"kneading" poems
Picture us happy, you and me; K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Making love together, pleasing you to please me; *******
Picture us naked, you all over me; K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Getting deep into each other, like we were meant to be; *******
you gave me your treasure,
I plan I want to keep forever
That night I will
I’ always remember
us overlooking the lake
Eating dinner, candle light,dinner
listening to the band play
The view was dynamite
Our lipstick perfect
Your dress was fitting tight
Looking deep in your eyes;
Glistening in the candle light
Started feeding you off my plate
Laughing as we enjoyed the night
our lips meeting their fate
Our bodies kneading each other right
Holding each other tight
Wanting each other more by the second
Our clothes putting on a fight
Your Dress falling to the floor, ******* second
Pleasing your body right
Teaching your body a lesson
Using my hands to please you
While using my tongue as a weapon
your body so beautiful
I melt in your hands
Just from smelling your essence
I can't wait to be in your presen
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
so deep i'm touching you spine
the feeling blowing your mind
our stars aligned,
now you climaxing
over this mountain we climb
your body a shrine,
so close its feeling like mine
the way that you grind,
so divine and its only getting better with time
getting harder as I listen to your breathing
moaning louder as I move it with you, your body I'm kneading
my body's been feening this whole evening
you are what I've been needing.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
Picture us happy, you and me; K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Making love together, pleasing you to please me; *******
Picture us naked, you all over me; K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Getting deep into each other, like we were meant to be; *******
you gave me your treasure,
I plan I want to keep forever
That night I will
I’ always remember
us overlooking the lake
Eating dinner, candle light,dinner
listening to the band play
The view was dynamite
Our lipstick perfect
Your dress was fitting tight
Looking deep in your eyes;
Glistening in the candle light
Started feeding you off my plate
Laughing as we enjoyed the night
our lips meeting their fate
Our bodies kneading each other right
Holding each other tight
Wanting each other more by the second
Our clothes putting on a fight
Your Dress falling to the floor, ******* second
Pleasing your body right
Teaching your body a lesson
Using my hands to please you
While using my tongue as a weapon
your body so beautiful
I melt in your hands
Just from smelling your essence
I can't wait to be in your presen
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
Today the winter is not as chill, nor as gray. An azure depth backdrops the "fade"-to-white and the eyes remember what to see beneath patterns that shift and flow. You hear your footsteps and ...feel the silence leave your mind.
"Inside A Snowdrop..."
Driplets - droplets
pitter and pat
echo and float
...and the sun is here
its touching
tracing
edging patterns smooth and
flowing.
Feel the air
- its fingertips grasping
finding each bit of you all at once
...teasing and tickling your cheek,
nose THEN down the throat
filling and growing 'til
becoming an exhale
becoming you out and upon the world.
Feel as each hair lifts and spreads,
gathers and becomes waves eddying and rising free
freefalling and floating and rising again -
riding the unseen exhales as the world
- your world - flows by-and-by
grasping and tasting life
grasping and BEING life for all the other exhales
to find and feel and be felt in turn.
Reach - palm up...
wait
...wait
then
catch a miracle!
- a world within worlds within -
a snowdrop
a single glass to gaze in-and-in
to focus - deep
deeper still
... 'til
I see you
...behind my eyes
and the shadows and shades
surround and enfold
tightening
tighter still...
holding me
gentling me
becoming ...me.
I am lavender ghosting in the air
the taste and sweetness of your skin
the softness of each lil hair flowing by
the lips that found their home on mine.
Breathing is one long purr
and life is gently kneading into the softness
...of you.
Chris
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
Sometimes the poem
doesn't want to come;
it hides from the poet
like a playful cat
who has run
under the house
& lurks among slugs,
roots, spiders' eyes,
ledge so long out of the sun
that it is dank
with the breath of the Troll King.
Sometimes the poem
darts away
like a coy lover
who is afraid of being possessed,
of feeling too much,
of losing his essential
loneliness-which he calls
freedom.
Sometimes the poem
can't requite
the poet's passion.
The poem is a dance
between poet & poem,
but sometimes the poem
just won't dance
and lurks on the sidelines
tapping its feet-
iambs, trochees-
out of step with the music
of your mariachi band.
If the poem won't come,
I say: sneak up on it.
Pretend you don't care.
Sit in your chair
reading Shakespeare, Neruda,
immortal Emily
and let yourself flow
into their music.
Go to the kitchen
and start peeling onions
for homemade sugo.
Before you know it,
the poem will be crying
as your ripe tomatoes
bubble away
with inspiration.
When the whole house is filled
with the tender tomato aroma,
start kneading the pasta.
As you rock
over the damp sensuous dough,
making it bend to your will,
as you make love to this manna
of flour and water,
the poem will get hungry
and come
just like a cat
coming home
when you least
expect her.
8.7k
Dough making
with flour and water
Salt and butter
Calls for kneading
In ritualistic candor
As parts come together
To an irreversible matter
The soft cushion of dough
between the palm and the bowl
pliable with every push and shove
stretched and compressed
In sheepish conformity
Blistered on skillet
Puffed up to a chapati
Heavens thanked with each bite
For flat bread with savory curry
Fills nostrils with soft aromas-
Relished as heaven on tongue-
One is contented of this flat bread
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
Submissiveness:
give into man. silence yourself. his word is final. rush to his beck and call when he is angered. we are wrong. man is dominant, and woman is soft. if man is the bone, we are the gushy cartilage cushioning his fall. body dominated and composed of bone, but we are the organs that keep the body functioning. forever being transplanted, while our men are broken. submit.
Purity:
save yourself for man. wait for him with all your white so you are not tainted. innocence upheld. it is all for him, only him. wait for him to take it all, whenever he desires. be pure.
Domesticity:
the home calls our name. it is our calling. our knees bound to scrubbing, hands tied to kneading because our family needs us. we are to be the slaves of our homes just as we were to the white man. permanency of pressing collars that are not our own. domestic labor.
Piety:
we come from the rib of adam. without the presence of man we, ourselves would not exist. for this reason, we worship. we worship to reiterate our purity, to maintain our sanity when others challenge our virtues of womanhood. the lord is our shepherd. we uphold our lord. besides our husbands, he is all that we shall want.
womanhood.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
so there is this queue, see
and the man in the suit feels
someone behind
kneading his shoulders, back and neck
and he turns around
and asks the man behind:
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
and the man behind replies:
*"I'm a chiropractor, see
and I'm trying to keep in practice while waiting"*
and the man in the suit says:
*"Well, I happen to be a lawyer -
and you don't see me ******** the man
in front of me, do you?"*
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
So many years,
These hands, now old,
Have worked at the table,
kneading and rolling dough,
Testing texture,
Adding raisins,
Walnuts,
Sugar,
Sprinkling cinnamon.
Warming the oven,
Waiting for the dough
To rise,
Sliding trays onto hot racks,
Marking time....
She sits on her walker's chair
Looks up into the camera
"Oh, don't take my picture!"
But how can we not?
Adding these images
To the memories,
To the moment.
The scent of baking bread,
Cinnamon,
Raisins,
Fills the room,
With 40 years' remembering...
Time stops,
Time reverses.
The ones who stopped in...
Dad,
Brother,
Sister,
Gram,
Hired Men,
Grandchildren,
Neighbors passing by...
Some now long gone...
After all, they were
Only stopping in...
"To grab a bite"
On their way to the barn,
On their way by the farm,
On their way to fields,
On their way to the phone,
On their way to town...,
But really to stop
For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts
Twisted into fresh, hot bread,
And a cool glass of milk.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
Diminutive minutes fly by and imbue.
Ennobled, hungers the second hand.
Verbose and loud, its villainous ticking;
Oxen heavy, that kneading sound,
Under skull and depth of dreams.
Rescind the mad lives we vitiate;
Enchanted by hollow, fear of ghosts,
Dancing in a pitch waiting room.
Happenstance for insomniacs,
Ogres and dark shadows howling
Unapologetic at the light and moon.
Riot of the quiet, against daylight
Star: quarry in the void of night / time / dark.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
The hands that mold us
I am clay
They could smash me into the table
Kneading out the unwanted
Shape me into whatever they thought
Suited
Adding bits, scraping others away
An amorphous thing, waiting to become art
I was almost complete
But the artist thought better
Gently my walls collapsed
Once again I became a handful of earth
Starting over
I was fired once
A low heat
More set, you can’t make
Major changes
But additions, adjustments
The sculptor waits
Pondering carefully
The steps to come
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
a ghost white fluffy fluff **** ball of fur
kneading on my thigh
want to smack it and knock it off
but it’s purring and it’s warm
my friends have the cute
meow meow meows
and feeds it a lot so I pet the kitty
when I’d rather fall asleep or pet you
Soon, it jumps off the bed
presumably to race up and down
the stairs at night, watch the ghost
floof away— its fur hiding its legs
and looking like a hovering white cloth
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
Here again, behind closed eyes
Balanced on this fragile threshold
One
Enjoying the moment before it’s over
As morning melts the locks
Two
Tenderly tracing unseen features
Kneading you from dreams and memories
Three
Feeling the meter of your sleeping heartbeat
Synchronizing as we breathe
Four
Folding you closer, moored in your warmth
Pressing your blessed scent against my chest
Five
Picturing the glow outside
Alighting on your resting eyes
Six
Savoring our seven precious seconds
Helplessly defending the present tense
Seven
Today I woke up holding your pillow.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 6:25 PM UTC
Even though it isn't Mother's Day,
I hope this poem is perfect in everyway,
I always love you so;
As the days come then quickly go.
I wish I could do something grand for you,
To show you that my love for you is true,
And I am not ashamed to say;
Happy Belated Mother's Day!
Your delicious cooking fills the air,
Made by your gentle hands with love and care,
Those beautiful hands lovingly kneading bread;
Or pointing me to bed.
Or lovingly stroking those furry darlings,
But you are my brown-eyed starling,
Sweeter then them, lovelier than them all;
You succeed and do not fall!
Loving hands dancing across piano keys,
It's tinkling melody floating on the breeze,
Holding a journal on your lap;
Listening to the rain on the roof tap.
Pretty brown eyes and light brown hair,
A long face of gentle care,
O, mother dear you are better than them all;
You succeed and never fall!
Happy Belated Mother's Day, Mom!
~Marian~
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
Dang....the hour is up.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
with two flat thumbs
I am trying
to work
a couple of knots
out of your shoulder blade
one not is you
one definitely not is me
yet I'm tracing
warm circles
kneading
the cut of your spine
*needing
the cut of your spine!*
should I?
should I
be kneading
the distance
between us thin ?
I could complete
this instant massage
by simply needing
the scent of your skin
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
My sister and I would play outside
almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
traced the pattern of our lives.
Our country had a new flag and boys
in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.
Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
all the beautiful people gone?
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
I started writing a poem and somehow found myself
comparing your traits to that of a sweater,
and there might have been an allusion to buttery clouds,
So I decided maybe love metaphors aren't my thing,
but I don't need analogies to tell you that
your eyes make me think of tree houses and that
kneading your skin like dough is just as soothing
to my own soul.
If I could, I'd compare your lips to something
life-sustaining, your hands to the sole thing that
grounds me, but I can't think of
anything clever when our foreheads resting together
makes me see stars. When your breath heats my neck,
those stars explode.
You make my solar system change rotation,
planets straying from orbit, which is a stupid metaphor
because I'm not the universe,
just a dandelion in a field of assorted weeds.
You're a bumblebee hovering, maybe, or a cricket
lounging on my petals. That's
dumb, too, because I'm not rooted to the ground;
I have legs to run, maybe wings. Point is, I'm not going to use
comparisons to tell you what you do.
Every line has been used before and your love is like no other.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
Next door’s cat,
alone as they’ve gone away
on holiday,
slouched on the lawn,
our garden.
A monochrome tube
flops over, turns over,
liquorice eyes peer up,
a rolling pin
kneading the green.
Thinks it owns the place,
can lounge about
wherever it pleases
drizzled in June honey,
‘round ours for a week.
It knows when I am close,
a mewling baby,
rises like an overweight man
from an armchair
and asks to be loved.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
In the vicinity of midnight
After a sticky city day
The sweat of the streets washed away
The glow of the flat screen
And the anonymous king size bed
Prone and captive
No urge to escape
Captivated
Kneading
Leads to
Needing
Your touch topples towers
Avalanche
And then the
Quiver
Shiver
Lover
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
I fell in love with you
More accurately
I fell in love with the feelings you transferred into me
But those mutinous emotions betrayed me
The moment you did
The withdrawal from your love was too intense
I desperately needed something to replace those feelings
I always said I could run from anything
as long as it didn't involve running
But after walking with you for so long
It's hard to change my pace
The path too tough to face
Your memories fueled the chase
Until I found my escape
The kneading needles turned me fetal
Shocked my veins like eels
Fetuses aren't the most ambulatory
The race became a marathon story
Your effervescent ghost pursued me
Breaking the sound barrier to reach me
I floated vacantly in the stew of your noise
The needles touched me
The way you wouldn't
The needles bled me
The way you would
Then the race ended as abruptly as it started
Only to begin another race
...But things were different this time
Slugs waved as they passed a sprinter
Tormented by a lane filled with needles
The hostile crowd watched with pity
As a once great athlete
Was forced to acknowledge his janitorial duties
The fickle mob cheered with triumph
Upon his valiant return
He was quicker than ever before
And the masses exalted him
He ran faster than everybody
And waited for nobody
Anxious they might reveal his secret
That his speed was derived from his feather weight
After the needles hollowed out his insides
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
I hear that men are better
At putting bread on the table and
Making dough.
But I always thought women
Belonged in the kitchen,
So when it comes to baking bread
And kneading dough,
I think, as women,
We would know.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
She comes many times
completely unexpected,
On padded paws,
Silent and stealthy.
Not a hint she is near
'till she jumps in your lap
and meows her first greeting.
Though so softly, as to not,
wake even a sleeping baby.
She is sweet beyond belief,
wants only to be loved
and give love in return.
She never insists like some
women I have known,
Rather she waits until
you're completely done eating.
Soft Hypnotic gray eyes
intense in their gaze captures,
at once your full attention,
Then gently she places her
tiny head right in your hand,
Seeking your touch of affection.
Her motor purring starts,
growing ever loud and louder.
Then she begins rhythmically,
Kneading your chest or stomach
with her front paws as she would
have done her own mommy,
But it' s not milk she seeks,
it is love from her human,
physical, emotional contentment.
She would sit all night,
in my lap if I let her,
yet she can sense when
I have had enough,
Knows when to quickly,
quietly take her leave.
Truly not many,
females like her.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
What is between fingertips when they refuse to touch?
air? Electricity? Unspoken words and promises? Feelings better left denied or not felt at all?
All the things I want from you but that I will never get? And the reasons I wont ever have them?
I watch your fingers play with a ball of paper, kneading it between your digits like fresh baked bread.
Mine do the same with my key. I pretend not to notice your hands, you most likely really don't see mine.
I wonder if you imagine my skin, instead. I know I imagine yours.
This simultaneous obliviousness this awkward use of fingers meant to caress and touch and interact.
This silent agreement to ignore our desires. This goes against every instinct I've ever felt.
I want to reach out for your nimble fingertips, to feel the roughness of them. I don't. I look down at my lonely hands.
They will never be strong enough to break the unbreakable.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC