"cupped" poems
That which I discovered a Beat Squire
A Potential who I Trust can be Friend
As sincere as the News he respires
Giving you Updates which does make us Bend
Kaibigan, should you show the Numb Male
Which Ingredients we are truly made of
He chose you. That alone should just prevail
And Rice the Staple makes your Friendship oft
I mean this Good Thing. Being at your Best
And Youth such Buddy could ever provide
Live out this Stage well. Far from what the Least
Full-Cupped Elders think they could just Advise.
My Part is done. Decisions are your own
This Future is yours; Make it well-known.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
Our first kiss
Gave me an everlasting bliss.
The night your lips met mine
Made everything feel so right.
It was if the whole world stopped
And all my worries just dropped.
The way your lips felt on mine
So gentle and so kind.
I can't forget how your lips taste
And the way your hands cupped my face.
Or how you ran your fingers through my hair
And how much you told me you care.
The feeling I get when I feel your kiss
Is a feeling I never want to miss.
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
A sound was heard at my
garden door
A feathered smudge found upon it
There she lay in frightened
trembling dismay
A giant knelt ...
yet still towering above her
He reached out and touched
her pounding heart
Then cupped her warmth
in his hand
She stayed awhile until
she could smile
At the kindly human mystery
This love they shared
is uncommonly rare
She knew she could be freed
Before she flew
she whispered a song she knew
into the gentle giant’s beard :
“I cannot make you happy
You're a wounded Bird like me ―
be Free...
you must find the strength to Fly”…
"A Bird in your hand
is worth two in the bush ―
Come fly away with me"...
March 2012 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 1:13 PM UTC
she had flaked away her memories
and stepped up
with a ponderous heart,
held by two gentle hands;
and saying goodbye, did she,
as she slipped off her skin,
for the moment blood stains
the kumari's tender soul,
bereaved, will she become,
for a goddess never bleeds.
her feet shall never touch
the tattered, naked ground,
for it engulfs and devours
and burns off the kumari's flesh.
holding her pure spirit, and
accepting a cruel death sentence,
her quivering soul
cupped but a glimmer of hope,
as the fire would flicker
and lash and whip
as her skin flakes again,
and the kumari vanishes.
but, if she remains unscathed,
blood shall be drawn,
and the gods will tremble and
her body will collapse.
the world will consume her
once again.
a kumari's blood,
drawn, now at death,
trembling and alone,
had she sobbed tears of joy,
for no longer the weight
must she bear in her heart,
of being a kumari;
but a kumari is she,
and the world has not chose her,
but she has chosen to be.
she had withered away,
heart no longer ponderous,
she stepped up.
and her wishes from within
passed on to the fearful others,
held by two gentle hands, and
with a gentle flutter of her eyes,
next to her charcoal stained skin,
had her heart stopped;
for her bejeweled crown had been stained with blood,
and the kumari realized that
she had died long ago.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
It seemed the space between us became torn and
Profoundly distanced....................
Jamming bony knuckles and spread eagled fingers,
Lying their mapped out journey.....direction on point patrol....
Adorned by silver decoration, delighting in their skinned habitat
Shafted, deceit punching the recipient of the poison digits
Prodding and pushing their intent....dare you contradict
The intended carved out dose of punishment, Risk and
Safety......not yours and never would be; stooped
Down under the assailing bony palmed attachements
That delivered penetrating power, cupped around
Your arm til it became discoloured, pressure points
Backed you into a corner, up against the grain of the
Brick wall, cold and damp, the odour reaching
And scolding your nostrils with its stale internal vows
Refuse, stretching and protruding its foul remnents
An earlier life, when you were not under threat fades
Your very existance in jeopardy, your eyes pleaded for
Normality, willing someone to hear your silence, grip you
Tightly, not with malice, but with bravery and valour
Right now you need that shining knight, that white
Horse galloping down the blind alleyway, yet you
Know that won't happen for you're already sinking
To the floor, the blow comes sharp and stings, warmth
Exudes and trickles a path downwards, leaving your
Body, finding the cold concrete beneath you, travelling
Outwards................
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
The bright blue bottle hit me like a hint of death
on the breath of Spring.
I imagined it being tossed out a truck window
by underage teens fancying themselves clever
and mature and immortal
as if the earth had willed upon them
that her stolen treasure, Aluminum,
be returned or she’d cause their truck keys
disappear for all eternity.
I picked up the blue bottle
tried to feel resurrection
in a recycling sort of way
felt instead only the hollow emptiness
of mindless eternal reincarnation.
Winter had been long this year and lately
I fantasized resurrection more than usual
at a field where I stopped to listen to meadowlark and field sparrow calling for mates or alerting everyone to the sin of the blue bottle.
Several deer grazed the unseen first greens of Spring near skunk cabbage and coltsfoot.
At a small stream, I cupped my hand into the icy fast water and raised it to my lips, then splashed my face, then splashed some more, more,
then knelt, both knees at the streambed and submersed my face and head,
in self-inflicted baptism
for my own blue bottle sins,
opened my eyes, exhaled all my blue bubbles, for the longest of repentant moments,
pulled out of the water
gasping the holy Spring air
for dear life
and thereafter walked each step
in the garden of resurrection.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:25 PM UTC
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?
How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged
Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?
The Arrivals Board flashes:
une poétesse est arrivé
eine Dichterin ist angekomme
a poetess has arrived
una poetisa ha llegado
Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?
**Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout**
Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother
Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming
Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:
Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria
But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address
Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking
This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land
Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
**Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...**
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
I wish you detox from drunken heights,
I’m jesus for today until my current shift ends
and the next one begins, after many nights,
in the garden centre of fallen south coast eden.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
People’s faces glitter as I go by,
memories of sinless youth,
for my hands blind with nostalgia,
that my being resurrects.
The child Lazarus scurries past my side,
to his home with his future in his hands,
in my hands, cupped wide.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I can love the unfortunate,
for my fortune is golden.
Delivered in letters
from North, West, East.
My trinity circle who join me at my supper,
breaking the garlic bread and sipping the borello,
to top crab ravioli baptised in the stream of sauce.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
The gates of heaven are open,
unblocked by the deaths of Keats, Shelley and Williams,
their souls not blocking the exit with an Underground Queue.
I give my blessings to
Livingstone and Charles Gordon
The one native he changed and the others’ sacrifice at Khartoum
Gained me my crown to modestly flaunt.
Shine shine shine
Light of mine
For now everything’s just fine
I float down the hall, to His Mighty Voice,
as my gold becomes a donation on the alter,
to gain the choral hymns of Mercury gilded rock gods
that will brighten my days
for now,
oh glorious moments.
Amen.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
*Life is my current lover.
I swig her ephemeral taste from my cupped hands
worried as the golden, shimmering liquid rushes through
creases and cracks in my jaded hands.
Her mood varies through my stages;
at times she is of doting temper and roseate kisses
but when love evades her, most often than not,
her calloused hands damage the pearly flesh in tender
places,
and discontent paints a surly mood as she digs her crimson
brush against the canvas of my self.
Life is my inconsistent lover,
sometimes doting but most often than not abusive.
So I vowed my eternal devotion to Death.
We escape under the dark canopy of starless wings;
a tryst.
I eat of the forbidden feasts in the Kingdom of Hades,
grains of scarlet pomegranates staining my chapped lips.
Death has promised me perpetuity.
But until Life decides to release me from her capricious temper,
I shall long for the wintry, rainy comfort of my drowsy affair.*
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
Her soul was a candle flickering in the palm of his hand
Slowly eating away at the wax until it was only the faint murmur of a flame
He ran across deserts and over mountains to try to find a safe place for this little candle
He constantly added wax, trying to rebuild it so it could feel powerful again
He cupped his hands together tightly, trying not to let the breeze slip between the cracks his fingers made
He tried his best, and so the story goes, his best happened to be just enough
The flame of the little candle grew under his protecting watch
It grew large enough to stand on its own, to fight the wind and the rain and the storms all by itself
The candle still needed him though
He provided more wax whenever it was needed, and stuck around to make sure his candle was alright
And she was.
Forever indebted to him, she stood as a beacon of hope for the hopeless, and a symbol of love for the lonely
Forevermore.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
In the evening sky
he hung in celestial glory
I thought he came early
As the blue paled
he became brighter
Luminous, white and bold
I loved him dearly
I held him in my hands and heart
cupped his fullness
in my eyes
He moved with me
I watched captivated
I stood in his golden light
and beauty
soaking in silver slivers
into my soul from my skin
Now he lives in me
and I in him
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
I feel my warmth,
slick and ready,
Wanton and soft
I love myself.
Trim and smooth,
Tempo slow to begin,
My nerve endings electric,
I love myself.
Eyes closed, I can picture your body,
feel your hands all over mine,
Wet now, dripping.
I love myself.
My kitty is purring now,
faster and steady,
With each caress and stroke.
I love myself.
******* now cupped,
Cocooned in bliss,
Rubbing my ******
I love myself.
Eyes rolled, toes clenched,
Fireworks dancing, I BLAST OFF
Writhing, moaning, releasing
I love myself.
Weakened bliss flows down
Worries and cares removed,
Smile on face
I love myself.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 3:28 AM UTC
when we are in love
we are raw red hearts
bleeding
exposed to the flesh
of the night air
in crisp, sharp breaths
ventricles open wide
as its beats paint
the stars crimson,
skylit rubies
baring all
peeled back touch
of cells like
the muck of our guts
spilled out yet
somehow contained
My insides are
braided, like veins
pumping life into universes
receiving the tender fire
of your jeweled, earthy words
rising to meet each kiss
like an abulation
I am
boiling cherry broth
in this heat-licked ice
that melts upon the tongue
in salted frenzy,
delightful
Wash over me
Hold me in cupped hands,
gently
Take me by the tips of
my soul's hips,
firmly
for I am at risk
of being pulled into
the sweeping monsoon
of
your
forever
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.
I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
a twig snaps beneath my shoe,
the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere.
sunlight dapples over my skin,
rippling across my clothes,
pooling in my cupped hands
as if i were holding it.
delicate leaves rustle overhead,
my attention to the emerald glow above only broken
by the hum of a bumblebee
buzzing its way to yet another flower.
trees, seemingly protective,
surround me,
their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures.
sweet birdsong echoes above.
a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left.
a chipmunk skitters across my path
and into the still ferns,
causing them to shudder.
the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me.
i wonder about the world,
about the mountains and about the sea.
about my friends, my family,
about strangers with lives
just as complex and unknowing as my own.
i ponder myself, my life,
where will i go?
what will i do?
will it all be worth it?
-l.s.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
There, she lies on the altar
Almost held the sun she—
almost in her hands
Opened up, a rose-bud chaste
petal by petal by blood, with
a sting, so sweet and sweet, as
sunset reborn a bee; she was
gold and silver and black at once.
Almost held the sun she—
and no wax wings used
Oh, Icarus, love you did a wild sky,
— yourself a light-licked doom
as your father cried,
Your father cried for you.
A veil as simple sour starlight she wore
as wings of wasps as beetles she giggled
Icarus, flew that you
—and with tongue-tied elation too
Icarus,
she rambled on for hours long.
A letter she held in spring kissed hands
—I will wed you to the sun, her father had sworn.
The sun—and a sun he was,
child of the sea, some sword in honey
dipped; now her awaiting.
And blushed she did herself a dawn
The altar, on the altar.
Almost held the sun she—
Swallowed a mayhem for the father's sin.
Icarus, tell me of the plummet.
Tell me of the greens you saw,
of blues, of whites, of the whirling world—
Men go around around her
their soles all ready
to crush lost skulls an empty moor.
Twirling,
the dust, like may have her hair
before the wedding day
Strands and strands, gently styled—
Spears, swords, rubbed to mirrors,
to lakes lifeless
Armors and ships laden with life, with
sails, the fluttering doves;
As the winds dance once more—
as harbors vacated, as waves torn apart for the horde, as move they on— on too the sun— as
She still lies.
Icarus, Icarus, was it the ocean
that cupped its palms, or did the soil cave in
as down into dark's slick throat you slid?
Surely, was soft, the sea's well-loved mouth,
Surely soft or true
She lies on the altar
a trinket glossy on a hoof, a ****** in the bell,
how does one say—
the valley of lilies, she grew it inside.
Spilled out on the stones, they are fed
to the flies.
Almost held the sun she—
Icarus, must you know
You did not sleep a wretched silence
within the womb of war.
No crescent blades you drank down a leaking throat—
She lies on the altar, vanquished for moon
— for metal upon bone
for blood, for blood, for blood.
A father’s green promise—
Seasoned to rust before the king
Icarus, on the altar she lies—
a ripened land far, far away lures her king
to another rosy worship.
Icarus, Icarus,
on the altar
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
by
rgpage
in times long past young lovers dashed
to reach their secret space.
to kiss and ***** and plan and hope
their future's goals are placed.
never mind their path be lined
with unknown strife and pain.
their love is strong they'll carry on
with carefree youthful gain.
they don't see their life to be
past cupid's hot embrace.
as hot breath blends with kiss' deep
young lovers start their chase.
young love is hot and secrets not
shall block their youthful nest.
when young men dare and young girls share
young lovers start their quest.
its saturday night, dad's packard's right
with half a tank of gas.
with comb to hair in the bathroom mirror
he's thinking 'bout his lass.
its only been a week gone past
his greatest dream came true.
he staked his claim, with hopes on high
and pinned his Peggy Sue.
they talked of passages young men take
to cross that great divide.
to walk the way of their father's
and yes to take a bride.
in the grown up world so long past school
the grown ups just don't see.
teen love is true and made to last
the way it was meant to be.
he got on base with his varsity pin,
the base is numbered two.
this place before he'd never been
he hardly knew what to do.
his body went through changes great
his thoughts a swirling brook.
he cupped his prize with shaky hand
when before he could only look.
tonight's the night he's waited for
yes perhaps go all the way.
to walk with those who've beat love's quest
to become a man this day.
the time is ripe as is the night
it's planned in every way.
she won't resist his manly charms
WHAT MONTHLY FRIEND?
how long does she plan to stay?
and what's her visit to do with us
away from the lights of the city?
who is this friend to ruin this night?
his plans be dashed more the pity.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my w3tb@ck.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?
I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.
The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.
I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.
I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?
With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
They told me the only thing that could cure heartache was war, and since the war wouldn't take me I figure the only thing to do now is take up a life of crime. Gabriel Garcia Marquez says in Love in the Time of Cholera that the only cure for heartache is to find other hearts to break. Five years have passed and I still remember without fail the flint of a lighter, the squint of an eye, and the bell of your dress. I dream a dream each night, sweet variation of the story of you. It comes down to a letter sometimes, I go to the window well with a notebook and a pencil and I draft a sonnet, sometimes a verse, any form of an expression to idle the time it takes for me to find you. I know stars that haven't lived as long. The way I cupped my hands over your ears, the way rapture lived and loved, you kissing me in the shade of the palm trees up their on Notre Damen Ave. I know the curve of the Earth wrapped in the shades of the skin on your body. I live every day for the chance that I will meet you again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
An empty park picnic table
cooled by the light,
whispering breeze,
spotted by the burning
life-giving sun.
I see us there.
chatting,
laughing,
enjoying each others company
in this never-ending summer.
I see myself
dressing up as the wife,
laying out a picnic basket
and table cloth.
Pouring iced tea
into a chilled glass,
Watching the condensation
slide down your fingertips
as your throat
gulps in the refreshment.
I lay a blanket
on the grass,
inviting you to come sit.
We lay.
And that chuckling breeze
picks up
and lifts the whole of
my 1950s homemaker dress.
You smooth it back down,
lowering your hand on my hip.
The wind has stopped,
but you keep smoothing away…
down my thighs,
across my backside,
up my back,
until my head is
cupped in your hands
nearing closer to your face.
I would not call it a kiss,
because a “kiss” is too
short a word, too precise
and too emotionless
to fit this phenomenon.
You embrace me fully
leaving no passion unaccounted for,
no ounce of me left untouched.
I succumb to your embrace
and we start to make love when…
A car horn beeps.
I blink.
Look around, and remember
that I’m sitting in a
library parking lot
looking at an empty picnic table.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
As the skyline alters its guise
From the lively azure
To an idle whitish hue
Which ended into
A mournful shade of gray
Like the shade in films of retros.
A frightening sound,
A roar from an angry beast echoed
After every glowing zigzagged lines
Which I thought he drew.
Louder it went
Like drum rolls
Of an ill-staged concerto,
But uglier it turned into.
Haunted, I cupped my hands on both ears
Crept under the covers
And wished it all away.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
Your lips, soft and full,
Are tearing at my heart.
Your skin, freckled and bumped,
Is at play with my palms.
Your eyes, of water and stone
Rain, storming like fists of hail.
Your ******* are blooms, pouring
Like white chocolate cupped.
Your hair, is a loom even
Penelope could not weave.
Your little feet, are drumming
Like puddles by the sea.
Your thighs, make me mutter
And sigh into the winds.
I will, not go wondering now
For whom is master and who
Is slave, are you the Morgen
Or are you Fand my gentle
Ocean wave? Your voice
Is song, your breath is air
And your pooling, marbled
Face, torso, hair, how they beckon
And your words, gifting melody,
Such words must be forbidden.
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 10:58 AM UTC
Show me
true beauty
how waves
break the shore
into individual grains
yet each contains
the whole
crystalline universe
reflecting light
renouncing midnight
Leave me not
upon the sand
barefoot and stripped
recounting sins
to the weary wind
return my heart
to loving grace
salt-scrubbed chambers
cleansed of hate
tenderly reborn
let love
rise from this
arid ground
clear water drawn
from a deeper well
with cupped hands
tend the seeds
so we may eat
of the bounty
that rightfully belongs
to no one
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ring
the star struck darkness cupped him round.
and centuries of cattle-bells
rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
and vineyards cover all the slopes
where the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that bone
and hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
and fruitful is the Promised Land.
4.6k
Have the flower in your hand,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
See the electric wires blaze at the joined up parts,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
Feel the river's setiment move up stream,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
You cry and speak this rainy dew,
But does it mean anything of sentiment value to you?
You had the flower in your hand,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
You saw the electric wires blaze at the joined up parts,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
You felt the river's setiment move up stream,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
But do they mean anything of sentiment value to you?
I saw you have,had,feel,felt,see,and saw these special things,
But you never showed any attention to them.
Maybe you just sit and hide your thoughts from me,
Maybe you just can't notice these tiny details that happen every minute of everyday of every year.
Maybe you haven't discovered these miniature rainbow rain drops,
That you're covered in from head to toe, yet.
But you are cupped in rainbow rain drops.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 12:58 PM UTC