"joins" poems
This is how it goes
your hands will be proxy for mine
my hands will be proxy for yours
your fingers my fingers
and my fingers yours
what I describe, you enact
told in detail so exact
Just to begin
I squeeze your *******
knead and pinch
tweak a ******
give it a tug
Stroke your tummy
work over your thighs
move up the inner
where skin is smooth
circle around, moving in
till soft contours are caressed
through pants that burn
to be removed
that pain you to wear
and I see in my mind
as you describe
the spreading, darkening patch
that fills the gusset
Now they're pulled down
removed quickly, completely
and you are revealed
spread, opened, shameless
Gentle fingertips tease
dance in circles, barely touching
yet the fire within grows
back and forth, round and round
dance the fingertips
as both reciprocate
with growing pace
and firmer touch
I hear you gasp down the line
and your breathing quickens
as you hear mine
as your excitement fuels mine
as mine fuels yours
in our feedback loop of lust
And I tell you how
my fingertip would give way
to tonguetip if I could
that I can taste you
in my imagination
fragrant, salty sweetness
with musky undertones
the tip of my tongue now circling
then flicking back and forth
beating out the rhythm
that you best harmonise with
bringing forth your moans
Then darting down, back
between wet, glistening folds
exploring each ridge and valley
working remorselessly
Breathing faster now
with animal grunts and moans
directions of pleasure gasped
breathless down the phone
As fingers again
take the lead
find the opening
slip readily within
probe, explore, ****
find that place
on your front wall
yes, just that spot
that's a little rougher
and feels sooo goood
Add a second finger
working and *******
licking and rubbing
moaning and gasping
barely intelligible now
...yess...more...yess...ohhh
are all that have meaning
Finger three joins one and two
then the pressure builds
demanding release
and shaking and thrusting
grows to shuddering
and...yes...yesss...sooo clooose
******* faster furiously
till we both explode
hearing each other's
voicing of our ecstasy
in language intelligible
only in this one context
Brains and voices return
as we bask in the afterglow
and what passes between us then
in those moments
is the deepest intimacy of all
Cynthia Pauline Jones 01/02/2014
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.
Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.
Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.
Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.
Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber'd streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.
Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.
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Why is it
When I see your face
All I could think of, is how much I miss you?
How much I want to keep laughing
And hugging
And cuddling you.
How much I want to keep you safe inside my arms
While your voice kept on mumbling about her.
I just can't help myself
From loving you
Even though you still don't understand it.
Why am I trying so hard to give you as much lights as I can
When I don't even have a small gleam to keep myself awaken
And alive?
All you're doing, is break me and hide the scars
Putting on as many band-aids as you can
And making my skin joins up together again
But you never take the time
To look inside my flesh
And see how much veins, and thews you have tore.
You flip my world upside-down
You break my bones all the time
You kissed my hopes away
Can you at least fix me once again?
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
Sweetly does the rain
Sing against my window,
As it stirs the lavender
That caresses my nose,
Growing beneath my window as
My mother planted it there to do.
Wary do I grow of counting the
Lines,
Groves,
And cracks in my ever changing ceiling.
I try making out images instead of counting, Lacking creativity all I can see is
White,
Frooved
Clouds.
Dusk is capturing the world now and
The rain has finished it’s melody,
The insects and frogs
Take the stage and
Somewhere in the distance
Is the cry of a lone hawk,
Maybe feeling left out of the insects and frogs Choirs as,
He cries
His sad
Song.
Pondering as to what the
Hawk’s story is
And as I ponder
I begin to hum
A soft melody keeping time
With the frogs and insects,
Maybe I am feeling left
Out like the hawk?
A breeze joins in,
String up the glories
Smell of lavender again
And cooling my face as it
Comes through the open window
I slowly drift
Off
To
Sleep...
...zzz
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
Floating along the surface of the sea
Looking up the wide unending space of the sky
Here I lay
With no thoughts in my mind
All I can hear are the screams of the bubbles
Popping
Screaming for help
But it is still peaceful
It joins the harmony
Symphony
Serenity
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Summer scents and summer heat
Teenagers' laughter and water flying
Dripping heads and shoeless feet
Trees wear flowers and the sun is shining
To him the day's grey and there's too much noise
Smothered in his black shirt he's ignored by other boys
Saved by the bell, he joins the row some teacher leads
While a group of pupils talks, two girls argue and one reads
At his usual seat he takes his usual things
Acting like he's writing while he's finishing some drawings
Yet his mind slips away to something near
Someone's stare makes his concentration disappear
Frustrated his eyes find her silent stare
When the teacher turns his back, she leaves her desk in one, two, three
Unbalanced he acts like he doesn't care
He could just pretend like he didn't see
Next to him she takes place
The seat astonished by the company
Her hands slowly reach his face
And before he knows his vision gets blurry
Still wondering what's going on, the poor boy has no clue
Until she whispers- with his glasses on:
Now I see the world like you.
Y.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
There is a harsh beauty in mathematics.
Under curves and over slopes,
Equations rise and fall endlessly
In a perfectly measured void.
Optimized, rationalized, sterilized;
Formulas that never lie,
Theorems looming before us
Like an archaic God,
A golden deity whose
Volume is maximized.
How I dream of drifting in this flux,
Concave up and concave down,
Riding the sign of my second derivative
For positive and negative,
For better and worse.
I would not travel alone;
With C by my side,
Friend, ally, brother,
Always paired with my antiderivative,
For whenever we journey back
Into the past, it is necessary
To have a companion to pull us out again
In case we are unsure of where we started.
Rules and laws
Strict organization, control;
There is a harsh beauty in mathematics.
Order; two plus two is always four.
Sines and cosines and theta
All dancing in the unit circle of life,
A conga line that joins itself
To form a mathematical ouroboros.
But the harshest of the harsh beauties
Presented in this Divine Subject
Is that though there is an infinite capacity
For positivity and growth,
So too is there the possibility of stretching
Endlessly towards negativity forever.
However, it is much more terrifying
To lie in the middle;
To be undefined, unknowable, and to add
Or subtract to no effect;
The most fear inducing, mysterious, and gorgeous number
Of zero; nothing yet something,
Infinite yet not,
The most grand of all contradictions.
A hole; a jump; a discontinuity,
Easily removed from life and smoothed out
If you just apply the formulas.
Graphs and coordinates, integers and ordered pairs,
Is that not what life is?
We live within the grandest equation,
Each our own variable,
Constantly solving for ourselves
With the harsh beauties of mathematics.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Engineer's thinking
Arrives at the drawing
Makes design from drawing
Design When comes to field
It joins humanity
Engineer's from here
Preferences begin.
Engineer a true secular
Its purpose is relative to humanity
Irrespective of America or Iran
Measure is the same everywhere
This is his religion & faith.
Engineer's passion
Earth, Sky and Sea
Made the possibilities
Everywhere was he
Realities to him
Can not hide for a moment
That's where he becomes
A machine only
Involved in consciousness
Efficiency becomes everything
Eating, drinking, living
There is no avoiding them
Mountains,plains, sea
Becomes his home
Vegetarian, non-vegetarian
Same for him
Engineer is complete global
Where he finds interesting work
Becomes a citizen there.
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
I play softball,
She comes to my game,
She starts playing softball.
I'm a catcher,
She's a catcher.
I'm first base,
She's first base.
I'm pitcher,
She's a pitcher.
I'm agrivated,
She's amused.
I'm taking lessons,
She's taking lessons.
I'm not a catcher,
She's a catcher.
I'm a pitcher,
She's not a pitcher.
Copy Cat.
I join a team,
She joins two teams.
I practice hard in my backyard,
She claims she does also.
I admit I take lessons,
She refuses to admit the fact that
She takes lessons because
She's untrusting.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
I.
While raging tempests shake the shore,
While Ælus’ thunders round us roar,
And sweep impetuous o’er the plain
Be still, O tyrant of the main;
Nor let thy brow contracted frowns betray,
While my Susanna skims the wat’ry way.
II.
The Pow’r propitious hears the lay,
The blue-ey’d daughters of the sea
With sweeter cadence glide along,
And Thames responsive joins the song.
Pleas’d with their notes Sol sheds benign his ray,
And double radiance decks the face of day.
III.
To court thee to Britannia’s arms
Serene the climes and mild the sky,
Her region boasts unnumber’d charms,
Thy welcome smiles in ev’ry eye.
Thy promise, Neptune keep, record my pray’r,
Not give my wishes to the empty air.
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The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet,
And whither then? I cannot say.
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A slow sun
Peeps over the horizon
The golden dawn
Joins the lovers in
Their warmest embrace
Promise of
The most perfect day
Offered with reverence
From God Herself
Before the daydream
Can even begin
A swift hand
Snaps the blind shut
A not so casual escape
Towards the cliff edge
Startling the curious bluebirds
That were beginning to gather
Vanish does the dawn.
With caution
Light fingers trace the earth exposed
Cracked
Repelling all offers of relief
Regret overwhelming
The warmth of the sacred center
Evaporates rapidly
Releasing a sigh
Light and heavy
In every way
She retreats
As once again
She is reminded
That he is not
A morning person
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 3:24 PM UTC
If that night could remember
it would call him back
to our Chinese restaurant
to fried rice and steaming tea
to our winter refuge of tile and cushions
60s retro black and white
Chrome legs of lacquered tables
with its mural of
our Great Wall
...winding, distant, wonder
If the snow hadn't muffled all
but our voices
we would not be—
so alone
Only I
felt his arm take its chance
around my shoulder
Guiding warmth
as good excuse as any
to touch
Two miles on foot
An arc in time
In lace of white
to hide— what might....
Below my window
“Good Night”
not enough
for troubadour
singing, pleading, stumbling...
(I worry about his long way home)
...and hardly notice...
How gently Time joins Snow
as if they cannot bare
instead, conspire
Decide the crystals
Send the flakes to sift over him
This loss needs snow
to blur his face
to fade from view....
This— tender let-down from the sky
As only snow can do...
Cover with beauty
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6o6zMPLcXZ8
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
*Continuation of Life is just a Metaphor*
The wolves sing
Such a lovely song;
Howling, howling,
Calling the pack home.
The lone wolf
Hears the angelic sound,
Despairing, for he is all alone.
He follows the sound,
Remembering his own pack;
So similar, yet so different.
The sounds of playful competition,
The smell of his own kind.
Right in front of him,
Yet so distant,
The pack sees, smells, hears him.
He knows he’s unwelcome;
He feels it.
But the lone wolf
Has been alone for too long.
The wolf pushes forward,
Daring another to challenge him.
The pack doesn’t attack
But the lone wolf’s presence
-Startling and sudden-
Is not acknowledged,
Making it known
The lone wolf is just that;
A solitary, deranged, unwanted wolf.
He stays.
The lone wolf joins the pack,
Unwelcome as he is.
He’s not permitted to join
The hunt, the feast, the camaraderie.
But he knows how to survive on his own.
His lone howl
Calls to the moon,
Calls to his lost family,
Calls to those he’ll never see again.
He’s joined a new pack
But they don’t see him as a pack mate;
“Not yet” he thinks,
“Not yet, but they will.”
The lone wolf goes to sleep
Each and every night,
Waiting, just waiting
For the next day
When the pack will accept him,
Count him as one of their own.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
When all the men in white gather ‘round,
And all their smiles they have pulled down,
And God is all they learned in school
That’s when the Church picks up their tools.
When later drag in insecure,
The men that know they aren’t sure,
But must proceed and light the fuel,
When Francesco joins the duel.
When tall in stance so unafraid,
The man behind the trouble made,
With talk of Suns, and Earth, and joules,
Galileo ties the crewel.
When in they come, right on time,
And keep close guarded a biase unprimed,
For no! They shall so not be fooled!
The jurors come, and keep their cool.
When all these people uneasy meet,
Pull out their papers, take their seats,
And all our luck we share and pool,
When the Court does come to rule.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
**
*Fresh rain drop showers
sprinkles on her bubbly face;
A joyful scenery;
with vivid flowers
and honeybees scampering;
canvass as teary
her infectious smile,
joins with the chirp of birds;
Obviously happy*
**
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
I wander.
Endlessly, I wander.
Ceaselessly, I walk.
Forever more, I go on.
How many ways can I depict my unrest to you?
Footprints are the timeline of my life.
Where I’ve been, the mistakes and wrong turns I’ve made.
The people who have walked in.
The people who have walked out.
They are etched in the ground, broken in by my feet.
Every so often, a second set of footprints joins mine.
Some go on for months, years.
Those are my favorites.
But they never really last.
Most dip in and out of my path.
Some lead me in circles until I have to leave them behind.
You never know what steps are the right ones
Until you’re looking back at them, behind you.
I wander.
I search.
I trust.
And then, I hurt.
Of these steps I am sometimes wary,
But the set of prints next to mine makes me sure footed, now.
I squint to look ahead, but my vision is terrible.
I can’t be sure, but it seems that there are many sets of prints ahead.
Strong, deep, sure-footed paths are carved out in the future.
Please, take me there.
Please, do not lead me astray.
I don’t want to have look back to judge the way you stroll by my side.
Do not waiver now; I haven’t got time for circles any longer.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
I crack an egg over the pan,
And drizzle it with salt
The oil seethe with anger,
As the sides of the egg turns brown
I push a spatula between the egg and the pan,
Then I slowly lift it and transfer it to a plate
The yolk wiggles in a funny motion
A whiff reaches my nose and it lingers for a while
The last one joins the other plates on the table.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
Robin hums as she tends her garden
while birds perch all around
waiting for rustling seeds
to fill the slender columns.
Humming birds hover
to sip sweet nectar mixed for them alone.
On concert nights her voice takes flight.
and fills the hall with her radiant soul.
On quiet mornings
graphite joins with paper
and a flower's form and meaning
are captured by her vision.
A friend fallen ill or reeling from loss
receives her gift of comfort words
and a card or meal soon follows.
Grandchildren rush to greet her
and happily fill her arms.
at night they cloak themselves
In love quilts sewn by Grandma’s hands.
If you want to learn how love abides
or long to know its fullness
follow my Robin for a day
Her gift is in the gifting.
July, 2006
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
915
Faith—is the Pierless Bridge
Supporting what We see
Unto the Scene that We do not—
Too slender for the eye
It bears the Soul as bold
As it were rocked in Steel
With Arms of Steel at either side—
It joins—behind the Veil
To what, could We presume
The Bridge would cease to be
To Our far, vacillating Feet
A first Necessity.
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to every family that has lost someone to the war on drugs, i offer you a piece of my heart. take it and make it yours.
when the other children ask if i miss you, i answer no. how can i miss someone who has not even left? you are still alive, i feel it; i know it to be true. you live in the paper thin walls of our home, a ghost lingering on the dining table.
(i'm sorry there's hardly any food laid out. sometimes mother forgets to buy any or her hands shake too much for her to cook -- i don't know if it's from the cigarettes or the lambanog. brother is always out nowadays, trying to make money. he leaves before the sun is up and comes home long after mother has gone to bed. i think they're like this because they can hardly bear to look at your seat without dying a little more.)
grandmother tells me to talk some sense into mother. "just because he died doesn't mean she can let her children die too. she is just sad. she needs someone to talk to." what she means is: comfort her. but i wonder. what comfort can you offer a dead man walking?
sometimes i stare at the sky from the hole on my ceiling, and i wonder which star is you. is it the bright one that is always at the center of my vision? the one a little ways to the left? on better days, brother joins me and takes my hand in his. i swear it's almost like you're back, laying beside me.
it's hard without you here. we miss you. when i see the other children and their fathers -- whole, unhurt, alive -- i feel a pang of pain. it's like hearing the gunshot all over again.
i don't know if you were still alive then, but i was the one who called for help. i screamed until my lungs gave way to the torrent of pain that filled even the spaces between my bones. i don't know (nor do i wish to) if you were still alive or if you had already had a taste of sunset.
it's a little funny. you had promised me we'd go to the lake that day. just you and i. you had gotten a job the week before and you wanted to celebrate with your favorite daughter. (i didn't have the heart to remind you i was your only daughter.)
and i want you to know i am holding you to that promise. when we meet again. in space. heaven. eternity. in whatever version of the afterlife we end up in. we'll go to the lake.
just you and i.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
Before dawn I ride through dimly lit streets
Mid-September and the air is cool and damp
Students wait at the bus stop – some talk, some text
The moon, in the last sliver, courts Venus
Together they drift as if hand-in-hand while clouds slip quietly past
Ghostly with gray shadows
Cross-town Parkway to Kings Highway
The sounds of industry growl
The River Valley Trail
Pulls me from the road
Along the Kalamazoo River, the fog creeps across fields
The sun’s first rays warm the sky
On the river, mist swirls as dawn approaches, gold threads twisting upward
Near Galesburg, another commuter joins me
The conversation makes the trip a bit shorter
The rooster crows twice this morning as we ride past
The last stretch along L-Avenue through quiet woods and fields
Glimpse a deer or a coyote, a rabbit, or an owl
As we climb the final hill of our ride
The mist billows incandescent in the sunlight
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
The two brothers wait for me arrive home,
They call themselves Anxiety and Fear,
Fear with his grimace smile,
Welcomes me in with his rigid glare,
He takes one look at me,
Reminds me I am vulnerable and fragile,
Anxiety plays along,
With his insolent tone,
Tells me I am an ignorant fool,
Mocking me of my wisdom,
Fear reminds me I am blind,
I know deep down they are right,
Fear is talking with a big smile to Anxiety,
The two brothers begin to laugh as I sit and calculate,
My heart begins to ache,
Anxiety points out the truth,
I can’t deny how I went wrong,
Fear places his hands on my shoulders,
I start to cry as I am unable to conceal these thoughts,
He whispers in my ear he will always be there,
Anxiety places his hands in mine
He always said one day I will suffer
No one to save you,
Like vultures they begin to circulate,
I must stay calm,
I rise firm to my feet,
So you want to mess with me?
Fear retreats to the corner and hisses,
It doesn’t matter what you have to say,
How long you keep these thoughts at bay,
Anxiety continues to linger around,
Analysing every inch and sound,
I was naïve and innocent to follow to your dark psyche,
Fear attempts to shut me up,
Yelling nonsense in my ear,
Anxiety joins in playfully,
Twisting and turning my stomach,
I take a deep breathe,
I will not follow blindly to the devil in disguise,
I will not tolerate these fears and let them ride me,
I will not let anxiety take over my strive,
My devotion will be dedicated to creativity and insanity,
You are just made believed.
The two brothers wince at my capability to be brave,
Anxiety recoils and hallows a piercing shriek,
Fear grimaces and spits venom at me,
I catch the venom and throw it back at Fear,
I owe you nothing
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
’Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.
The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love’s name.
The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.
For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.
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