"instinctively" poems
slipping in her wet painted petal
bitten by the sting of his bee
her first time, he fumbles being gentle
excitement dancing in his driving need
instinctively possessed
arcing her hips experimentally
his maleness sweetly carressed
teasing his need, tremendously
each submersion in her sweetness
peaking waves swelling in her breast
entwining rhythmic explosiveness
pulsating gush, plunging over the crest
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
coffee.
we meet at starbucks and i can almost pretend nothing changed until i feel the distance in your voice.
i am calm and quiet. i did not expect this
yet here i am sitting in front of you as you explain how you feel (a rarity).
and you and i are alike in more ways than i realized before.
cantalope.
flying through the young night air
i feel alive and free and happy again.
i meet theresa j hanson. dancer, 19, long thin hair and long thin body.
she says she's heard a lot about me and i am surprised and i like her very much (or my first impression anyways) even though you told me that one time that you had *** with her and other girls would probably instinctively hate her. but i can't. she's just so nice and anyways that *** had nothing to do with me.
she gives us cantalope and me ice water.
cigar smoke.
we go out on the little apartament porch and you smoke the cheap cigar, the kind your grandfather smokes. get a red solo cup for the ashes and i found an old ***** butter knife out here. and we sit. and unexpectedly you say can we start over. and im shocked(you've suprisde me so much tonight) but so grateful and of course we can. you blow smoke rings and when you say whooo are youuu i cannot help but think of alice in wonderland and you are the smoking catepillar who asks life's hard questions and am i alice or the queen or the mad hatter or lewis carroll
coming back.
we reinact a a scene as if we just met and i kiss you as if it's the first time and that is how you will remember me and my lips are cold and your mouth is full of smoke and the kiss is fire and ice it's a wonder we did not steam. something so you'll remember me{i will never forget} and i guess we'll figure out on the way.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
I know at night
Searching for your warmth,
You're always in arms reach,
but it feels so far.
You're an eternity away,
yet under the same sheet.
I simply roll closer,
Arms searching for skin.
Though it is dark,
Your silhouette is clear.
Briefly I hesitate,
Am I a comfort to you,
As you have become to me?
My arms close the gap.
Your skin it too warm,
My hands are too cold.
You sigh softly, content.
Our legs instinctively intertwine.
Then your hand closes around mine.
When did this become familiar?
Before I can really think,
I'm comforted by your touch.
Your breathing, so steady,
Matched by your heartbeat.
Then, without my consent,
Without my conscious present,
I begin dreaming.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:20 AM UTC
The first cold letters, alone on the page.
A quick pencil found them,
and the lively and beautiful syllables blossomed.
The pale book felt the pencil,
and the terrifying, hot words entered.
The lines grew, living and sensitive,
gleaming as never before,
and I knew the unheard lines!
First, a tiny and unselfconscious sound.
A noun struggled to appear among overpowering words.
A strong, golden adjective ran out,
a short, fragrant adjective, beautiful in the early spring.
A young verb grew among tiny blue conjunctions,
and a fortuitous adverb understood, instinctively.
The first sentence dreamed of trees, and a sad cloud.
It dreamed a grey rain,
and the tall trees felt the rain.
There was a first and unknown river,
imagined, inconsequential, like snow in summer.
A red bird glided beyond reach,
as if it had never happened.
The soft sounds fitted the lines,
and the quick bird cried,
Remember the short rain!
Remember the sad poem!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.
10.4k
I love a good debate,
[science mixed with illusion]
and this year was no exception:
the debate on the best shapes for a kite
from design implementation, inception and execution
some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue
the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo
and of course built by your own fair hand
such was the intensity of discussion it continued
with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles
drew their prize-winning geometry
with a primitive stick
in the sand
a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside
its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals
and documented film of it successfully tested and tried;
years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood
to know instinctively the difference
between the brilliance of genius
and the borderline
just plain good
If nothing else has come from this
I now
know
[so as not to lose]
K = p/q over 2
or
K = ab – sin Ø
[are the formulas to use]
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
Are you misunderstod?
You are misunderstood!
Are you misunderstood?
You are spiritually touched, in tune with oneself,
yours roots are solid for which you still call.
Are you misunderstood by others, by many, not all?
Why then hide behind a persona as she walks before you?
Hurry up, catch up...
becoming closer to within, almost connected, an old friend, soon to be whole, a reunited soul.
Are you misunderstood?
You are very powerful, more powerful perhaps than even you may realise,
restrained slightly by anquish, may civil unrest be put to sleep, may the cracks reside.
You are misunderstood?
Though as you have seen, tainted through life your heart is pure,
untarnished as it always has been but there,
like an invisible curse,
for it is just your mind ie, other peoples minds in which your aura walks first.
Are you misunderstood?
You are only now becoming who you are, who you already are,
who you have always been, who you were always meant to be,
dont you see, free, free of tense,
free from any external force bearing influence.
For right now, you are not misunderstood!
For right now, you are the most important woman in the world,
yet in the same breath you are irrelevant and not the most important woman in the world
Your desires and aspirations now second, instinctively, to your child and your world.
They are now your universe, the flower in your palm,
May you blossom together, forever, as one.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
If I get lost, promise you'd leave me be
Let me walk alone in my circles
I'll find my way back...almost instinctively
Through looping thoughts and scribbles
If I should trip, promise you'd let me fall
Scrape my knee and scream a voiceless scream
Weight of the universe may seem crushing to shoulders so small
I'll walk it off and regain newfound steam
If I show signs of buckling, promise you'd let me collapse into nothing
Let me fold into myself...into an unnoticeable speck
There is solace in this space when the walls are caving
Soon I would reinvent and renew from that wreck
If I suffer a cut, promise you'd just let me bleed
Let the black of my soul gush out
Within it I would find the seed
To which all of my rantings are about
If I should begin to write, promise you'd read my scrawls
Take them as they are and not to heart
Just thoughts versus words that mean much or nothing at all
They'd stitch me anew when I start to break apart
If I keep losing myself, promise that you'd let me be
The circles I tread are very much predictable
They'd always lead me around... Don't treat me differently
Just stay where you are... I'll come back round, fresh and able...
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
The honeybee creeps forward out of necessity to the flower
The *** opens up a box of gemstones
I am looking at the flower
I sit in park and a man walks up to me, instinctively sensing that I need someone, something. What I want is not what I need.
Nature spreads her view in and of time through perception & stillness
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
thank god, above all
me, born in age of female equality evolution
in any other age
me, a slave
confined by financial, educational and social inequality
fueled by power deluded women-peons
leaving mountains and dungeons in passing
tears of blood
shed by disillusioned soul
instinctively knowing,
i can create my own destiny
life time spend achieving
smoothing the road for future daughters
BUT
satans has intervened once more
present daughters do not value
their priceless inheritance
many squander it, willingly
but few remain
with noble footing
instinctively calling out, to higher power
uneducated, still knowing
god exist, he is watching
and my inner strength comes from my creator
who created for a purpose
hail the king of kings
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
Petite arctic terns
navigate the sky
on epic migration
wings clocking
45,000 miles each year
it seems they know
how to go
with the flow
by thumbing a lift
on atmospheric airways
that crisscross the planet
adding thousands of
seemingly needless miles
to an already
arduous journey
flocks congregate
in open ocean
to rest and fuel up
on fish and krill
for the last push home
these tenacious birds
understand
the cliché
it's all about
the journey
they synchronize
with invisible currents
because to beat
into the wind
is a futile expenditure
they pause
in community
to re-energize and feed
on unfathomable
bounty
four ounces
of feather
and hollow bone
instinctively holds
these truths
there is much
to be learned
from an
arctic
tern.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
You were my coffee today
Just walking along the road
to Hell knows where on the last day of July
My car made the turn onto Sheridan
and my eyes caught the motion of your swagger,
dark pants
Black tank
Probably a red shirt wrapped around your waist
corded arms slightly bowed to give the impression of a badass
your long hair flowing in the morning air
In an instant your head came up
Instinctively giving you the image of my nearing car
And then you smiled
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.
I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.
“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.
Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.
As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”
She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.
She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.
“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Soulmate.
Found too late.
You already have a mate.
Our eyes meet from across the street.
Instinctively knowing we were meant to meet.
You feel entirely whole, healed and intact.
You cross, closing the divide.
Both of you knowing this cannot be denied.
Right there in the middle of the road.
You touch and the air explodes.
Eyes locked, all life's experiences communicated.
A soft smile, a nod and a goodbye.
Another time another July.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
the enemy is.....you
(all of our "you's")
the enemy...........
always fights
the pure simple truth
we know is true
instinctively
the enemy claims
(always)
to love you
the enemy points out there
and says
"see......the ENEMY!
don't worry!
i will protect you!!!"
THE BENEVOLENT ENEMY!!!
but
i will see you on the open field
i will see you in the ancient hall
i will see you in the alleyway
i will see you in chains, in court
i will see you when you start
moving towards the door
that is symbolic of "the heart"
i will see you when i see
in the mirror
my own true face
THE DAY
(OR NIGHT!)
IS
ALWAYS YOUNG
the enemy of the enemy
is only love
the enemy of the enemy
is only love
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC
At the very end of the forest you will see
A lonesome silhouette standing in the sea
It seems gazing at the infinite horizon
While bathing under the vivid light of the moon
It was clearly a silhouette of a person
A maiden with a hair that was adored by dawn
And a body of an hour glass in the unknown
Sparkling as though diamond on a podium
But it is not what peaks my curiosity
It was the feeling that surged through me
Like seeing a very candid photography
Void with lies and ambiguity
But when I tried to reach out to the lady
She recoils from me instinctively
Now my thirst to know her identity
Burns in my throat painfully
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 12:57 PM UTC
Dont come to me with these feelings that you fabricated, dont try and remind me of the times that you made me feel obligated, just dont come close when your feeling lost and conceded because one day I won't be here to take it. I just need time, something you could never give and its been a crime that I let you bite me in the back with teeth like some toothbrush shivs. This is just who I am, these words are the bones that make up a body which emotions flow through like blood, thoughts are the veins that make jet streams shooting out from the end of frayed tips of an amputation gone wrong. With my wounds I bring a flood and like a wolf you were instinctively drawn, the scent of a dying animal brought you close but then you chose to dispose instead of being exposed, you walked away and said sorry but now you come back talking about a decision you loath? Your a wound I was willing to close.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
*Our souls
instinctively seem to know,
all too well,
all of the matters that our minds
fail to comprehend.
Our minds
often tend to get
somewhat overwhelmed,
by all of the things
that they struggle to understand.
Our souls
travel more than a few steps
ahead of us - they are guided
by our blessed intuition.
The insight
from our souls
develop into gut instincts -
it is to these,
that we should surely listen.
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
An exit for expression
An admittance with no fee
A mind free from excluding
An exhibition without end
The centerpiece- an installation
Ever moving within its frame
Its contents constantly disappearing
To reveal a blank canvas to be filled once more
The artist turns out to be me, and me alone
Leaving my post is an improbability
As the gallery holding me hostage is my own mind
Yet in truth, I find happiness in this prison cell
Without sleep I find energy from passers by
Who refuel my passion with their coins
Thrown into my hat beside me
Tokens of positivity that they cannot directly give
The door is always open
Even to those who find fault with the artist
Who tease me in my chained feet
And hurl their abuse with intent to delay completion
Yet still, I welcome companionship of viewers
Without noticing the deviants who scratch away at my painting
My selflessness renders me unable to notice evils
Blinding me with the future I paint before my eyes
My piece is never mastered
For I am distracted by evils constant approach
Presenting me with gifts of seeds, that grow in my soils
Only to blossom as weeds, and eat away at all goodness
But my grounds are open, and my job demands time
Rarely do I have the time to look upon works accomplished
But I steal a moment as sun and moon change shifts
Only to be met a view that gives no happiness as before
My stubborn positivity keeps defences up
Protecting myself from taunters and ghosts who take refuge in corners
I am distracted by my own optimism, the joy of what I do
But it hinders me, in ways I cannot defeat
My ability to seek vengeance was never yielded nor encouraged
So instinctively as always, I turn not to the voices behind me
And paint upon the canvas once more
The doors still open
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
There are times where
We are sitting together
And my hand
Instinctively finds your's
Normally I do not like
Being touched at all
Never a fan of hand holding
Always quick to put distance
Between myself and another
Because the contact
Was suffocating
But with you
It is different
It feels different
And the closeness
Is not a hardship to be endured
But a joy to be celebrated
Because when I look down to find your hand in mine
I smile
And know that for once
All is okay
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
Noon had barely finished his circuit
when I engaged the Sun in conversation,
wondering if her healing rays were a golden ode to pain?
Abruptly interrupted;
shirts' silk thread dripping displeasure,
at the sudden moistness of its condition.
In return and in much the same verbal position,
I chided this thread,
intoxicated with sticky saline libation,
much less for the distraction
as opposed to the - parley intrusion,
citing;
“My dear shirt it’s impolite to gravitate beyond one's social inclusion”
Instinctively,
back and fingers joined this spoken foray
distancing themselves in unison
from the sozzled garments' argument.
Arching and pulling away,
his company no longer entreated,
whatever beauty he had,
now lost,
in his present
dis - position.
In agreement and sunshine unabating,
I attempted to continue our once lovely conversation.
But she;
her glow unwaning,
had moved on,
no longer finding such small talk entertaining.
© Qwey.ku
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
Her eyes transmit, his nerve ends become receptors.
Blood pumped in to his veins demands"Bring her closer"
His nostrils flare, lips get swollen,a tingle spreads all over.
A hotblooded woman, instinctively sense such moments.
Her eyes are now lit up by desire, laced with refined lust.
And lips acquire a luscious pout,colored a shade deeper.
Her eyes wink involuntarily,can't hold it there, they droop.
In a sudden weakness of eyes,both touch the waterline,close.
He could hear his heart beat faster,mercury rise is palpable.
From his inner sanctum,the beating of the drum is now louder.
Her eyes flare in the tremors that rock her to her very roots.
Those eyes are wet,the erupting spring of lubricious intent.
It's out in the open, neither him nor her could now pretend
Furtive glances do not ignite anything other than coy smiles
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-
-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.
i don't want to forget.
"don't want to?"
no. i can't.
i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.
i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes
i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.
i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi
i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.
i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.
i cannot forget.
because you will.
you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?
when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.
i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.
but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
An empath
Just a ProSonderer
Nothing more
But quick to learn
every human’s soul
will be instinctively felt
just as the breeze flows
through that open window
A soul
it’s wandering to your heart’s beat
on rare occasion it deviates from the tune
nothing more
—Because you don’t acknowledge
its existence yet;
Could you truly expect to progress
in finding your soul’s mate
when you don’t even know your spirit’s home?—
A pair of souls is always made from a single star
so when you find another
that renders your talkative self speechless
or leaves your smooth conversing ways to only a stutter
Find another that leaves you in awe and wonder
that makes your chest feel comfort in the ache
when you're longing not only at midnight
but in public midday for that other
if its a flame
that just won't fade
no matter how long you stay
tell yourself to not push this one away
you're not in danger anymore
let that person breach your barricades
allow them a chance to understand your spirit’s ways
you'll soon stop automatically
encouraging them to go
the day will arrive when you won’t be itching to show them the door
chances are you'll find
nothing's worth more
then an empath finding their
lone star soul in their own time
And as a sondering empath
I understand having that
(impenetrably
-fragile only to a certain fine-tuned touch-
translucent but sporadically opaque)
guard with others
Seems like a darkly humored folklore
a normal person’s usual day
is just a daunting notion due to exhaustion from feeling everyone's emotion
but when you meet that one
you won't just understand their soul
you'll have a brand new reading
and it’ll feel horrifyingly confusing
just remember there's a first time for everything
when that someone intuitively understands you.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC