"consummation" poems
a blue woman with sticking out ******* hanging
clothes. On the line. not so old
for the mother of twelve undershirts(we are told
by is it Bishop Taylor who needs hanging
that marriage is a sure cure for ************
A ***** wind,twitches the,clothes which are clean
—this is twilight,
a little puppy hopping between
skipping
children
(It is the consummation
of day,the hour)she says to me you big fool
she says i says to her i says Sally
i says
the
mmmoon,begins to,drool
softly,in the hot alley,
a ******* voice feels curiously cool
(suddenly-Lights go!on,by schedule
27.7k
"This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did ******
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending."
-Marge Piercy
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.
14.9k
.
His gift— her moist lips
The perpendicular smile
Each ****** a new kiss
.
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 12:28 PM UTC
Though altercations of a secessionist sound stern,
Their minds are stuck and never learn.
Through a disabled rebellion their built,
Words designed to deplete one's self are spilt.
Although it's said consummation executes in the leaning vice of the secessionist,
The desecration becomes the birth of the segregationist.
The segregation of closed mindedness with those of the voice.
The voice has sculpted our worlds obedience choice by choice.
The voice has seen demons at their best and angels at their worst,
There is a reason why this world hasn't burst.
You see, our world is seen through a lens,
This lens doesn't defy our worth and script the uncleansed.
It simply sets a standard for the closed minded to follow,
The voice, doesn't have a standard to follow, this voice makes the lens for those left to follow tomorrow.
-Joseph B Schneider
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
She was music and he was mathematics- without one, the two would not exist.
He was light and she was love and their energies intertwined and intermingled to form a helix of ecstacy and consciousness...
their combined energies rivaled that of an atomic bomb.
Feminine and masculine,
Right brain and left brain...
Simultaneously hard and soft
smooth and rough
Calming and chaotic.
She was fire to his water, but he never sought to put out her flames.
When they finally came together physically and their eyes met, colors of a psychedelic sort exploded around them
And the universe held its breath in anticipation of their consummation...
and every piece fit more snuggly together than the pieces of an old familiar jigsaw puzzle...
This couldn't have been the first time that they had met...
well, maybe in this lifetime.
~KiCo the Conqueror
#TwinFlame
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
Sliminess of the mermaid, makes me come alive, strange?
don't blame me for this, that you would think an aberration,
I've long forgotten the human logic, from the moment I realized,
fate has joined me with her, the mermaid, a longing unfulfilled for long,
This sensual yearning sans prospect of consummation, baffles others
but not me, life has many dark alleyways that go nowhere.
Aren't we illusions ourselves? Viewing sun's intense ways and moon's
hesitant tranquilizing gaze, through water's blue buffer is narcotic.
From under water only a cool simmer , different experiences,
fish fin caresses, guilty pleasures of carousals with masked shark beauties,
underwater world has no pains, ever heard about
stilling pain by swimming long distant nights?
Or is it because, I don't see my own teardrops shed underwater?
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:37 AM UTC
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
3.3k
The Universe is our Kamasutra
constellations, red tailed comets
brilliant devas, divine horsemen
prance through the galactic playground
everywhere and in everything
our eyes behold a starry courtship
Romance impregnates the very air
we breathe
billowy breezes caress our bodies
and the sun does not hesitate
to shower us with burning kisses
mysterious lady of the coven night
cools the passions of the day
with dreamy moonlight and
soft melody
Innocent, pristine
we experience, explore and
enjoy the sacred foreplay
blooming in the garden
of our chakras
So vastly turned on
feeling high
expansive
all inclusive
How can we contain the
bliss that courses
through every particle
and atom towards its
ultimate collective
consummation
Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati
locked forever in the throes of Love
“Spirit and Nature dancing together”
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Drop a stone in a well
And wait for it to
Splash into the water depths
You feel
Exist
Interminable seconds pass
And the echo of contact
Does not bounce up the stony sides
A white pebble
Gleamless as it falls through dark darker
Than pitch at midnight
Falls
And nothing more
The consummation of sound
Is never made
It won't be
And yet
You wait
With an ear to the yawning mouth
You wait
Perhaps forever
For the satisfaction
The confirmation
Of a plink at the bottom of a well.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box
And such a starry elation
Came over me
That I got whistled at in the street
For the first time in a long time.
I was ***** and roughly dressed
And had circles under my eyes
And far far from flirtation
But so full of completion
Of a deed duly done
An act of consummation
That the freedom and force it engendered
Shone and spun
Out of my old raincoat.
It must have looked like love
Or a fabulous free holiday
To the young men sauntering
Down Berwick Street.
I still think this is most mysterious
For while I was writing it
It was gritty it felt like self-abuse
Constipation, desperately unsocial.
But done done done
Everything in the world
Flowed back
Like a huge bonus.
2.9k
We are all touch but no desire
For in each other's arms
We are blissful
With no wish, no requirement
To take it further.
We make love without making love
My base lusts sated
In the caress of your long limbs
Your hair soft in my fingers
Lips brushing cheeks and hands
And we entwine in each other
At home in the scent of warm skin.
A deeper love than I ever knew
We are inside of each other
Without secrets or falsehoods
Our souls naked
To our perceptive eyes.
We are utterly beautiful
In our private universe
Born of night and long drives
And words.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
Lost in limitless embrace,
Of sensual tight hugging lace.
Hands moving with passionate pace,
Until pleasure spreads across a beautiful face.
The Rhythmic motion,
Of a goddesses emotion.
Evident through the entwined feet,
That lock and spin beneath the crumpled sheet .
Pull me closer and love me harder!
She shouts out as the song gets faster.
Till what with one exhalation,
She looks at him with admiration.
Then sleep soundly in their consummation.
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
(Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”)
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?”. . .
VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her—so gaily great—
A Shape of Ice, for the time fat and dissociate.
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history.
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said “Now!” And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.
2.7k
unanimous
perfect
agreement
hands down
no argument
Countermelody
without the selfish back talk
point reinforcement
the Visionary
failing
falling
lost to
Deaf ears
not for
lack of
Volume
but out
of generic
disinterest
the Artist
flailing
calling
blind to
Deafinition
not for
lack of
Hunger
contrary
starving for
consummation
Hand in hand
The multitude
A sacred harp
The gemeni
One point by perspective
Souls Synchronized
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
I watch you as you lightly moan holding back the pleasure.
Lightly grabbing me
I'm pulling you deep into my mouth
glancing at one another
we both grin
bonding
I pull your manhood
Deep
Deep
Tight
pushing and pulling with my tongue
the taste of your flesh... Mmmm
My mouth pulls tighter
Your ******** growing firmer
You ******
..............................
testing my limit
I shove you deeper
Pushing you onto the chair
No holding back
SPLASH
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 8:07 PM UTC
We are like an inverted bike tire. Our focus is exernal, yet the meat of us, the essence of us, and our true persona lies on the inside. When we finally stop running from ourselves in the myriad ways in which we do (alcohol, drugs, *** shopping, TV, lying, for example), we come to see ourselves as frightened and lonely children that only wish to be loved. We feel this lack tremendously and we do everything we can to escape the helplessness and rejection. As children, it is difficult to source our love and security from ourselves. We don't know HOW to love. Learning how to love is precisely so; a skill-set and behavior that we emulate and grow to understand. Therefore, it is very hard to self-soothe as children because we lack the experience and the skill. However, as adults, if we've learned from our broken hearts and dissapointments, most of us have learned how to comfort ourselves, even if that is with eleven shots of tequilla. What we hide from is finding the love we seek from within ourselves. How do you DO that? Well, there's the mirror exercise: look at yourself in the mirror naked and say repetitively, "I love myself", with the hopes that one grand day, you will. Sorry folks, that's too simplistic for many. I'm not suggesting a solution to the struggle of learning to love yourself, you just have to organically create it from trial and error. And eventually you will discover your unique way of truly being there for yourself. What helps me is I imagine myself as a child comforting myself with a hug or a pat on the back while I am sad as an adult. It's nothing major, but it really DOES help me! We all can find our own ways. If you find that you run from your pain and seek consummation within the love of your own heart, stop seeking outside of yourself for that wholeness, that completion. Instead, give yourself the warmest, most caring hug you can imagine and see how you feel.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
Out in the opens, I loved you fair,
A greeting door of wishes left ajar,
My heart was true consummation,
Offered up to you, beautiful laddie,
Hands held out for your windy soul
And one day my promises became,
Just woulds and pines and beach,
A childish strand of story charms,
Now a love goes cold, ungathered,
A rag of cloths hangs nigh to ribs,
I leave my prints on knotted wood,
My greeting door is closed to you.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
the jewelled hands. a finger each /
peel the skin and let her blood
meet the air. this is
unbecoming of a lady / she says i will
never marry; her mouth curves
around her
laugh, beckoning. taunting /
if you keep going ; lover
i'll be yours
always / and he drinks her in. consumption / consummation / salt and iron and lust. how have they lived
so long
he wonders, inside her, on her, in himself,
how could they breathe
without it ?
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
(the native way)
~
inhale... exhale...
the native way;
an exfoliation,
shedding of
her stunning gown,
plunging softly,
down, down, down,
conflagration’s
consummation,
pregnant pause
by nature’s laws,
until...
nativity’s birth
quenches,
spiritual thirst
experiences,
renewal of her
earthen existence!
exhale...
her lines...
fairly breathed;
inhale...
a respite...
well received!
an earthen blessing,
fallen resting;
inhale… exhale…
lulled to lay
in deepest slumber,
rocking, floating,
gentle ‘lighting
‘neath her boughs
of native wonder.
inhale… exhale…
inhale… exhale…
inhale… exhale…
breathe…
receive...
sweetest dreams!
~
*post script.
Christi Michaels...
her exhalation, my inspiration
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1441952/indian-summer/
no more needs said... except,
thank you, Christi!*
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
My brain too long has had the sound
and shape and nerve
of breathless requiems.
I want to feel my own rebirth
in time and space come throbbing through
the tips of each finger,
flooding my dry veins with rich green sap
and giving me new sight
to every sense;
making me whole again.
I want to feel my spirit as before
rippling with joy
and dancing through my skull,
so that, merged in adoration with my soul,
I may once more have that power
to fill my cup of life and love
and find this consummation
in her arms.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
there is a girl made of stardust
and ocean salt, breathing static
into the night sky.
her love, if tended to
with patient hands, would
grow like wild roses across
the trellises of your heart.
she is not born of men;
but a child of luna,
sweet mother.
she is a breeze in July
softly rustling your hair
and the plague of
heatstroke and withered
tongues that swiftly follows.
her touch lingers into
the winter solstice.
she is the wave of sorrow
sweeping over your bones
and the light in your eyes
shining with leftover love;
a shadow dressed in white,
a consummation of grief.
she is a wallflower, a habitual
offender to the gods.
she will nurture you like an infant
and then leave you on your knees,
gasping for redemption.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 4:44 PM UTC
Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC