Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
s Jun 2018
your hug is like
that blood pressure gauge
- that slowly inflates
to check all my vitals;
or a dash charging socket
for all my circuits & bones
- twenty minutes -
for the battery to be whole.

cupping my feet on cold days,
and breathing into my toes
because these socks  have too many holes.
And on any day, you swivel me up
when I run into you for a no reason hug.

starting to forget how it would feel
to not have access to these tiny luxuries.

-
patty m May 2014
Fertility
you are the life giving goddess
let me fertilize your expectation,
emptying my seed while cupping your richness
and soon your pregnant furrows begin to swell
lush and green.

Feast of dreams, sustenance of my people
your body is a temple giving and giving again.
And when the harvest leaves you barren,
I will let you stretch fallow and rest before
ravishing you and spilling seed once again,
my fingers in your moist darkness,
touching and loving your unselfish giving,
your womb's splendid infusion,  corn and wheat
in breezes blowing.   You breathe life into the child
with fierce *******, your mounds of nourishment.  

I bow to your naked purpose proclaiming my servitude,
tenderly reaping your glorious bounty.
somewhere between the fourth and fifth

load of laundry,

sometime after breakfast~lunch,
now served in the USA at home,
as an all day meal, per the edict of Mcdonalds,
start fixing dinner, take a break, walk to the mailbox,
retrieve the post and quick retreat back inside,
ah that Texas sun, bilingual chili hot,
toss the unopened on the prior weeks pile,
cause everyone loves company

the home-cold-brewed ice coffee needs a filling
for the fridge has decided not to help
by automatically refilling the pitcher

even if it could
I, busy folding,
needing two hands
and all my teeth
for folding my master’s rocket ship

sheets

my master observes with one of his alternating demeanors,
this one, super silent watching, announcing that  I need a nap:

“don't you always say, baby,
take a nap when you can, baby,
for when you need one, baby,
you probably won’t be able, my baby”


with selected-hand-led fingers,
he lays me down to sleep,
bids me to slow slide to dreamland, dinner will keep,
curling inside my frame, hands a-cupping my *******,  
telling me a drowsy tale, inherited from his mother’s womb
and his granddaddy’s tongue, mindful of his family’s history

there, is where, they find us,
dinner fixings burnt,
me and my five year old baby boy,
still sleeping fast, around 5pm, bodies enwrapped,
tied by blood and entwined in old nursery rhymes,
Texas tall tales of Pecos Bill,
me and my very own

nap-ster master

<•>

p.s.  and they call me by my other name to wake me, momma
zebra Jul 2018
flex and perspire my darling
would you mind a small suffering for craven kisses
to have your dark fig **** and drenching *****
stroked with a tickling finger lingering
and strong hands around your sweetly curved throat
that shunt the breath
to yield willingly for sharp-toothed nibbles with surprise tongue whipping?

will you present your soft belly and cupping *******
for dark cruelties that excite beyond tabulation
will you present yourself with smiles
and goddess leg show
sobbing for feral pink spires gleaming
while quivering thighs
turn hot red from the slap of the leather strap splitting stings?

will tears of love
mix in wild berry utterance
and flashing spitfire’s tongue?

are you made for this?
your every whimper an invitation
like an open pink gate
do you need the saint of dark desires to rescue you
from banal dim-witted all american in and out?

do you need to drown in oceanic wave tsunamis
of hot butter **** glitter, blood flooding gasms
and tender aftercare?

my wish
that you shimmer like silver
possessed
by the saint of sadism
popes of eros
who fill you with the milk of the moon
all stars that melt you into the depths of paradise

and that this dark ecstasy
is the only suffering you will ever know.
your pain is my pleasure
mmmmm
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
a  flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing the rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Written in ten minutes when Frivolous Treasure, Ingrid, and SE Reimer
excised it from with me, a triage performed and a poem delivered, fluid and tear wet,  while Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings harmonized what ever music the man has left.

flawless? Perhaps one slightly less flawed.

give us all your names and I will write someday
what my heart knows exists

Words are hopeless, poor substitutes for what they in vain,and we too, we call the heart's decay but this poem give unto me a deeper satisfaction than most...
patty m Jul 2018
Fertility
you are the life giving goddess
let me fertilize your expectation,
emptying my seed while cupping your richness
and soon your pregnant furrows begin to swell
lush and green.

Feast of dreams, sustenance of my people
your body is a temple giving and giving again.
And when the harvest leaves you barren,
I will let you stretch fallow and rest before
ravishing you and spilling seed once again,
my fingers in your moist darkness,
touching and loving your unselfish giving,
your womb's splendid infusion,  corn and wheat
in breezes blowing.   You breathe life into the child
with fierce *******, your mounds of nourishment.  

I bow to your naked purpose proclaiming my servitude,
tenderly reaping your glorious bounty.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
There’s a film by John Schlesinger called the Go-Between in which the main character, a boy on the cusp of adolescence staying with a school friend on his family’s Norfolk estate, discovers how passion and *** become intertwined with love and desire. As an elderly man he revisits the location of this discovery and the woman, who we learn changed his emotional world forever. At the start of the film we see him on a day of grey cloud and wild wind walking towards the estate cottage where this woman now lives. He glimpses her face at a window – and the film flashes back fifty years to a summer before the First War.
 
It’s a little like that for me. Only, I’m sitting at a desk early on a spring morning about to step back nearly forty years.*
 
It was a two-hour trip from Boston to Booth Bay. We’d flown from New York on the shuttle and met Larry’s dad at St Vincent’s. We waited in his office as he put away the week with his secretary. He’d been in theatre all afternoon. He kept up a two-sided conversation.
 
‘You boys have a good week? Did you get to hear Barenboim at the Tully? I heard him as 14-year old play in Paris. He played the Tempest -  Mary, let’s fit Mrs K in for Tuesday at 5.0 - I was learning that very Beethoven sonata right then. I couldn’t believe it - that one so young could sound –there’s that myocardial infarction to review early Wednesday. I want Jim and Susan there please -  and look so  . . . old, not just mature, but old. And now – Gloria and I went to his last Carnegie – he just looks so **** young.’
 
Down in the basement garage Larry took his dad’s keys and we roared out on to Storow drive heading for the Massachusetts Turnpike. I slept. Too many early mornings copying my teacher’s latest – a concerto for two pianos – all those notes to be placed under the fingers. There was even a third piano in the orchestra. Larry and his Dad talked incessantly. I woke as Dr Benson said ‘The sea at last’. And there we were, the sea a glazed blue shimmering in the July distance. It might be lobster on the beach tonight, Gloria’s clam chowder, the coldest apple juice I’d ever tasted (never tasted apple juice until I came to Maine), settling down to a pile of art books in my bedroom, listening to the bell buoy rocking too and fro in the bay, the beach just below the house, a house over 150 years old, very old they said, in the family all that time.
 
It was a house full that weekend,  4th of July weekend and there would be fireworks over Booth Bay and lots of what Gloria called necessary visiting. I was in love with Gloria from the moment she shook my hand after that first concert when my little cummings setting got a mention in the NYT. It was called forever is now and God knows where it is – scored for tenor and small ensemble (there was certainly a vibraphone and a double bass – I was in love from afar with a bassist at J.). Oh, this being in love at seventeen. It was so difficult not to be. No English reserve here. People talked to you, were interested in you and what you thought, had heard, had read. You only had to say you’d been looking at a book of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings and you’d be whisked off to some uptown gallery to see his early watercolours. And on the way you’d hear a life story or some intimate details of friend’s affair, or a great slice of family history. Lots of eye contact. Just keep the talk going. But Gloria, well, we would meet in the hallway and she’d grasp my hand and say – ‘You know, Larry says that you work too hard. I want you to do nothing this weekend except get some sun and swim. We can go to Johnson’s for tennis you know. I haven’t forgotten you beat me last time we played!’ I suppose she was mid-thirties, a shirt, shorts and sandals woman, not Larry’s mother but Dr Benson’s third. This was all very new to me.
 
Tim was Larry’s elder brother, an intern at Felix-Med in NYC. He had a new girl with him that weekend. Anne-Marie was tall, bespectacled, and supposed to be ferociously clever. Gloria said ‘She models herself on Susan Sontag’. I remember asking who Sontag was and was told she was a feminist writer into politics. I wondered if Anne-Marie was a feminist into politics. She certainly did not dress like anyone else I’d seen as part of the Benson circle. It was July yet she wore a long-sleeved shift buttoned up to the collar and a long linen skirt down to her ankles. She was pretty but shapeless, a long straight person with long straight hair, a clip on one side she fiddled with endlessly, purposefully sometimes. She ignored me but for an introductory ‘Good evening’, when everyone else said ‘Hi’.
 
The next day it was hot. I was about the house very early. The apple juice in the refrigerator came into its own at 6.0 am. The bay was in mist. It was so still the bell buoy stirred only occasionally. I sat on the step with this icy glass of fragrant apple watching the pearls of condensation form and dissolve. I walked the shore, discovering years later that Rachel Carson had walked these paths, combed these beaches. I remember being shocked then at the concern about the environment surfacing in the late sixties. This was a huge country: so much space. The Maine woods – when I first drove up to Quebec – seemed to go on forever.
 
It was later in the day, after tennis, after trying to lie on the beach, I sought my room and took out my latest score, or what little of it there currently was. It was a piano piece, a still piece, the kind of piece I haven’t written in years, but possibly should. Now it’s all movement and complication. Then, I used to write exactly what I heard, and I’d heard Feldman’s ‘still pieces’ in his Greenwich loft with the white Rauschenbergs on the wall. I had admired his writing desk and thought one day I’ll have a desk like that in an apartment like this with very large empty paintings on the wall. But, I went elsewhere . . .
 
I lay on the bed and listened to the buoy out in the bay. I thought of a book of my childhood, We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea by Arthur Ransome. There’s a drawing of a Beach End Buoy in that book, and as the buoy I was listening to was too far out to see (sea?) I imagined it as the one Ransome drew from Lowestoft harbour. I dozed I suppose, to be woken suddenly by voices in the room next door. It was Tim and Anne-Marie. I had thought the house empty but for me. They were in Tim’s room next door. There was movement, whispering, almost speech, more movement.
 
I was curious suddenly. Anne-Marie was an enigma. Tim was a nice guy. Quiet, dedicated (Larry had said), worked hard, read a lot, came to Larry’s concerts, played the cello when he could, Bach was always on his record player. He and Anne-Marie seemed so close, just a wooden wall away. I stood by this wall to listen.
 
‘Why are we whispering’, said Anne-Marie firmly, ‘For goodness sake no one’s here. Look, you’re a doctor, you know what to do surely.’
 
‘Not yet.’
 
‘But people call you Doctor, I’ve heard them.’
 
‘Oh sure. But I’m not, I’m just a lousy intern.’
 
‘A lousy intern who doesn’t want to make love to me.’
 
Then, there was rustling, some heavy movement and Tim saying ‘Oh Anne, you mustn’t. You don’t need to do this.’
 
‘Yes I do. You’re hard and I’m wet between my legs. I want you all over me and inside me.  I wanted you last night so badly I lay on my bed quite naked and masturbated hoping you come to me. But you didn’t. I looked in on you and you were just fast asleep.’
 
‘You forget I did a 22-hour call on Thursday’.
 
“And the rest. Don’t you want me? Maybe your brother or that nice English boy next door?’
 
‘Is he next door? ‘
 
‘If he is, I don’t care. He looks at me you know. He can’t work me out. I’ve been ignoring him. But maybe I shouldn’t. He’s got beautiful eyes and lovely hands’.
 
There was almost silence for what seemed a long time. I could hear my own breathing and became very aware of my own body. I was shaking and suddenly cold. I could hear more breathing next door. There was a shaft of intense white sunlight burning across my bed. I imagined Anne-Marie sitting cross-legged on the floor next door, her hand cupping her right breast fingers touching the ******, waiting. There was a rustle of movement. And the door next door slammed.
 
Thirty seconds later Tim was striding across the garden and on to the beach and into the sea . . .
 
There was probably a naked young woman sitting on the floor next door I thought. Reading perhaps. I stayed quite still imagining she would get up, open her door and peek into my room. So I moved away from the wall and sat on the bed trying hard to look like a composer working on a score. And she did . . . but she had clothes on, though not her glasses or her hair clip, and she wore a bright smile – lovely teeth I recall.
 
‘Good afternoon’, she said. ‘You heard all that I suppose.’
 
I smiled my nicest English smile and said nothing.
 
‘Tell me about your girlfriend in England.’
 
She sat on the bed, cross-legged. I was suddenly overcome by her scent, something complex and earthy.
 
‘My girlfriend in England is called Anne’.
 
‘Really! Is she pretty? ‘
 
I didn’t answer, but looked at my hands, and her feet, her uncovered calves and knees. I could see the shape of her slight ******* beneath her shirt, now partly unbuttoned. I felt very uncomfortable.
 
‘Tell me. Have you been with this Anne in England?’
 
‘No.’ I said, ‘I ‘d like to, but she’s very shy.’
 
‘OK. I’m an Anne who’s not shy.’
 
‘I’ve yet to meet a shy American.’
 
‘They exist. I could find you a nice shy girl you could get to know.’
 
‘I’d quite like to know you, but you’re a good bit older than me.’
 
‘Oh that doesn’t matter. You’re quite a mature guy I think. I’d go out with you.’
 
‘Oh I doubt that.’
 
‘Would you go out with me?’
 
‘You’re interesting.  Gloria says you’re a bit like Susan Sontag. Yes, I would.’
 
‘Wow! did she really? Ok then, that’s a deal. You better read some Simone de Beauvoir pretty quick,’  and she bounced off the bed.
 
After supper  - lobster on the beach - Gloria cornered me and said. ‘I gather you heard all this afternoon.’
 
I remembered mumbling a ‘yes’.
 
‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘Anne-Marie told me all. Girls do this you know – talk about what goes on in other people’s bedrooms. What could you do? I would have done the same. Tim’s not ready for an Anne-Marie just yet, and I’m not sure you are either. Not my business of course, but gentle advice from one who’s been there. ‘
 
‘Been where?’
 
‘Been with someone older and supposedly wiser. And remembering that wondering-what-to-do-about-those-feelings-around-*** and all that. There’s a right time and you’ll know it when it comes. ‘
 
She kissed me very lightly on my right ear, then got up and walked across the beach back to the house.
Music provides a blanket of background noise,
As you sit, in a velveteen chair, legs parted, hands on your knees,
I stand between them, silhouetted against flashing gold lights,
I stare down into your upturned face & slowly begin to undress.
Piece by piece my clothing drops to the floor at your feet,
Pooling around my clear, stiletto heels.
Your eyes too drop down, lingering on my *******,
My skin, soft & sun kissed, shimmers golden in the soft light.
I turn slowly, allowing every curve of my body to be illuminated,
The arch of my back, the contour of my hip & the arc of my buttocks
Your eyes trace down my thighs, now spread & back up,
As I bend, & reveal my inner most secrets to you.
My sweet opening that promises so much pleasure,
Just inches from your lips & your tongue & your pleasure.
Slowly I slide to my knees, down on all fours, face to the floor,
Inviting you to enter me, visually, take me with your eyes,
I turn to meet your groin & I watch with interest,
As I play with my ******, at the stirring that may come.
I rise up instead, to my knees, cupping my *******, blowing,
On my now ***** ******* & my eyes reach yours,
And time & space hold for us, as we join together, for a second,
Before I lean in, my breath on your cheek & I whisper,
That's £20 please.
Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,

Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.

In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta

Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,

Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,

Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!

There is nothing between us.
vircapio gale Aug 2012
on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.
Manmata: the god of love, who Shiva is said to have burned to ashes with the purity of his contemplation
Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity (both material and spiritual), fortune, and the embodiment of beauty. She is the consort of the god Vishnu. She takes her mortal form as Sita in the Ramayana, destined for Rama (who is Vishnu's avatar).
Guna: an element, 'thread', 'string' or principle of nature; the three gunas are (sattva), (rajas), and (tamas)
Dukkha: suffering
Anthro-: as in 'human'

"The impact of the Ramayana on a poet, however, goes beyond mere personal edification; it inspires him to compose the epic again in his own language, with the stamp of his own personality on it.  The Ramayana has thus been the largest source of inspiration for the poets of India throughout the centuries . . . Thus we have centuries-old Ramayana in Hindi, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Tamil, Kannada, Kashmiri, Telugu, Malayalam, to mention a few."   -R.K. Narayan (whose prose version of Kamban's 11th c.e.Tamil --originally written on palm leaves-- i'm reading at the moment, and whose advice i've found myself compelled to follow. in no way am i an authority, but an amateur--literally--'in love')

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ramas-inauguration-facing-the-murderous-gluttony-of-thataka/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/soorpanaka-the-demon-as-kamavalli-lusts-for-rama-1/
__
Like the way the valleys of the earth
Cup their hands for light and drink,

Like the way the desert opens up its sweet mouth
And laughs

When someone melts pearls in the sky
And rain, rain
Returns like a divine lover
With a hundret wonderful gifts

O, the words from the true Teacher
Bring my mind and cells
Such sacred nourishment and life.

When the moon is full
It gets gregarious and likes to chat.
I have heard it say,

"Look what can happen, dear seeker,
When you lean your graceful arms toward God in prayer,

Look at all that amorous light you can catch
That will help the night musicians and your soul
Get loose."

I stand revolving like a great dervish
In an ecstatic submission to His will.

I have been hired to perform the final act of grace.
I am the priest in every sacred wedding tent.

Tonight I am a sovereign planet
With a great wool skirt.
I am a divine artist
One stage before God's entire court.

With each sublime whirl and orbit
I bow to the Sun's feet.
I fill my glass for you, dear pilgrim,
Beneath the luminous leaking barrel.

I then pour all the contents of my heart
And eye's experience
Upon this banquet table,

For your body and mind are a precious silk cloth
Hafis has come to dye!

I circumambulate the Truth from the sky
Like a golden vulture.
I have forsaken all the crippling manners
Of even the most royal birds.

I carry a lute in my talons like a mortal weapon.
Please, please enter into a holy battle with me.
For I am God's friend
Who maims with compassion!
And you are a lost dove upon His wing.

I can teach you
How to bribe the Beloved with an angelic tune

So that the divine manna of His glance
Will fall upon your palate.

Some days I know
You are being trained as an emissary
To serve in his office of joy.

Dear one,
Last night, in the gallery of Reality
I saw a portrait I will never forget:

The Beloved was stirring a ***
With a spoon the size of a universe
And when He lifted it
I saw this whole world and its affairs
Were not even a floating speck of a barley
Before the radiance of two diamonds
That were His brilliant cheeks!

All I could do when beholding that vision
Was to fall upon my knees

And cup my hands like a humble valley
Huddled between the thights
Of this exquisite, holy mountain range

And try to build a resevoir to hold the Beloved's
Resplendent smile
That offers myriad tickets to freedom,
That offers the splendor of hearing God sing!

I am the spinning wheel upon the infinite.
I have swallowed the axis and hub
That fathered light and truth.

Grab hold and swing from me, my dear,
Doing the impossible
With your hands and feet both clapping.

I offer a mother's comfort and knowledge
To those who are tired and weak.

And when you become strong
I will conduct like a skilled warior-king
Your divine volcanic glands exploding like new galaxies
In all their blessed madness.

God offers love, love, love
With His own hands,
To your beautiful parched holy mouth.

Open your soul, handsome, dying one.
See all gender talk like a mighty joke,
In a oneness as glorious like this!

Hafiz, go running from that gallery
Like a naked drunk lion
Roaring with a laughter that will shake
The whole earth
And every window and door throughout the sleeping
Cities,

Like a man,
Like a man who is delivering on a great steed
Fantastic news!

Tie yourself as a bell
To herds of mating camels
And spring flocks of clouds and birds.

Tie yourself to spawning stars
And to leaping whales
In a game of tag with the Moon!
Tie yourself to everything in creation
That got poured from God's magic hat.

O, tie your soul like a magnificent sweet chime
To every leaf and limb in existence,

That begin to shout divine obscenities
So that he will sure send a tremendous storm.
Because Hafiz, because Hafiz,
O, sweet Hafiz,    
You are a man with such benevolent and fantastic
Good News!

Dear wayfarer,
Now indulge me in a sober moment.
Please set down your glass.

I can help you write a letter of resignation
To all your fears and sadness.

Listen:
Let all movement and sound,
Let all movement and sound

Begin to speak the truth to your heart
And write its music upon your vision and
Soft pink tongue.

Soak all your prejudices in oil-
I would consider it a favor.
Bring and sing to me your darkest thoughts,
For my whole body is blazing emerald wick,
I am a pure flame
Who needs and loves to burn.

We should lean against each other more
In such a strange world as this
That can make you scared
And even believe in that lie called death.

We should support each other more
Give more warmth
In such a demanding world as this.

Let all movement
Gently yield something of God
Upon your chin and vision
And roll down on your prayer mat
That will take root in the holy soil of your surrender.
May I hone your devotion with a kiss?

For all in existence is just spinning like this
Sweet earth
In a divine current.

Why not dance like Hafiz in the cup,
In the cup of His spoon?

I offer my clapping spirit to you,
That is in eternal movement.

Hafiz offersto bow at your feet
With hands that god has shaped and pounded.

Look in my palms, my dear,
They now contain your face and infinite existence.

All your ideas of space and time are shadows
That will run from this Sun She has made me.

I want to tie myself
As a gift around your neck.
I want to place a wonderful secret
Near your veins.

Why not use my verse as a golden camel bell
That you can turn upside down into a chalice
And fill with wine?

Hafiz,
You are a divine camel bell
That the Beloved is ringing with his own hand.

Hafiz you were a blessed slave to Truth
That died like a cut reed and became hollow-
Turned into a divine instrument
That God now lifts to His own mouth,
Plays to summon this world to freedom.

How many man exist upon this earth
To whom I could whisper a holy secret?

Dear ones,
"God has sown Himself onto my tongue."

Like the way
The valleys of the earth
Cup their hands for light and drink,

Like
The way
The desert opens up its sweet mouth
And laughs

When someone melts pearls in the sky

An rain, rain
Returns like a divine lover
With a thousands wonderful
Gifts,

O, the luminous words of my Beloved
Now bring my mind and soul
Such a sacred
Nourishment
And

Peace.
~Hafiz ~
Hand written by
Impeccable Space
Poetic Love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AUcWa7PDW0
Alaina Moore Jun 2018
Picture yourself:
confident threads,
in a mix fabric shirt.
You're in a relationship,
and it's full of love.
Till one day,
it's skewed.
The love is there by title,
but the actions have fled.
Hands cupping a Samsung,
rather than your hand.
Their mind fixed to any and everything,
but a conversation with you.
Spend the whole day together,
with but a few, short replies.
Keep telling yourself,
it will improve.
In the blue light haze,
sitting right next to the love of your life,
feeling lonelier than ever.
Unable to express it,
for fear of retaliation.
So you sit there,
noting the confidence count
on the clothes you're wearing
isn't high enough for this.
So you stay silent,
wondering what's so captivating,
in the blue light.
ryn Jul 2014
A thousand things that run amok in my mind
Issues of present time that seem unkind
But if closely examined, this whirlwind of thoughts
Glimpses of rainbows, unicorns and gold-filled pots

Embedded within this maelstrom of uncertainty
Promise of niceties, of peace and serenity
Picturesque views of limitless artistry
Bring forth such joy and love and tranquility

Like a book of thoughts offering surrealistic images
A barrage of scenarios as I flip through the pages
Images that spoke of untold alternate endings
That is borne out of the heart's delicate beginnings

Engulfed in a blissful torrent of emotions
Caught submissive, in the riptide of affection
Frame by frame I could play, pause and repeat
Document joy and sadness, victory and defeat

Stories told that could happen in another plane
Series of eventual outcomes that I wish to gain
Wondering the things each other is doing
What is seen and what is heard, in this world you're living

Possibility of walking beside hand in hand
Dancing close, eyes in lock in a strange foreign land
Drive up into town to watch a romantic show
Sharing a milkshake or playing in the snow

Standing at your doorstep, an unannounced surprise
Bearing sunflowers and chocolates, for my beautiful prize
Running through a field, in love with frenzied craze
Lying on a mat, eyes locked in a deep, loving gaze

Two kissing silhouettes with a sunset backdrop
A scene, frozen in time that I don't want to stop
Marooned on an island, all deserted and bare
We bask in the sun and at the stars we stare

Sitting across of each other so close
In a cafe, whispering love and jousting toes
Being in love and intimate in a hot steamy shower
Sharing a Parisian landscape atop a well renowned tower

Snuggling close, sighing in the arms of my lover
Kissing through the night letting the heart take over
Cupping your cheeks, tasting the lips so sweet
Wake up sweet darling, good morning I would greet

Ferry you to work, plant a kiss that'll melt your knees
Be at the bay, together we look out into the seas
Talk on the phone and missing you right after
Texting endlessly, professing eternal love for each other

Such thoughts are brought by dreams and wishful thinking
Ideals that me give hope even when my boat is sinking
But I'll never ever stop wishing it'll all come true
Because my dreams were conjured for it was meant that I find you
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch?

KuppingMyBoschMaegMyF­eldSafF...

The nur-see tain't weetchin'

Shh, don't look around
they don't see if you don't look around...

SCRATCH EARS!

That one,
is okay, he's mowin' the lawN with his hands,
and smiling...

NO PILLS! NO PILLS!

wait a, no, wait, no, wait, no, wait...

EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch
EyeGaddaKu'upMiBosch?

KuppingMyBo­schMaegMyFeldSafF...

I've got to cup my *****, cupping my ***** makes me feel safe.

wait, no, wait, no, wait, no wait...

iF i bITe MY FINGeRNaILS THEe TaStE LIKE WAx




wax
Ted Scheck Jan 2014
She visited my house, home
Wife, Boys:
Soaking up what little she could of Little Brother’s life;
And I hugged her, I put my arms around her frailty,
My big sister, now tiny and ravaged by the word
That shouldn’t rhyme with
Dancer, but
Does.

Here in her last September, last
September.
A
Final tour of her
Favorite Places, a
Preacher’s Mountain.
And looking into her
Eyes kind and squinty,
I had the feeling that
One hand held the
Times I would see her.
I was off by two,
minus the thumb.

Forward-fast to Dec.
27th, my Niece’s Wedding
I held her again, and
She was more frail
And unsteady and her
Eyes rimmed red with
Spreading Pain;
The rain relentlessly
Hammering on the roof of the
Membrane-thin
Quonset Hut-Shell.

Walking unsteadily steady back
To her Dear Friend’s car
My heart in tatters, sad, yet
Glad for her to visit that
Distant Shore
That her eyes so longed for.

And now, in this frozen January of
2014
Wintry-Mixed Nut Group
(That is my family)
I enter her ineptly-named
Living room, where she is
Laid prostrate before God
And everybody.
And I enter into such a blender of
Sweet-sour-bitter-salty
Emotional juices.

I take her hand
And kiss her cheek, and an
Eye perks up at the sight of
Little Brother.
Yet that eye is tired of
The uphill worn treadmill that
Life has turned into.

(Please God take her away
With You. Deliver my
Sister Amy
From the planet’s
Gravi-pain-tiful
Pull)
And that prayer flew out of
Me driving back to Indy
Sunday at about 2:00 pm
Central Time.

And at 11:30 pm UGT
(Universal God Time)
An Angel wakes a
Slumbering Saint.

And Amy Scheck closes her
Eye on this world
(And opens the eyes of her
SPIRIT
To the
Next)

(And we are in the presence
Of God’s Messengers,
That Warrior Race of
Angel Guardians).

He is of a height much,
Much greater than her
Small yet intensely curious
Form.

He has mysterious and utterly fabulous
Wings tucked and tightly-sprung
Beneath impossibly-broad
Shoulders; his sword
Gleams like a hundred
Suns glistening on the dew of
A thousand worlds.
Radiant! Radiant and
Mighty is he!
And he is here
For her.

A voice of velvet thunder, low
Mixed with music and fury.
“Rise, Little One.
Child of God!
Rise, and grab hold
Of my tunic!
It’s time to enter
Into the Throne Room of
The Most High!”

And, forgive me for imagining
(What cannot be imagined, but
Longed for, yes. Longed for
By countless numbers).
I write in faith, hope, and
Love for my dearly-
Departed sister.
I use the tool
God gave me
Before I was born.

I imagine the transition
Of death to life
Of life from death.

A unimaginably-large soul
Trapped in a dead husk of
A Mortal Shell
Winds down like the biological
Clocks we resemble; metering,
Measuring heart beats of time,
Of counted breaths breathing
No longer. Of pain, and suffering,
And the emotions swirling off both
Like streamers moved by the wind.

Amy Winifed Scheck
Dies. She breathes in/not out, or
Opposite so.
Her heart goes
Blub/Dub
And then stops
Forever.

But something amazing begins to happen.
In her soul is a key.

This key has a name unknown to us.
That name defines the soul of
Her New Existence.
To me - to us - it is...
UNSPEAKABLE.

The fleshy fleshly tongues
Are as worthy as uttering it
As slugs are equipped to hit
102-mph fastballs.

It’s her soulprint, though it does
Not belong to her;
It’s the print from the Soul
Of Jesus Himself.
HIS mark. HIS claim.
HIS.
It is the manifestation of
Amy’s Name
(Written in the Book of Life).
There can be no better assurance
Than to know, without that
Demon of Uncertainty, known as
(Doubt?)
That YOU are in THAT BOOK!
Are you?

So Amy’s soul is
Delivered, birthed, taken-
TRANSFORMED and
Enters the Waiting Room
Of Heaven.
Holy, Holy, Holy...

Feathers weigh millions of
Tons compared to the
Lightness of Being
Amy feels as, nearly
Transparent, she is a more
Solid creature than the largest
Pod of Blue Whales ever to
Swim and sing.

Her Angel takes Amy
To the Throne Room.
Falls prostrate for a moment,
Amy sees a burly tree
Fall, then, instantly,
Stand; the tree rumbles words.
“I have done my duty,
Precious Little One, as
Your Angel Guardian.”
He bows his head,
And then is on one knee,
So that his great shaggy head
Is nearly level with his
Little Charge.

His voice is surprisingly gentle, for
Before Amy was created:
This supernatural being was
Assigned this precious little bundle
Of joyful humanity, and he fought:
Fought! Fought the great battles
Against the ravages of the earthly
Realm; the seizures, the sickness, the
Angel Guardian was inside the baby's
Heart as it struggled to do its job, to
Deliver the blood to the extremities, to
Live, to grow, to fight, fight!
This one, in a little over half a
Century, became close to Jesus,
And, by proxy, close to the Being
Who created Angels!
Man! Woman! Child!
Did she not have the heart of a
Lion?
Did she take on the Spirit
Of a prayer Warrior?
Yes. Indeed she did.

Heaven's tears are thick, syrupy. Alive
With the Immense Sadness and
Immeasurable Joy of Christ Jesus.
They flow slowly down the shaggy
Angel's scarred face. God only
Knows how close this Angel was/
Is to Amy.

His voice is choked with emotion.
“It was my pleasure to serve and protect you,
Amy Winifred Scheck.
You must Wait."
He wipes tears from his eyes,
Knowing he has done his job,
HIS job, protecting, serving,
Ministering to this Little One,
As he soon will Minister to
The next Little One.
"You must wait. Wait upon the Lord
You heard His Call
In your life on Earth."

The Angel looks gravely
At the tiny, frightened
(Yet terribly excited)
Little Child of God.
And does something rare,
Even for the Guardians.
He spreads massively-wide arms and
Draws the trembling
Child into his protective embrace.
Her small hands grasp mountains
Masquerading as shoulders,
Hugging the Being with surprising
Might.
And Amy does quite an amazing
Thing. She senses her Angel's
Distress, and gently, lovingly,
Pats his shaggy beard, his cheek,
Praying! For the Messenger and
Deliverer!
Her little form squeezes strength
(Love)
Into her own Angel Guardian.
And Jesus, Everywhere,
Smiles and wipes tears of His own
From his face.

The Angel speaks in a
Whisper as gentle as a soft hush of
A breeze after the first
Spring shower.
“You will hear His Call
Again.”
And the Angel does not
Vanish comically in a puff
Of cloud; it is as if he
Fades away into the
Multitude of the
Heavenly Fold.

Seraphim, and Cherubim,
And fantastical wing’d and claw’d creatures
Amy has only dimly dreamed about,
Sing, and shout with sound-ful colors that
Could never exist on earth, for
They would melt the bonds
Of reality itself
And drive mad all the ears and eyes
Which suffered to sense it.

Off in the strange
Far-close distance
One Figure Stands
Above, Most High Above Every Thing
He created:
The Most High
Being Who Was Ever,
Is, Will Be,
And Is To Be.
It is Him

Jesus Christ
(And the people of earth,
Myself included, sing, sing! SING!
Blessed is the Name of the Lord!)

“My Child, Precious child,
Enter the Holy Throne of God.”
And in steps that cannot be
Measured by any earthly
Standard, Amy Winifred Scheck
Enters Her Savior’s Throne Room.

With her new feet, Amy
Walks bravely, surely, securely,
Eyes low, her countenance recognizable
To the One Whom it resembles;
And:
All around her is a Living
Chorus of Beings shouting
Holy! Holy! Holy is The Lord!”
Yet within the cacophony resides
The Still and Quiet Presence
Of The Lord of Lords.
The Prince of Peace.
Upon His Throne, He sits,
Waiting and Being
Waited Upon.
Worshiped.
As only God should be.
It is Through Him - Jesus Christ -
That Amy enters into the Kingdom of God,
The Presence of the King of Kings.

Amy speaks, using a voice that she never dreamed
She had with her long-gone forgotten
Vocal chords.
“Here I am, Oh Lord.
Oh Lord, I am Here!”
Her life is Measured
Judged.
Because JUDGMENT
IS HIS!

Of:
The Judgment Seat
Of Christ:
I will not insult
My Creator
By imagining the content
Of my sister’s
Heart,
Or what goes on there,
In the most important moment in the history of a human being.
I will experience it;
So shall you, Dear One,
Who reads and contemplates the meaning
Within these words.
(ALL will experience
The very same thing)
So, human beings, get
Your affairs in order, for
We know not the hour
Of our demise.
If there is any doubt about what
Happens to you when you die...
Seek Him!
Accept Jesus Christ as your
Personal Lord and Savior!

Amy Scheck
Loved Jesus, and spoke His Name
With a rare form of deep and wide
Conviction.
She was a Christian, a Child of God.
She had a smile for everyone,
And most everyone left her
Smiling.
She loved Jesus on earth.
She was an obedient servant.
And what do we take with us
To Heaven?
What is in our HEART.

Jesus loves us all, all of us.
So I will believe,
Believe, I will, that
Amy’s love for Her Savior,
And her acknowledge, public,
Amidst scorn, ridicule, love, and
Acceptance
Were the Words
That Jesus used
To write
Amy's Name in His Book
She sowed and reaped, and
Reaped and sowed, and led
Others away from sin,
And, more importantly,
To Jesus Himself.
Amy’s life was full of
Good Fruit from
The Vine.

Interlude: The Other Side of Grace
And Jesus Christ spoke to Satan,
Who said, of this new soul:
(As he says to EVERY single
New soul entering into God’s
Eternal Kingdom):
Because, you see, we are fallen...

“What of THIS one, Lord?
She is MINE, I should think!
I have a long list of her
Considerable
Sins.”

And His voice the Thunder of Heaven,
Jesus stands for Amy Winifred Scheck.
(As Amy counted times stood for Jesus)
Her love for Him in no way can equal
HIS love for HER, but that is the great
Sacrifice that Jesus took upon Himself
On the Cross-the staggering weight of
Humanity's sin.
The equation does not have to be
Equal to be right, and true, and real.

So now Jesus raises His voice, and
Speaks, and the Foundations
Of Eternity shake, and every One
Within Heaven’s Realm
Trembles at Glory
Personified in Voice,
At Love, walking upright.
“CAST YOUR GAZE AWAY FROM HER, SATAN!
GET THEE BEHIND ME!
THIS ONE BELONGS TO ME.”
And Satan slinks away, knowing,
Knowing the answer already,
Yet eagerly awaiting one of
His
Coming to him soon, soon...
Soon.
Satan is, if anything,
Patient.

“You are Amy Winifred Scheck,
Born to Ed and Mary Scheck on
January 11 of the year
1960! Your body died
January 27, 2014.”

Amy is simply in the State of
Eternal Awe.
Jesus. Is speaking. To her.
Her new tongue must not be
Functioning properly.

“Well done, good and faithful Servant!
You have been faithful with what
I bestowed upon you! I gave
You a seed, which you
Planted in good soil, and
Tended it; watered it; pruned it
So that it
Multiplied many, many times over!
The Fruit of your life resides
All around you!
You led many who were
Astray to My Kingdom!
Enter!”

“OH! MY JESUS!”
She exclaims, her voice
Accompanied by the blasts
Of trumpets and a chorus
Of Angels.

Amy runs with joy as her feet and
Hugs the shoulders
Of The Almighty, feels
Scarred hands cupping her
Tiny face, as eyes blazing
Brighter than a thousand
Stars gaze into hers.
Everything that ever mattered,
That matters now, that will
Matter on down mortality’s
Road
Resides in the Sweet, Lovely
Kind eyes of Our Savior,
Jesus Christ.
He speaks:
“I’ve a place prepared for
You, Dear One.
For there are many rooms
For the Names in the Book of Life!
I have great
Adventures planned for you!
Eternity awaits! Does your new
Spirit thirst? Are you ready for
Your celebratory banquet?”

Amy can only cry and weep and sob
With joy so pure she will have
To learn an entirely new
Vocabulary to give it substance, depth, and
Clarity.
She looks around, seemingly,
For the first time, and sees the
Familiar form of Mary Elizabeth,
Her earth mother, now
Transformed, as she herself has been
Transformed.
Amy sees her new form in
The form of her loving mother.
They embrace, Mother and
Child.
And the applause of Heaven
Is Sweet Thunder.

Amy’s earthly father,
Edward James, is there,
Joking and smiling
With his older brother
Michael and his wife,
Tess.
He sees his daughter,
And shouts with Joy.
More embraces.
Heaven is a place of
Embraces, the birth
Place of Joy itself.

“WELCOME, TO HEAVEN’S TABLE,”
And Jesus speaks Amy’s new name.
“LET US REJOICE, MY FRIENDS,
FOR AMY IS NOW,
FINALLY,
HOME.”
Steve D'Beard Dec 2012
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:

The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions

etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas

her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
******* clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion

the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment

the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten
Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s
shamamama Jan 2019
Streambed calls to you
Calls to you to share its stories
Trickling water over rocks
Melt into your timeless day,
Your hands gently caress the living water
You feel its gentleness,
Its strength, its current flowing
through your soul

Where are the fish you seek?

As you sit,
Palms dip in water,
Slowly, Slowly
They come, one by one,
To your cup of hands
Curious, cautious
Tasting finger, nail, knuckle

Cupping them gently
Seeing their colors and shapes
Testing their braveness
Wiggling fingers, they dart and dash
This is your way of fishing

Young hand touching fish,
human spirit touching the spirit of fish
You sense one another
How long can you visit?

Land friend meets water friend
This is what you mean by fishing
fishing, nature, human spirit, young child, living water
Robert G Page Jun 2012
by
rgpage

outside the walls a cold wind howls
in the dark of a wintry night.
yet in their bed so soft and warm
a young couple's fancy takes flight.

fresh candle light flickers in challenge
to the outside winter's cold bluster.
yet safe in their place they lend a soft grace
to light up the lover's growing luster.

under warm blankets naked bodies entwine
she's backed in to outline his form.
his free hand parts her raven black hair
his lips track her neck....his breath warm.

her whole body shutters as his hand softly traces
her side from shoulder to knees.
his kiss' grow hot between shoulder and neck
for more her breath sweetly pleads.

his hand travels back and stops at her rear
caressing her flesh firm and slow.
her hips gently roll into every firm squeeze
starting nature's hot juices to flow.

again on the move his hand travels up
past tummy so soft to her *******.
while each one he fondles and cupping its weight
his hips grinding soft in the quest.

outside the wind's howl has grown to a roar
yet inside the light slowly wanes.
with bodies so hot blankets kicked to the floor
wrapped up in love's rapture gains.

now facing each other they give to each other
their gentle and sweet surrender.
a play ground of lust yet filled with love's trust
and touching so firm yet so tender.

she reaches her hands out to stroke his desire
so hard yet so smooth to her touch.
and likewise he bends in to suckle her *******
hands rubbing her hips full and lush.

as is natures way there's time in love's play
when exploring and pleasure must grow.
spreading her limbs to let him pass in
she shudders with love's natural glow.

gentle and tender yet rhythmic his strokes
the room fills with sounds of their pleasure.
their hips rise and fall in love's intimate dance
this dance, love's most ultimate measure.

faster and harder they urge one another
as closer to ****** they gain.
kissing and rubbing expressing their love
'til euphorically numb they became.

out side the winter storm rages
a most punishing wind at play.
yet lying inside in each other's arms
our  lovers drift off and away…

Dec 4, 2011
Jessica Thompson Apr 2013
She collects the rice after weddings
Looking for prophecies in her cupped palms
Searching each grain for a story.
She thinks of the children they ought to have
And their names with deeper meanings:
Against birth, defender of man.
A blonde girl
And a precocious boy
Who she knows will one day learn
The language of suicide
Their starfish hands
Never to be the pickers of rice
Meeting in a hotel room
Both of us shy at first
Then the taste of your kiss
The sweetness of your lips
Then the dancing of our tongues

You move your hand slowly down
Stroking and teasing me through my jeans
My hands cupping your ******* now
Feeling them react through your top
We allow this passion to take us

We strip each other, unable to wait
Then you push me onto the bed
Straddling and teasing me with want
Rubbing me against your wet desire
Before taking me inside you

Riding on top, slowly at first
Before building up to release
Taking me faster, making me go deeper
And I cherish the fullness of your *******
Your ******* ripe for me to taste

Pulling you down to my aching body
Lifting my knees to fully enter you
Passionate kisses as I move inside
Feeling you push with each stroke
Screaming out for your need to flow

Then moving you onto your back
And like animals, we give in to this lust
Your legs wrapped around me, tight
Squeezing me  as you surrender
Your passion flooding as I pound faster

I can feel myself ready, prepared to erupt
And I ****** deeper still, filling you with me
My seed explodes inside your well of delight
Then we collapse into each others arms
Content to be with each other, until we begin again
copyright Chris Smith 2010
Joe Nov 2012
I held out my hands.
I placed a drop of soap on each palm
and took hold of my ***** spoon and washed it with my hands,
cupping and spooning it
like my gentle hands were trying to make it croon.
Like it were mated and flipped and slapped
against threadbare slacks.

That spoon is cleaning me,
is washing my hands as I wash its tarnished feet,
it is forgiving me.
For the scalding soups and bitter ice cream,
and not washing it but watching it grow crusted, disgusted.

And while I swoon for my spoon,
and grinning the spinning dizzy grin of Love,
I remember, and give thanks for my feast.
This spoon feeds me like a child on Mother God’s lap,
and kisses me with life, with food.

This soap, and my hands, and this bubbling love between my spoon and I,
it is clean.
My soul is more clean with my spoon.
Cleaner than dog’s saliva licking at old wounds,
but that’s alright,
cause everybody knows ******* love scars, dog.

And women love beautiful spoons,
maybe because of its viscosity, or its gentle curvature,
or the deep loving laugh it invokes,
when it sits on my nose.

My spoon communion left me with pruned hands,
bright eyes,
and a coy smile for what flowers in my mind may bloom.
guy scutellaro Sep 2018
(Jack is taking Kate to her apartment after O'Malley's wedding reception)


Through the familiar, haunted streets Jack drives the old Mustang fast back. The car rattles by the unkempt houses and broken down cars. He makes a left to Dunlewy Street and pulls the car behind a station wagon. Tangled in the tree tops the rising moon hangs above the roofs of identical cape cod houses.

"Is this were you live?" Jack asks.

Kate looks at Jack. His face is a faint shadow on the other side of the car. "Yeah, I live in the upstairs apartment."

"When I was a kid the down stairs was one of those mom and pop stores. You could make a bet with the grocer and every day after school I'd come here and buy a MilkyWay bar."

Kathleen steps out of the car and breathes in the cold air deeply into her lungs. The air is fresh and sweet and the sickness in her stomach goes away.

Jack comes around the side of the car just as she knew he would. He takes her in his arms and kisses her.

"Do you want to come up?" Kathleen asks.

"I don't want to wake up your son."

"You won't Richie is staying at my girl's house. I'm going to pick him up tomorrow before church."

They walk beneath the old oak tree whose roots have raised and cracked the sidewalk. In the spring tiny blue flowers grow through the cracks. The flowers remind Jack of the columbines that bloom briefly in the meadows beneath the high mountains. The wooden steps to her apartment creak beneath their feet.

She sways slightly trying to fit the house key into the lock. The key finds the lock and the door swings open.  Jack follows her into the kitchen. There are pots of plants lining the kitchen counter, on top of the refrigerator, and on the table pushed against the wall opposite the sink.

Crossing the room Kathleen takes off her coat and lays it over the back of the kitchen chair. When she leans across the table to turn on the radio her mini skirt tugs tightly around her buttocks

The music plays softly.

Jack stands and as Kathleen straightens up he slips his arm around her waist. She turns toward him starring into his blue eyes like a cat into a fire. His body gently presses her against the table and when he lifts her onto the table her legs wrap around his waist.

Kathleen sighs.

Jack kisses her lips. Her lips are as cold as rain. Jack reaches. There is a faint click and the room slips into darkness. Eddie Money is on the radio with Ronnie Spectre singing the back up vocals. Eddie belts out, "Take me home tonight, I won't let you go till you see the light."

When he withdraws from the kiss, her eyes are shinning  like diamonds in the night.

Jack unfastens the buttons of her dress down to her waist and parts the garment cupping her ******* in his hands. Her arms circle his neck and pull him to her. Her lips move against his ear.

"Don't Jack, please. You mustn't. "Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear. "*** always ruins everything. I just want a friend."

Jack drops his hands to her thighs and up past her garter belts and slide around to cup her ***. "I'll be your friend," Jack tells her.

Kathleen draws a deep breath and her arms gently tighten around his neck.

He pulls her to the edge of the table and on the radio Ronnie softly  sings," Oh darlin, my darlin , won't you be my be my little baby."
to be continued...
r Jan 2016
Someday I will leave
the cold sea

Leave its dark quiet wake
like all the long nights
I've forgotten

I will go sleep
on the soft shoulder
of the mountains

Watch her hands
cupping the moon

Somewhere west
of these frozen sad dunes

Say goodbye to the cry of the gull
and the bluewater wind I love

that leaves me feeling so cold.
Fox Sep 2013
Sad.
I cry because happiness is a harder concept to grasp than sorrow.
Because sorrow greets me as an old friend.
Fondly reminding me of my mistakes,
my flaws, and my current inner desolation.
Reminding me of how I failed
and how I cannot fix my mistakes.
While we reminisce over a bottle of melancholia
and a plate of regret.

Leaving me with yet another notch on my belt
of nights I cried myself to sleep
and days I came to school
with bloodshot eyes and a quivering lip.
No one notices another kid
with leaking eyes and a shaking frame,
just another kid, no name.
They pass you by because
pretending everything is alright is more
convenient than noticing they are broken.
I cry for the times I can’t.
You know that feeling when you try to blink away tears
and smile like everything is okay?
Yeah that’s me every day.
Every day I have a reason to cry,
I feel like that shouldn’t happen.
But I also feel that people don’t cry because they are weak.
It’s because they have been strong for too long.
They are the people that hide their silent tears
at the back of a closet and bury broken smiles
into the corner of sock drawer
hoping to deal with them someday
when they have the time for them.
But soon …There won’t be enough room
for the hidden emotions that you think are irrelevant
and can be dealt with another day,
soon every emotion you hid will come out of the closet
and show its face in the most unpleasant way.
Tears. You can’t escape them.
I cry because she cries,
my best friend, drowning in her own sorrow,
I cannot help but drown with her.
For what is a friend if that friend will not jump
into the murky depth we call depression, sinking ever deeper?
At least we sink together.
Treading conformity, stress, humiliation,
we tread together.
As we sink deeper, we try to grasp
at the bubbles of happiness escaping our lips,
somehow bring them back.
We can’t, because once they’re lost no amount
of pretending can give us the air we sorely need
or the fake smiles to get by without question, day by day.
But at least, we drown together.
So many times I have looked out to a warm sunset
and felt chilled to the bone.
Because if I let go of the railing, life would go on.
Because if I did not exist right now nothing
in the world would change.
It would just erase any memory of all the ***** ups
I collected like stamps and baseball cards.
Because no amount of blankets and soothing words
can warm the icy thought in the back of my head
whispering in the persuasive voice of a friend, “What’s the point?”
I cry for the people who don’t think they matter,
who think that turning to something
to relieve their pain will fix it.
I cry for the people who think
killing themselves will make them feel alive.
For the people who get lost trying to find themselves.
For the people who put on a mask
desperately waiting for someone to see through it.
And for the people who cut themselves
trying to become whole.
Breaking themselves down bit by bit,
holding all the pieces,
and waiting for someone to put them back together.
I hate it when you get down to your lowest point
and suddenly people care.
But then they think sending you to a shrink for an hour
will cure a lifetime of dysfunctionality.
I cry because when he calls himself my friend
he isn’t looking forward to our chats
he only looks forward to his next cigarette.
Him and his smirk and his look of relief
as he glances at the clock
thinking the minute hand has just passed $105.50.
I leave the room feeling more confused than ever
because I can’t explain how ****** up I am,
the words fail me when they usually flow like honey from my tongue.
So I just sit still trying not to break the silence,
cupping it in my hand as if it were a piece of glass.
Because silence is so fragile, even speaking it shatters it.
Silence and my disposition of the moment
feel like kindred spirits more than ever now.
I feel broken.
I cry because this entire explanation is just eloquently realizing that **I am sad.
This was actually supposed to be an anonymous essay for school but my friend told me that it was too beautiful to be wasted on people who didn't give a ****. Cautiously optimistic that people will give a **** this time around, and if not then c'est la vie.
Tommy Randell Sep 2017
The 2 miles of beach from Whitby to Sandsend curve away westward. Beyond Kettleness Point seals play in the kelp-beds, barking at echoes, and stones roll together at the cliff's edge, making sand randomly. This is a place my mind is drawn to when I am far away from here.

Treasure comes to this place. Here someone once spoke a poem in my ear, a poem about Love and for once about me. Here, I  found a whole case of French wine washed ashore, and drank it in a week with two friends. I came here before I had to have my dog killed and again afterwards to throw the collar and lead far out into the darkness.

On summer evenings with a clear sky there is a Blue in the heart of the sea here that shines through even closed eyes. They say such a light can actually be tasted, they say by cupping your hands out in front of you and then passing it to your lips you can actually drink it. They say such a light can be heard sighing like liquid glass in the waves' curl.

The locals warn you must never drink it, you must never listen – that if you do the Blue from the heart of the sea will lodge in your heart and you will never again leave this place. In life your dreams will come here from far away, in death your Soul will pass to the heart of a grey seal to be brought back to Kettleness barking at the cliffs all the long cold nights until, finally, all the Blue you have become will be the Blue in the heart of the sea breaking wave upon wave to the long sands' sweep as it curves away westward from Whitby to Sandsend ... from Whitby to Sandsend ... from Whitby to sands' end ...
http://www.wonderfulwhitby.co.uk/wonderfulwhitbyblog/whitby-uk-sunsets/
matilda shaye May 2019
If I was a coffee drinker
I’d balance your body like a rosetta
I’d kiss your cheek with my
Colombian coffee breath
the flavor of our love like
your crema on my tongue-
notes of rich chocolate evenings
and salty, very salty
your bitterness like the very first time
notes of my coffee cherry-
no, your coffee cherry
the aftertaste like high acidity
your complexity gets lost on
my caffeine intolerance
but I still feel your finish
each time I swallow
I still find notes of you,
cupping me
I don’t drink coffee
Skaidrum Sep 2015
...
You're cupping embers
    in antique palms
    that were meant
    to harvest moonlight.


Raindrops ghost over earth's skin
   nebula clouds map universal eyes,
   and you're just a masterpiece
   who is best friends with time.


Don't let those pianos play you,
   serenade and masquerade you
    because we all seem to
    fall in love with the right music,
    and all the wrong notes.


That friend lit a fire in your room,
   seven embers destroying
    unfamiliar wallpaper.
    You burnt your dream catcher,
     to cinders and charcoal;
     Now you pray for sunlight,
     all you've got is a lonely candle's flame.


But from the nightmares and windowsill,
   moonlight slipped through
         and in your palms
         you held
         my words.


Fire doesn't last forever, Leonie.
...
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Homeathome Oct 2018
Your nature is rather expressive
It creates dialogue in chirping happiness
Of birds climbing trees
But seemingly, doesn't lie in the height of apricot trees
In fallacies of piety
Like climbing from the apple flowers
To the suckling bees nestling in the flavor
Of the honey that comes from the *******
Of your breast that taste like apple and honey
As the petals of an aeolian wasp
Follow the areolar cusp
Hungering was part of the motivation
It was primal instinct of the ecstatic elation
So what about the leaves that turn brown
A Gilded crescent moon
Brings tawny owls in the night
Who can tread upon
But still see them leaves
Auric alchemy covering your ******
Like I can navigate your entire patina
Bodied with my left hand
Cupping your breast with the righteousness of writing
Now I'm ambidextrous
Teasing you with the tension
Of impressionism in my sensual seminar
Promising to pluck those flowers
I keep them in colored waters
So there's coruscating change
Within the cleft of the *******
Somehow I've found that to be trenchant theft
Of your virginity
There's more bliss in these pecks of mine
Except like woodpeckers pecking the bare-backs of fir trees
Inasmuch the resin falling
Keeping the Apollinaire's oil lamp of sin
Much alive
Earnestly timed
And the poetry reasonably alive
Romantically
A thought of fire in a rustic cage
Like Pandora's box
In the Coming of Age, mysteriously
There's more bliss in these perks of mine
Unlike aphrodisiacs in the sea
The Cupid's bow keeps
The aquiline philtrums intertwined
In pilfering perfection
Even in the decorum of our moaning
In the face of the coitus and chorus
The suspicion of Venus
Doesn't keep out the lust
Of the allegory
That included symbolic Folly
But Folly was just a face
Realizing the purpose of her
Was just exploring pleasure
Emanating with your caressing climate
To leave no leaves unturned
When it came to my gruntled grunts
Then came the ******
Unoccluded and unencumbered
Of every language, pulchritude placid
"Love flows away
As life itself is slow"-Le Pont Mirabeau, Guillaume Apollinaire
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds

Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual

My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary

Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments

I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path

The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux

As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate

Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift

Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary

Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode

And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Sally A Bayan Jan 2016
In one's lifetime, comes a moment or two,
when a sunny day's sky of powder-blue
turns to an utterly gloomy black night
not at all a beautiful twilight
:::just a dark firmament...no homing birds in sight

When in a flurry,
it comes naturally,
to want to sit...on the ground,
on the floor...just somewhere down
with both palms cupping jaws
resting on knees are angled elbows
discontent and stagnation
nag one's  imagination
heartbeats
............are drumbeats
glances are fleeting
unfocused:::::escaping
such are vain attempts, to dismiss
avoided thoughts and scenes:::to release
::::and decide...all must eventually cease
yet.........it's never easy to find peace
can't just forget sounds of voices...and sweet laughter
jokes and conversations that came, before and after...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
they are tattooed in the mind
::::::::: they are ::::::::::
::: i n d e l i b l e ::::::::::
:::: e s p e c i a l l y ::::
:::on:::moments:::when:::
:::we struggle the most:::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::only:::­to:::realize::::::
::::::::::::::::::[[[]]]::::::::::::::::
:::::­:::[[ memories ]]::::::::::
::::are:::a::::[[metal cage]]
::::::::::::: and we :::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::: are :::::::::::::::::
:::::::[[captured birds]]:::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
it usually takes long:::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::to be freed:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::;;;;
::::::from being:::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::held:::::::::­::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
:::[[ c a p t i v e ]]:::
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
(November 2015)


Sally

Copyright January 13, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Corinna Parr Nov 2011
I have your heartbeat
she said cupping
her cool hand over
his clothed chest
shifting on his lap
just to feel the way
his arms tightened
around her waist.
Lily Mae Aug 2014
In the silence of it All~ (Flowergirl and Lily Mae)
Poem Image
Flower, sometimes when I stare up into the clouds
I feel such a part of something divine
like there is an energy that passes through me
from all times and I feel so loved

Yet…here we are you and I
cupping our hearts in our hands
while sending unconditional love out
to the ones we love and I wonder..

Flower do they feel it?

~*~

Close your eyes Sweet Lily and you will know

Connect with the passion burning inside you
that he alone has brought luvingly to your soul
feel the vibration of the universe as thoughts intertwine
among the orange streaks across the sky

The blackened night brings favor for you and I
for in the silence is where our thoughts collide
when everything around them stops and is still
that's when they truly feel us

That's when they close their eyes.....and they know too
Glen Brunson Jan 2013
I’ve spent thousands of
smiling hours
cupping the soft pit
of intellect in my hands
preening with its glow,
casting the shadow of lecture
on my greedy eyes.

when my feet sank
beneath her earthly soil
weeks slipped quiet
(like notes shaken from leather spines)
with no discussion of Plato.

the hardened sphere was
drained of all prestige
footnote and reference.

sometimes, before sleep,
I sharpen my doubts
and carve it out.

it sleeps by me,
a guilty golden mistress.
I am afraid
she will hear the warmth
through my phone.
EgoFeeder May 2013
The practice before me was something so foreign
Their tempo of chant was that which evoked my adrenaline
The circle they worshiped began it's eruption of colors;
spewing a spectacle of radiance that was a spectrum of some other

The hexagram itself began to shine with an ominous gleam;
All but one vertex was a blaze; what could that mean?
Perhaps, their party of six was too small in number;
To awaken the demon from it's monotonous slumber?

To complete the ensemble of seven must be my own task;
The sprites were fixed in trance; I had no reason to ask
So, I sprang into motion and joined in their ritual dance
Finalizing their sacred rites and granting myself with reverence

The echoes of recitement deluded into something more strange;
One that my mortal ears could do naught but re-arrange
Into a bric-a-brac of non-sense derived from the past
I needed to contribute to the intonement for our progression to last

How could I ululate with the rest in my simple irrelevant language?
I inquired to my friends in hopes of restoring the veracity of my courage
The imp at my front spun his attention to answer my doubts;
For what truly matters is that which exhibits the earnestness of your quotes!

Aha My Brothers! I can now see without my cloudy vacillation;
The next verse I cast shall be the epithet of an immaculate alteration!
I must exalt for my falsifications and this facade of reverendum
These letters fixed in stone are merit-less and de omnibus dubitandum!

There shall be no greater wisdom than the acceptance of that fact
To dwell on the word of man is to dabble in what you've always lacked
Our deficiency of distinctive beliefs and the privilege of identity;
Every truth conceals it's delusion in a seemingly flawless sincerity!

I repeated my genial perspective several times until my breath was gone
The numbness in my torso was then expressed through a re-habilitating yawn
Followed by an out-pour of blood;Spewing from the confines of my lungs
Oh! What a righteous taste this is to speak in the devils' tongue!

For the throes of a sinner are not that of the wicked or holy blaspheme;
They are simply the inverted inquisition of the unanswered question maybe!
The concepts of free will and of good and evil are truly incomprehensible
as our minds are merely aware of relevance; Ignoring the unintelligible

Being enthralled by the dizziness of this new found anemia;
I commenced to utter the defeatists' call into the absence of Elysia
Witnessing no reply I fell to thy knees - cupping the blood I had spilt;
Raising the crimson liquid to thy mouth - consuming the life i'd built!

Which my new fraternal comrades admired with a fixed curiosity;
For I had undeniably turned water to wine and it was merely an impetuosity!
Laughter ensued and the fire of our ceremonial ring blazoned it's approval;
What a way to end an evocation! We had set the scene for our lords' revival!

To state his name for certain would be to use it in vain.
As the out-right ruler of this plane goes by many a name;
And none all the same ; How could a god be labeled as something you say?
If I may conclude in all modesty he is you and he is I. If I may ...
These hands, whether cupping the curve of my breast,
Or cradling our daughters' head, as you lay her down to rest,
Are my great delight.
I will drink at your lips,
Delight in the urgent pressure of your hips,
Lightly trace your self designed tattoo,
Breathe the strong and musky scent of you.
I will fall into ecstatic moments,
Lose myself in hair and scent and skin,
Your body, your mind, your own but mine,
I worship what's without, and treasure all within.
Sarina Aug 2013
There is a face at the very bottom of this sea
coral, shells cupping her cheeks
loved the beach
so much she wanted to put waves in her hair, wanted
to be part of the universe that
                                   requires no legs.

For all we know, the oceanfloor
could be the sky
of some other universe
and swimming fish make up the cosmos.

                                                   Saltwater burns


                       the sea
                               so you can see.
Skaidrum Dec 2016
...
for the arms
that hold me tightly


My love,
won't you feed me to the tides of war?

"I would never. I love you."
The garden of eden shares her suspicion with me
"Why is that?"
'Never' is the name of a fox I know
"Do you still talk to this fox?"
To his skeletal remains written in the dark
"When?"
When grief comes
"And what about love, do you speak with her too?"
She visits me when she must
"When?"
When she feels like feeding people to the war

for the boy
that loves every face
the moon chooses to show


"What are you thinking about?"
Stories on the backs of ravens
"Ravens?"
Obsidian angels who set souls on fire for a living
"What do the ravens tell you?"
The ocean cleans his plate tonight
"His plate?"
He wastes her sacred fruit
"Whose?"
Why, the moon's of course
"Why would he do that?"
Liars cannot taste little slices of heaven
"So... what happened to her fruit?"
It wasn't fed to the war
"I don't quite understand."
Neither did love

for my phoenix,
that brings the sun to it's knees


"You are everything I've ever wanted."
Cardinal sins on the sky's wrist
"What?"
You desire that?
"No, I desire a natural disaster."
that kind of wish lies on the backbone of insanity
"I wouldn't be suprised, my love."
That you desire the unfathomable?
"Ah, but I am in love with a poet."

for the lover
who I buried in the window,
who waited patiently for my return


Love is right behind you
"Oh? What does she want?"
What love has always wanted
"And what do you want?"
An alpine sketch of myself through your eyes
"I hope love doesn't mind~"

"She is and always will be
the moon sketched in every masterpiece.
She is a mosaic along the alpine land,
like fog cupping the trees at first light, or
an emerald forest radiating with grace.
She is the roots of every seed
sown to emerge a queen among calm soils,
and the ghost of an god once lost.
She sews wolves into their sheets at night,
tangles stars in the fur of foxes,
breathes the dawn into the heart of bears, and
teaches the fish the art of harvesting time.
She is holy,
she is art made flesh.
She is the bloodstream of every crystal river,
the lungs of the misty mountains themselves,
the skin of every wildflower known to earth herself.
And by god,
do I love so much
that love herself tastes jealously
for the first time in her life.


...Beautiful is the soulmate of that sin
"You think so?"
Wholeheartedly
"Well, is Love still standing behind me?"
Indeed, she drinks your words as if it were the tides of medicine
"Flattering...however my love, I do have a question."
I house ten thousand answers
"So, who did love feed us to?"

this is for the boy
I was fed to
in the tides of war


Each other
...
We will always be hungry
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Born of Fire Jul 2014
And i miss you. You tore a rip clean around my heart. And after several months of ignoring me, the stitches i made could be taken out to reveal the nasty scars. The broken thing inside of me seemed to be breathing properly, and on your birthday you forgot who i was. A knife sliced through the scars, disrupting already damaged tissues. Never before had i remembered hate being a comfortable feeling. Hurt, ached inside of every cell. Birthdays seem to be a trap for us. You left me on mine. You forgot about me on yours. Another couple of months went by, you forgot about me even more. I tried to forget and move on. My hope failed me again. I stayed awake that night, until the sun rose on my sorrow. Funny how a sunrise can give you such a sinking feeling. I cried, hoping the tears would swell me to sleep, they just made the pain seep into my face and my collar bones. I thought about you that night, wondered if you were alone with your thoughts again, letting the back of your eyes rot with the white of the ceiling in your room. Or were you out in a darker place, getting high as your heart continued to suffocate? When they told me about what had really happened between you and them, everything connected. And unlike how i found out you had crawled back to her and she denied you made me happy, this only made things immensely worse. It was largely the fact that i gave you every part of me, salvaged all the small pieces and bundled them for you. You treated me like an object instead of human and i was too in love with you to realize it. But the thing is you can't walk around hurting people every chance you get. You asked her why she didn't care, well what about you? How could you dispose of me so quickly and in a rush as if you had committed a crime? For a time rage consumed me. Washed over me like running water. I wanted to tear you down and watch you disintegrate into a lake of sadness. Every other person in my life knew there was a million reasons for me to leave you. No one cared to save me. It showed me that no one is gonna be there when you're drowning in corrupted love. But i have always wanted to save you from the destruction coursing through your soul. I always wrote about burning the sentiments you gave me and collecting the ashes in a jar as a gift to you. And the twisted part of me figured that as much dust as i collect, equally would be your sorrow. I had only wished for you to stop breathing in so much dust. My mind seemed to go through a fluctuation between hate and misery. There was never an in between. I wished for you to stop cupping your hands to catch my tears so you could wash away your grief. When dejection turned into loathing you made me hurt other people. You lit matches for me to burn bridges and gave me a sledgehammer to destroy homes of happiness. Eventually the chaos got back to me and i ended up eroding myself. I convinced myself i was to put myself in danger to feel alive. Well the opposite occurred and i started dreaming about you. I dreamt of your smile, your laugh, your eyes, with an illuminating spark to them. Waking up was like realizing i had been buried alive in a small coffin, and I'm sure you don't remember how claustrophobic i am.  The fourth night dreaming about you, i turned into the living dead. I slowly melted into a shadow, still frames of you glued into the creases of my mind. Soon enough only wishes swept through my mind. I asked a god for some sort of baptism, and it never came and any form of faith diminished from my eyes. How could one person instill so much pain?
The adventures did change me. Not in the context i thought you meant.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
~~~

a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart,
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy get, easy spent

if only,
how I wish,
could harvest my best,
and with golden cutlery,
excise
the single flawless poem
that I know is in my possess

lay down this hand, so weary,
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
two hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best,
to ease the rest,
a papered poem record to join his whited ash,
his flawless poem,


his very best

*now eternal,
at long last
first published here
on
Jan 13, 2014
“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning.  What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.

“Its about 2:30” I answered.

She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.

“We're sorry to disturb you beloved.  We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t want to be put away”  she said.  “I have to be outside.”

“We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here to help.”

"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.

She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.

She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.

She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.  

"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."

Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.  

"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Its about 2:30."    

She earnestly wants to know what time it is.  

"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."

Her papers were scattered on the floor.

She had one shoe on and one shoe off.  A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening.   The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.

White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.

A woolen hat circled her head.  Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.

She looked to be in her 50’s.  She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice.  Her eyes were clear.  Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.

She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame.  Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt.  The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback.  The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat.  The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders.  She resembled a small granite headstone.

"Whats your name?" I asked.  She was reluctant to tell us.  “I don’t like my name”.

We gently coaxed her.

“Carmen” she whispered.

“That's a beautiful name.  Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”

“I know.  I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered.  “I never liked it.”

Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.  

We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat.  Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food.  She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.

I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.

“You are not forgotten beloved.  You are deeply loved.  Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.

“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.  

“What time is it?”

As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.

Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera

Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm
Part 8 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Carmen was a person we found and counted during the census.  Silk City is a nick name of Paterson NJ.

— The End —