"fumblings" poems
http://m.wikihow.com/Unhook-a-Bra
Pinch the eyelets but oh so gently,
To properly unhook the device to safely release paradise
From it's containment chamber.
This be one of many secrets to unlocking
The mechanism that holds some of the happy things
The human body artist conceived
To perpetuate the
Species.
According to the internet,
To extract joy to the world correctly,
Depends upon both your station and your
Positioning.
Thus, it helps to have GPS,
Which most men think is that pointy thing
Between their legs,
But is not.
Given the laws of gravity,
And other natural limitations,
Sadly that utensil of little avail
In this surgical operation.
If one desires to release the tension
Between the connectors of the protectors,
Guardians of her heart,
It will be necessary to
Let your fingers do the walking.
So cut and paste the title above,
In your web browser place!
Do your homework or risk feeling
As petite as a schnauzer.
Seems your natural tendency,
Righty or lefty, matters in this endeavor,
Of which I was unawares, oft pressing the incorrect lever.
This, the likely cause of my spectacular
Teenage
Fumblings and failures.
Had I known that fact,
In the days before the Internet,
Surely I would have brought along my
Catchers mitt
To step up my game.
Sage advice the article provides:
*Get a bra, and practice, practice, practice!
It gets easier with experience.*
But methinks that is a bit of a
Risky adventure,
Lest you be seen boy,
Practicing upon yourself,
Or even a dummy,
Dummy!
So cut and paste the title above
In your web browser,
Do your home work or risk feeling
As petite as a pocket schnauzer.
But the most important tip
This wealthy article of information provides,
The conclusion.
In the hour of your desperate struggle,
Drooping
Ego
And
Crushed
Pride,
Ask for assistance from one more practiced,
Hopefully nearby,
Whose help usually comes with a charming smile
of touching condescension
For your male idiocy and verbal in-articulation.
*She, unawares, that you have got her
Positioned precisely where you want!*
For when you lift her up,
In a free state, the one Divinity intended,
and in your arms, enfolded and protected,
In one grand poetic gesture,
Sweep her off her feet,
Her surprise will be
**..
O
So Touching!**
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
"Write what you know."
I want to write about
beautiful things,
but I only know
ugly.
Ugly hearts and stone blood.
Fetid loyalty.
I want to write about a love as pure as honey,
but all I know are the poison-tipped thorns of betrayal.
If I could put the right words
in the right order
at the right time
and explain what it means to lose you,
nobody would care.
I'd like to write about
my happy family,
laugh filled birthdays
and joyous gatherings,
but I only know
fractious,
secretive,
********
I want to touch another soul
make a connection with my words
share a part of my self
and help someone in the process,
but all I have been taught is
taking
keeping
lying
hiding
running
ruining.
I would love to write
like Pablo,
of wheat
and bread
and fields that don't weep,
but all I know are
desperate fumblings
in ******
beer soaked bathrooms,
back alley
drunken
********
by black
barely passable trannys,
diseases and
barely consensual bloodstains.
I cannot speak of such things.
It's bad enough I think about them,
even worse I write about them.
I write what I know.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
Thunder over Karl Marx’s grave
here comes night
running at me with scissors
dangling sellotape
half finished art projects
still weigh heavy on your mind
like all those missed opportunities,
a C should have been an A.
Pastels not paint. The smudged trail of a finger
across ****** feelings which
surface back to tentative fumblings
with a sister’s friend’s Barbie
the smooth plastic bendable limbs
the positions configured with a one armed Action Man
eagle-eyed and
watching
and if I ever feel down
if I ever feel low
I think back to a story I once read about a woman
who had her face ripped off by a chimpanzee
and as she screamed
the chimpanzee leapt up and down
primitive rage grinning.
Not a pleasant sight I can imagine
but when I feel down,
that’s what I think about,
a woman
and a chimpanzee
ith a face hanging from his primate fangs.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:04 AM UTC
Tired clot of night
in the moon’s slight of hand
in the moon’s slight—
place to hang my hat....
Winter clouds come tumbling toward
the gray
Raked clean by barren trees
Yard waits with its leaves
tucked in corners by the wind
along hedges, stairways
mingling with renegade trash
Stuffed in layers like elderly keepsakes for—
no one cares...
My yard—a neglect of winter woods
but for towels waving stiffly on the line
and the squealing crackle of my footsteps—
Being there
Stairs sigh differently coming home
Blind search for a key hole
I could die searching!
the frustrations of the blind
the fumblings of “locked out!”
I—
know where to go....
Pretend
in my warm lonely
fling—mittens on the table
Survey the ***** dishes...and
close my eyes
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
such heights
that the heart soars
that the world soaked in such delightful
and enchanting light
that the limitless endurance of unbound soul
and strength of but even such a small smile
her kitten perfect punk rock makeup
entices me to kiss her
but i get entangled in the knitting needle
stuck in her eyebrow
its sharp surface reflections
gives me a glimpse of myself
and my noble knight shinning armor fumblings
and how quaint i must be to her
so old and all
with my guitar and my candles
in the hall
singing a serenade in broken french
at three am
i cook dinner for the six of us
but her friends all female versions
of jealous eyes
just look at my food with guilty suspicion
and the reflections are starting to get to me
after all how should i see
myself except as her other half
and im lacking a mohawk
and id feel kinda silly in one so
i drive in the towns roundabout
looking for a burmuda cop in downtown miami
from these grand heights
i find my way down to the realization
that i never fit into her sense of style
but i went in perfect with her collection of keychains
and teddy bears
im a collectable from the poets line
and how many got of of them hanging bout in the closet
but she strips down and says
hey babe forget the fashion noise
come here and get you some nookie
wanna chew on ya like a chocolate chip cookie
from the grand heights
to going down on the depths
aint so bad after all
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
They say “write what you know”
I want to write about love and beauty, but I only know ugly.
No heart has ever belong to me,
no hands have ever sparked at a touch.
Ugly lives with creative minds,
given courtesy of dreamy teen rom coms.
I want to write about fun family trips and birthdays'.
Joyous days spent frolicking on the beach,
but I only know secrets, shouting, spite.
Love that should be given as sweet as honey,
yet this family bee sting is laced with bitterness.
I would love to write about the moments of content.
wrapped in the light of the moon with someone,
breathing in synchronisation.
To tremor when I stand around you,
my heart racing to keep up with my shaky infatuation.
So i don’t write about these things.
I write about awkward fumblings,
ungracefulness of my ungainly movements.
dinners with no conversation,
the dullness of an everyday flat life.
I write what i know.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Our purest selves
Reaching deep
Warm and wild
Our blood thunders
Tearing through elastic highways
Driven by that rough, rubbery pump
Congregating like pack animals
Evolving thick as thieves
Rough and oily with dull wit and sharp tongues
Minds crackling with electric waste
Droning in the distance
Responding to wide signals
Follow follow follow
Driven by primitive urges and flights of fancy and pickling liquor
Rough clumsy fumblings in backseats
Stolen moments behind straight backs
Populations pour from our bodies
Often devoid of purpose
Leaving us with shredded dignity
And tired blue collar hands
Where our dreams come to an abrupt halt
It is all we can do to live in the present
For in being ill we have drawn a line through our future
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
Redolence
by Michael R. Burch
Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway;
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.
Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills,
all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares;
mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again
flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures
the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain.
And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.
Published by Poetry Magazine, Poetic Reflections, The New Formalist, Carnelian, Little Brown Poetry, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, Net Poetry and Art Competition, The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003, Romantics Quarterly, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times and Trinacria
Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, night, darkness, violet, hills, rain, fresh, cleansing, fragrance, perfume, clings, clinging, obscure, sweet, concerto, dance, dancer
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 11:16 PM UTC
My forgiveness
will not come from you -
smiling, snake tongued
liars.
With your holier than thou eyes.
and bitter hearts.
For now, I only ask it
of myself.
For my fumblings, my fears -
as I begin again.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
..What was meant was never said and what is satiable isn’t fed upon. Long to be that faun in a misty meadow, lounging at dawn on the grass, gazing upon the peaks of eternity. What are we learning and what’s with the misuse? We tenderly abuse that which we dwell on. Claiming it a love letter, when a Better view reveals(in a peeling manner) that these are just clingings of a scrotal piercing fashion. Latching to these attachments as sacraments of dependability, nullifies valued spectacality. The pureness to the core of reality and the mess is a beautifully delicious birthday cake which never ends
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 5:21 PM UTC
It burns a little,
And it never goes away.
There's a nagging feeling,
Maybe this is the end.
The beginning of a new chapter,
Beginning of a new book.
If it was fiction,
It wouldn't burn so much.
Going back in time,
Into blurry late nights.
Drunken fumblings,
And no success.
Inbetween the darkness,
I looked into the day.
The sun was shining,
While we lay in bed.
In your bed we lay.
I was awake,
Looking at the sunlight.
You slept through the day.
That's where it started,
Where something corrupted.
Drugs and free love,
Are best left to the movies.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 4:29 PM UTC
In the confusion of our ****** escapades, was there any true connection?
Maybe there was, and I wasn’t looking hard enough into your eyes
Those sticky fumblings seemed to be my only thought
I’m starting to think that’s all I wanted, and in those moments I was wrong
A carnal monster I was, filled with my hedonistic whims
And now those memories don’t give me pleasure
They fill my stomach with sickness, such regret that burns
Madness it seems to be, to worry about something so futile
But I think you were trying to love me, and I was just trying to satisfy cravings
You weren’t a person to me in those moments, you were just a meal in my gluttony
And now here I am at bars, repeating my process of hunting
For I am man, the primal beast of the blackened crust
Stuck inside the dreams of ignorance, inside a locked room
And I have the key
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
I cannot believe
in a God of the Few
Condemning the souls of the Many
My reason insists
That this cannot be true
For His love is eternal in plenty
Hate is the ruse
Of the faithless man
Believing himself undeserving
And holding below him
The countless souls
With faith neither strong nor unswerving
But I hold before me
Compassionate God
Amused at my fumblings apparent
Loving and kind
In the tenderest way
Forgiving me when I am errant
For all His creation
Must something destroy
Destruction can be a thing grand
Consider volcanoes
Destroying themselves
In process creating new land
My soul is consumed
With the fires of love
Which leaves my heart painful and raw
Yet as the ash settles
And soon falls away
What's left is the love of God's law
God's law can be summed up
In one single word
And Love is the word that is meant
His law is but Love
In its purest form
The Original Element
I cannot believe
There is only one way
To honor and worship God
If that were the truth
We would all be the same
And this world unspeakably odd
But God in His wisdom
Made each one unique
Both in how we view Him above
And in our great challenge
That noblest of quests
Creating yet new ways to Love.
1999
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
When I was 15 I had no real friends, and that was okay. Being shut up alone inside was fine as long as I didn't give myself time to think. I had some laughs, and I had classmates, and I wrote and wrote and wrote and it was alright.
But then the **** boy had to sing.
Not just musically, though god knows he did that wonderfully too. He sang to me with his weirdness and brains and odd duck humor that I relished in.
We even really met in a musical, as poetic as it is.
I spent every afternoon around him, and I thought he just laughed back at me in his confident, beautiful, lyrical way. I was a little in love with him.
One day I found myself shouting at him about being prying, and him at me for being secretive, and somehow it ended with me telling him that he was my secret. That the way I could close my eyes and picture the road map of his heart through the words that he sang was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
It was the first day I ever heard him stutter.
After some awkward verbal fumblings and confused wires, we collided, two insecure children thinking we were artistic adults. We saw ourselves as some grand creative romance when really we were two weird kids finding infatuation under bright stage lights.
After a few weeks more stumbling, and harsh words around, that initial fizzling collision just kept on colliding until our heads were jostled a little too well.
I broke his heart in a high school hallway, only a month after we began.
Like the artist he was, he poetically asked me for a final kiss before letting me go.
Also, poetically, it ended up not being our final kiss at all. But trust me, despite my desperation to try the collisions and passion again, he made sure that second final kiss really was the last.
That was the end of our love story.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 12:25 AM UTC
I miss the touch
of lust The intimacy
of lips on skin
Desperate ecstatic
fumblings Giving way
to honest
desperation
Hotly whispered
requests
Secret yearnings
No need for shame
No need for love
Just tell me what
you like.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
It is with trepidation he treads the raised ridges of puckered pink on your skin.
He holds you like an artist cradling a vase
His eyes captivated by you, yet touching you only delicately, the moment shadowed by the fear
That your fragile self might shatter.
He knows that glint of hate in your eyes when you look at a mirror;
When you touch, skin on skin, caresses and fumblings and kisses and hitched breaths,
It is always dark.
You don’t have to see the scars;
and neither does he.
The shadows hide the faults, the flaws, the fears.
* * *
The day I saw your mother hug you, and step back to look at you with pride, her arms clutching yours, only to recoil when she felt the healing skin, and remove her hands indelicately, I knew –
I would never love you gently.
Everyone else walked on eggshells around you. Everyone else expected you to crumble at the slightest breeze of disaffection. Everyone else told you in their actions that you were fragile.
I wanted to tell you you were strong.
When we argued I didn’t lower my voice in case it sounded like your demons, when my hand traced the angry red lines that decorated your arms I did not kiss them better or withdraw my touch, when our lips would brush i was never delicate, never timid -
you have had enough of timid.
I knew the glint of hate in your eyes when you looked in the mirror, so when we lay skin on skin I made sure there was light and you could see the scars just as i could, and you could see the warmth in my eyes as they drank them in, and you could learn to look at them the same way.
We had love without shadows.
And I loved you -
lights on.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
the old man pushes his lens
into the soft salt of her thoughts
trying to decipher the meanings of whispered cries
trying to divine the truth to the tale
he peered at the living moving thoughts
as they spun and danced just out of reach
just out of perceptions touch
teasing and laughing at his fumblings and grasping
the lead him on blind to his destinations
they lead him on of their own accord
you could just see him in a rapture of her lights
stumbling down dark road
walking like the sleeping innocence into the wilderness
into places only she would know
the old man muttered curses for the elusive dream
muttered wishes to see the truth of the daylight dream
he sipped from the dusty jug
and wiped a trembling hand across sunburned lip
still his gaze locked on the pretty lights
locked on the enticing thought
follow me my sweet i will give you loves and comforts
follow me my lover i will lead you to safe warm heavens
locked in the twisting turning spinning song
of her bright lovely thoughts
you can find him sitting in desolate wilderness
staring into a thimble of bright light
with a grin of rapture on his withered face
with a death grip on the glowing promise of joy
of her pretty thoughts
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
poems and people striving to be recognized on the mean
streets, here and there,
I wish I could catch their yearning
in a jar like a firefly and light every one
of my nights
up like I used to,
in hot summer wind runnings
and fumblings
when youth and naivete
had my ***** tangled in knots
in my crotch
experience every verb as if I was living it
and touch once again the essence of young spirits,
but comes a day when,
all you can do is say,
go on young love's,
experience
say you'll be there forever
and at the time you feel it,
and you and I did
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
i have loved you since the dawn of April
how fitting to fall in the rise of blooms
among the whispers of spring
we danced all night--
turning a bed of greenery into a dance floor
our feet didn't mind the faint fumblings
because our hearts were to busy skipping and tripping over beats
that night i fell in love with you
but was too scared to tread the unknown waters
filled with passions of uncharitable ferocity
so silent i kept
carefully tracing infinity signs on the inside of your arm as you slept
because this moment
i knew
was infinite
almost as infinite as the night that hid the tears shining in my eyes.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Who knew one could rhyme with such ease
Surely the timing was merely a tease
To plot, to spot, to tumble down the parts, a feeling of locked up spirits and twisted smarts
If this is rocket science, hand me a pen, for a career in the space field I must sign to again
-cj
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
In you I knew love.
Not the tired fumblings of ecstasy.
Not unreal in expectation.
Never staged,
Unrealistic.
But something new —
Handmade,
Resplendent.
Warmth, shelter, nourishment.
Fever, passion, majesty.
Acceptance, forgiveness, rebirth.
Endless gifts!
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
All things move toward their end.
Now without you.
In mourning,
A final lesson.
Your happiness is my true desire.
I'll be here.
Always.
Remember me,
My love.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
REMNANTS RISING
Rising from reductions ,weightless whisp then a possibility of fright in flight
Startled, raked back into normalcy, ignorance to the fathoms of the breath the inner depths
Blissfully blind to the peers, but internally largely unknown fears, passive knowing only right
Fractions of forces gathered to form a mass ,drips driven down gradually gaining while you slept
As a minion not forming an opinion is never a crime ,shame or blame a yet to be played game
That blink or wink still unknown verbs ,waiting for the possibility to become part of your personality
Remaining suppressed, not ready for our minds or souls to fully digest,awaiting in embers until forming a flame
Naivete begins as a valuable trait ,holding back fears or tears ,behind curtains ,future fumblings maybe forthcoming
Applications in stages,still blind but curiosity for the future is strength,from blind to building blocks
Distressing verbiage now seen as fancy neuro terms ,tics ,twitches ,no longer from unknown trenches
when younger we plunder ,no time to sit or wonder,maybe symptoms mild,grains waiting to be rocks
Mediocrity can become costly in blunders ,recall that knowledge or sit wondering on the benches
Mild medium as kind stages then BOLD,BRASH even DEADLY,DISASTROUS no longer just phases
Presence of mind now seen as a "present to OUR kind" no fiction or labels, now a need to be stable
Discovery is not an end but maybe a new beginning ,future pain now known to be winning
alien ramblings into recognized ,certified,specialty, terminology ,up to par not living a fable.R.C.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:18 AM UTC