the sunrise
at midnight
ELK Jul 8
You reeled me in
from the depths of where I hid
coaxing honey and venom
from split lips
like poetry.

Esther L. Krenzin
TD Aug 12
The shape of your oceans'
crescent moons and trumpets cast
exude music insipid--inspired
mellifluous, austere, untamed.

Their restless hands raised,
lilting rivulets
emboldened, brash.

In the shallows
coaxing sighs from darting thoughts
curved lips that sip at soul-searching.

In the deep
your presence billows, gapes
the lustrous strands of time
lapping at the shore
pillaging our rocky clefts.

Your form
free, like words that
slick the pages of our moments
steeped in yesteryears
dark with depth, boundless.

If I plunder your lines
seek out the sullen darkness
tread your sunlit blues,
dare I? Should I?

Amid your tempting swells
and endless salutations
I'm prone to lose sight
of what is more than oceans
and what is less than real.

Yet, you are the tears that linger
in the peripheral,
the million eyes
meeting their purpose
on a stormy night.

And I begin to build
my rudderless vessel
in hopes of catching a glimpse
of your veiled treasures
because I can't find my own.

Katie Feb 3
Three words sitting on the tip of my tongue
With the weight of a thousand great white horses
They flow in my veins like honey
Sickly sweet and sticky
They float in my lungs like bubbles
Crystal clear and coaxing
They flutter in my stomach like butterflies
Perfectly pure and playful
They beat in my heart like a drum
Brightly booming and beaming

But here I am engulfed in silky sweet caramel
Hesitating to let the words free
Whispering them silently
Screaming them in my head
I love you Joseph
And while it’s seems to soon to say
I feel it in every inch
This is for my beautiful boyfriend, who doesn't know what dark hole he brought me out of
TMReed Nov 4
Begin and speak your blackest lines
all you whose liturgy attacks
the penance and inept design
of us who fall between the cracks.

When us is loose, and loose is me,
we linger lone amidst the lines,
waiting here for you, our key,
to find our bodies, ill-defined.

You whose voice will speak above,
in verse no choir dares to sing,
asylum of the tailored glove
in space between our choking strings.

A silent number, holding fast,
strangles us in null-marquee,
the song-bird of an earless mass,
when us is loose. And loose is me.

In shrinking space, we struggle then
to see the walls that wrinkle wings,
cradles of our phantom pens,
coaxing us in vacant rings.

‘til your finger ventures loft
and tugs upon our hollow walls,
behind your knuckle, all we lost
‘til gone, it is. And in, you fall.

Head-ward down, into a chest,
wrapping round a starving back,
free, we are, from barren nest,
far, we are, from line or black.

Sinking deep in space between
the void of loose n’ lack n’ less,
vicious mewls and stifled screams
swell deeper still inside a breast.

‘til strike, we do, the bottom bed
a sudden blow that frees a tear
not to the cage of ribs in red
but to the bulwark of an ear.

A Gulp, a Cry, a Groan confers,
Sniff n’ Snicker left to follow!
‘scorted by repentant Words,
strangers of our silent hollow.

Open once a-sudden closed,
in blackest space, a sum begun,
color culls and lines disposed,
of bodies two, defined are none.

But none is whole,
when loose is free
of form n’ soul
now, all are we.
The blackest lines loom large over the lost n' lonely.
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