"expectantly" poems
She is like a fire in my soul, I crave her
Flesh against flesh, only she livens me
A slave to my lust, entranced by her beauty
I have a need to see her in pain
And in my mind, these visions I have of her
Kneeling before me, expectantly waiting
With bruises and bites, the marks of my love
Unsatisified, my longing increases
An ordinary name turns to a divine symphony
When uttered, but only with her in mind
This goddess I must make my slave
Though she'll be forever the one in control
Waking dreams of sordid acts
Fill my mind each night and day
I close my eyes and watch her body writhe
With agony and ecstasy
I pull her closer into me
And feel a pleasure so intense I wonder if I've died
She begs me to call her a *****
My hands around her neck
As I feel each breath travel in and out
And study the curve of her back
Consumed and enthralled, she whispers my name
My name is the sound of victory
Dark queen of desire, let us bathe in this fire
Of passion burning blissfully
In this, our inferno of celestial sin
Where unbridled lust meets uncovered skin
Her deafening rapture that shakes her throughout
Is all that can quell my burning within
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.
Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.
You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
I think Grandpa Stewart developed a stutter
from years of being interrupted.
I've never heard him get out a whole sentence
on his own, without Grandma cutting him off
before tonight. He hobbles over to the kitchen
where I'm doing dishes after dinner.
Expectantly, I look up into the ***** windowpanes
of his old, gray eyes,
his hands are shaking and lips quivering.
When he talks, it's like a secret, and he
tells me, struggling over sequence and syllables,
stories of being a volunteer firefighter. Days
he was the strongest man anyone knew.
He stopped a flaming tractor trailer, once, from
running away all ablaze when its brakeline blew up.
Set his jaw, leaned into the smoke, another time,
and pushed onward in steady strides, putting out
a fire in a nickel and dime store, even when
the hose pressure was pushing his line of
sweaty men backward into the street.
Where the hell is that fighting man? I look
at the hunched, wrinkled one before me and remember
the panic that crippled him when
his second son killed himself 12 years ago.
Knelt down as if in prayer, begging
for forgiveness maybe, put a shotgun under his chin,
and blew his brains out, a different type of fire,
with carbon and sulfur exploding just as deadly.
They said the bullet came out his eye socket.
I don't know how they could tell.
It was a stranger in the casket they pieced together
from chunks of skull found across the basement floor.
Haunted by fires, Grandpa doesn't sleep now,
answers the phone on the first ring, paralyzed
in perpetual anxiety, yelling,
"Y-Y-YES?! He-Hello?!"
His stutters are a endless seziure convulsing
on his tongue. He's slower, he's somewhere else, he 's
interrupted and doesn't try. He's medicated
and sedated and
smothered into this empty shell of
a man, sleeping, existing on a living room recliner,
****** with colorless eyes,
desensitized to fear and family, broken
in the wake of fire's senseless destruction;
all the charred ashes left in its place.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
Parting my subtle fingers, touching the silky,mellifluous hair
Slowly moving beneath,
Placing my hand beside ,
Drawn to your marvelous, profiled, sculpted, jawline
Teasing fore play and kisses,
Without wasting hesitation,
Removing fabrics swinging in rage across the room,
Bare back and body,
Temperature rising,
Top to bottom,
As you harden and drenched,
Your rugged , tempestuous hands,
Throwing a weak influenced temptation,
Into a lustful haze, spinning
An imitation on repeat,
The heat intoxicating , inflaming the bonds between our desires,
Penetrating our virginity,
Throbbing in and outwards,
Notion the anguish and agony ,
Discomforting in moving surfaces,
I plead within your name ,
Carelessly tugging and hanging onto your body,
Arms flung around your waist,
As you angrily demanded more from me,
Ordering to continue on wards,
The obsession grew expectantly,
A new form of infatuation,
Thrusting relentlessly,
Earsplitting moaning,
Sensual whispers,
Piercing marks ****** ,
Licked,
A Sign of ownership,
Smacking grip below,
Letting go uncontrollably,
Reaching into the endearing ******
Seizure,
Absolute Bliss.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
The dreaming watch
is always set to one o’clock
she talks to stones
collects animal bones & birds eggs
drinks green tea
counts the rain drops
her aged husband always knocks
before he enters her
her younger lover
never does
the Samurai sword
hangs on the wall, expectantly
the dreaming watch
is always set to one o’clock
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
I am Lady in Waiting
for my Queen of the Night
through seasons of darkness
I tend to your needs
nurturing with reverence
your grace that is rare gifted gesture.
Now appears precious promise ~
Swelling expectantly
no longer neutral but
Blushing insistently.
I maintain composure
take rest while I may
for any night now
your fullness will herald my fast beating heart
Brilliant pure color
with exquisite shape !
Fragrance Narcotic Perfume...
brings me unabashed to my knees.
I shall wake all the sleepers
to witness your glory
Come breathe in her presence!
Magnificent flower of this darkest hour!
.....~~~~.....~~~~.....~~~~.....~~~~.....~~~~.....~~~~......~~~~.....
But oh.
I slept.
This fleeting time she is come and now gone
with no swoons and no adoration.
No court to be held....
Royalty has lost its grip.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
She sat across me
in Starbucks
for 10 minutes.
I smiled shyly.
She said nothing.
Held a black plastic bag close.
No coffee.
I wanted to say:
Hey, how you doin?
But I thought such electricity
might shock the plugged round us.
I wanted to say:
Hey you ok?
Cause she wasnt
Looking at a phone
Sittin alone.
She didnt drink anything.
Where was she before?
Looking up at an
Angle like her bun
Weary like
Military fatigues.
I wanted to ask
Where she come from.
I pretended to read.
And everytime I
Looked up she was
Lookin at me.
Black eyes waiting
Expectantly
To hear a salute
To humanity.
My lips parted
But my thumbs
Texted: Hey how
You doing? to an
Acquaintence in England
With the same brown skin.
In front of me she sat
Time to waste and
I feared wasting her time.
So after 10 minutes
With no glance back she rose and left
Three bags she shouldered.
Must have been a traveler.
I wished I had heard her story.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
I see you sit expectantly biting lips
on the extended museum steps leading
to a veranda around the building, that invites
a flash mob,of your ilk, effervescent, to come together
perform and celebrate, nothing in particular,
except giving a shock pleasure to all those marked "the other"
Once you made me believe, together we make a whole,
that is the story we live on I was told, I merely listened,
I and you missed few beats and steps here and there
find us now in pages different, why, even ages apart,
"What a fine specimen,!" a pacifist, I can't but appreciate
watching your elan. As if seeing an alien in my home ground,
I watch the spectacle, gulping down my discomfiture dutifully,
while you romance with much finesse,to the cell phone,
you cling on as if it's the beau you want to show off.
"Wouldn't she make a fine museum piece?"
that would point towards the life style,
that highlights only the moment present,
and constantly on the run to remain there,
while past vanishes and future becomes obscure more and more.
With a gentle smile for you to pick up, when you are at peace,
I move on; more than the museum pieces still living,
I am interested in regular exhibits I easily grasp.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
My bow and arrow I have with me
All ready set in place
To use the very next time I see
Cupid's smiling face
I lie in wait expectantly for him
An ambush I have prepared
No sleep will these eyes of mine have until
His arrows of love I have shared
The very first moment I see him approach
Smiling and wielding his bow
I will draw back with my own true aim
Catch him with his own arrow
Then I will stand with a smile of my own
What a sight to behold it shall be
To watch Cupid fall in love himself
And see how it feels to be me
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
How stand thee tall, judgemental,now? How dost thou choose thy bread?
When all around thee, finger pointers, leer and shake their head.
Have you found a sphere of comfort here, whilst perched upon thy throne?
Has it ever really bothered you, that esconced, you're quite alone?
You live with dire restrictions, imposed so harshly by the Court
And as socially, classed an isolate, it affects you more than ought.
Though recompensed so generously you feel the pressure bound
Because each and every day your judgement rendered, must be sound.
Each utterance decreed by you must hold good Law intoned
Or the Brotherhood Knights Templar shall see you thoroughly dethroned.
A Pillar of Society, though one who stands forlorn
Is the Judge who'se daily client's words are negatively sworn.
The Judge who waits expectantly for that ray of light to shine
But is constantly bombarded by the tarnished shade of crime.
The loneliness is tangible and corrosive wear extreme
For the man who sits in judgement and who'se wisdom must be seen.
Marshalg
Pukehana
13 January 2014
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Nothing but symbol
come and leave
or flash inside my pupil
Prettified, purified, sanctified,
once integrated,
now estranged.
Marching reluctantly,
Recalling expectantly,
Retreating helplessly.
Under sunlight burning,
behind shadows rotting,
meanwhile for both, I longing.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
It sits expectantly on the peg in the dim hallway
just above the miniature blackberry stained walking cane,
waiting to be pulled over that wonderful head
reigning-in errant silver, bushy brows framed.
In the pub in a cloud of smoke,
a pint of beer next to half a Guinness,
just up the road from a market stall
where it waited
A million Christmases ago.
Hide and seek,
bobbing along the top of the untrimmed hedge.
Coming or going – no difference
happiness wherever it goes.
Straining against the South Westerly
soaked in ocean rain
longs for the shoulder-carry from the beach and silly songs
sweat pouring, Friday fish and chips, tea in the ***
Radio 4, crosswords and roasts.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
The ball bounced over
and I, ever ignorant, picked it up
And looked around expectantly
Hoping to throw it back
And finally, for once, join in a game, any game.
"Oh no, she has it now,"
A whisper said
My brown hands gripped the ball
Tighter as if
that could
help
Summoning up my courage
I walked over to one girl
Call her Bonnie, if you like.
I say
In broken English
"Drop you, take this?"
"Thanks"
sarcasm replies
as fingers slowly take it
minimizing contact
When I turn back
Bonnie throws the ball at the ground
and uses her hand-sanitizer
As if possessed.
That night, at home, in the shower,
I scrubbed and scrubbed
Trying to
Destroy
My brown
disease.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
"I shall write a poem today", says my mind
Though I know, ultimately no verse will be designed
And many a day has gone astray
In wait of a single, inspired rhyme.
"I shall write a story today", claims my brain
Even as I watch my thoughts miss their train
And a screen stark white mocks my plight
While the cursor blinks expectantly in vain.
"Maybe I should take a walk", I surmise
And far above me, in the skies
A troubled bird drops a ****
And inspiration splats between my eyes.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
She seemed like a nice, pretty girl, so I had invited her to dinner in a small Italian restaurant. Over aperitifs (spritzer for her, scotch for me) she told me about herself. She was twenty years old, she came from Baltimore, her name was Lucinda, but her family called her Lulu. She had a passion for poetry, in fact she had just finished writing a poem, that very day: would I like to hear it?
In the circumstances, only one answer was possible.
I tried to look suitably impressed, and when eventually it was over, I applauded. "What imagination," I said, "What talent!" She smiled, reached inside her handbag and brought out a sheaf of dog-eared manuscripts. "Dear God," I thought, "There's more!" Oh well; there was still the possibility that after the liqueurs she might ask me back to her place, for *** (Or, as she would probably pronounce it, "coffee".)
So on, and on, she went. The little lady had a talent all right: she could recite and eat simultaneously. Neither the pasta puttanesca nor the saltimbocca di vitello could slow down her almost-rhyming couplets. At last, the papers were all returned to the handbag. She looked at me expectantly. "So, do you think I could get my poetry published?" I paused, to consider my answer. But the pause was too long: she looked right into my eyes, sensed my mood, and in that moment knew what the answer had to be.
During the dessert she crumpled; large, heavy tears fell silently into her zabaglione. Poor lamb! I'd never wanted to hurt her. She didn't deserve the destruction of her dreams.
Who does?
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
Today's barren tree is tomorrows fruitful harvest
live life expectantly
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
i visited you on a Saturday
and i didn't know
what to expect.
you wore a blue sundress
that afternoon,
and we stepped into the shade
of a weeping willow.
we laid and talked,
only talked and held hands.
after a while we walked back to
where you sleep
and talked again.
we talked and then
my love for you grew
as a young man's love will naturally grow
when he is in the arms of his love,
when he is in the arms of love.
we kissed
and such a sweetness i found!
a sweetness as only young ones know when
tasting love for the first time came from
your mouth!
my God! your mouth...
and then we fell,
both of us this time,
fell into something we did not understand,
but knew just the same!
we had been waiting,
one for the other...
to be complete
we gave in to what we could only feel.
nothing we could see or had heard of could have
helped us learn this bravery
against youth.
and so we fell,
blindly, expectantly,
knowing only that
my shadow, my highest,
my heartbeat
would always be yours:
my first, my all-time, my yellow;
walk with me again...
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Today
I Dreamed
That I was sitting with her by a small, rectangle pond
And I was talking to her.
And as she cooled, and sweetly, expectantly, almost apologetically, changed the subject,
I loosened my hair, and began to pull from the pond as it began to cloy and foamed
Handfuls, upon handfuls
Of knotted, used hair bands.
From all the times I had sat there before
And talked to her
About you.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
your eyes search me
looking for scars
that might tell where I’ve been
my body is clean
your words search me
inquiring about my past
and waiting expectantly
my response is brief
your lips search me
feeling for impressions
left by former lovers
I’ve been smoothed over
so I write this poem
to urge you to keep searching
for you are close
and will find me soon
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
"how do i explain it to him"
the explanation will go over his head
you'll have to be bland and watery with your words
you'll say "i love you but i can't do this anymore"
he'll look expectantly at you
but all he'll understand is that you are giving up
not that he has emotionally beaten you to the ground
not that he will never be able to love you as much as you do him
and it will feel like a long f
a
l
l,
your adrenaline will frighten you
but what you must learn is that
love is give and receive
not give and give and give until you have nothing left
he won't understand that
he'll argue that you're just too demanding
but isn't that always his response?
to blame you?
Leave him and find yourself.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
( Feat Syd Rivers)
(Feat Gwen Johnson)
Blast of bright flames
glowing in the horizon,
igniting the trees
A prayer to God
releasing celestial drops,
water saves the land.
Blowing is the wind
carrying seeds of new life
gently caressing
Today’s barren tree
tomorrow’s fruitful harvest
live expectantly.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
What is grace?
Grace is
Gained
Righteousness
At
Christ's
Expense
Meaning that with Jesus' death on the cross, he purchased for us a right relationship with God that we could not have earned for ourselves because
Grace is
Received
And
Cannot be
Earned
And once this
Gift is
Realised it
Adequantely
Covers
Everything
Meaning that every debt is paid, every single sin past, present and future is washed away.
So come expectantly because grace is a
Growing
Revolution
And
Carnal
Execution
Which means that as we leave the flesh behind and die more and more to ourselves, we are stepping into a movement that continues to change to world by
Giving
Redemption
And
Communion to
Everyone
God is
Granting
Rest
After
Condemnation
Ends
Because the
Gap has been
Realised
And
Connected
Entirely
A bridge has been built, the battle has been won and
God
Riegns
And
Christ is
Exalted
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC