"midriff" poems
Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it.
But everyone else is wearing it.
I cant help the way I feel.
Blonde
Red
Orange
Brown
Purple
DMs purple with pink laces
school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter
hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops
stairs made for stomping and storming
cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire
clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis.
You cant read my mind
read my lips
read my body
read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying
Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside
for shamefully purchased tampons
instructions included
and time has passed
and masks have fallen
and I find you there in the muck and the mire
and dust you off
until
I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow
and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest.
Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet
and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me
and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run
right through my veins
giggles throbbing through my pulse
pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes
and there you are
and there I am.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
midriff cut from the universe
and diamond rings look good on her
every finger except the i'm-married-one
perky ears and silk smooth skin
adept and endearing accent
even when she's mad at me
and the way her shoulder blades curve
she's good at math and ***
things i like more than the usual
triple threat, face, **** breast
personality of an office chair.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 3:05 AM UTC
I want some strange man to brush up against me
Just deliberately enough
That my heart starts to race
And then he just
***** off
I want the neighbor's
Disgusting husband-
The one with the hacking cough
The one who kept stealing glances at my exposed, chocolaty midriff-
To give my ***** sloppy kisses
In the laundry room
In the middle of the night
I want you to remember
That I'm a person
And I'm lonely
And I'm ~starving~
And it's really okay,
Isn't it?
I want you to know
The whole story
But you couldn't love me
Through the half of it
So that's that.
I want you to run your nails down my back
And then gaslight me
By pretending it didn't happen
As I get on my knees
To clean up the puddle on the floor
I want to ***
With hot human flesh
In every
Single
One of my holes
I want you
So badly
That I
Can't
*******
Stand it
I want to yowl at the night sky
Until someone volunteers to
Shut me up
I want to feel
The lust
Pouring off of you
Drowning me
Before I choke on your ****
I want to stop
Feeling the need
To wear crop tops
In front of my neighbor's
Disgusting husband
I want someone to notice
When I'm not okay
And I want someone
To love me
Enough
To be there
Every night
Like a raft
In a storm
I want to get ****** so hard
That I forget everything
For just a *******
******* second
I want to be used
And reminded
That I'm just a toy
For your amusement
I want you to **** me in the pouring rain
After so many deserts
And so much heat
And so much time
I want
So badly
To be seen
And to be ******
And to be free
I want you to know
That this isn't really about you
I want so many things
I'd make a terrible Buddhist
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025 at 6:43 AM UTC
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
4.4k
in memoriam Woodrow (Woody) Rifenburgh
The soft purr of a Piper Cub
drifted over Italy's southern hills.
Soul stirred by the landscape’s song,
the young army pilot gently spoke.
“It’s mighty peaceful up here.”
Touching wheels to the tarmac,
Woody shed his flight suit
for an engineer’s desk
and placed a viola beneath his chin.
For three score years
Woody molded horsehair and wire into string song
steadying the orchestra’s midriff
with the vibrations of his spirit.
On Christmas Eve he played for the coming child,
fell stricken and flew his last flight
on instruments at Memorial.
Early New Year’s morn one could almost hear
the faint soft purr of a Piper Cub
as it banked to the right around the moon
and merged with the waiting heavens.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
My girl crush
thighs
unapolegetically lush
exotic beauty
such a cutie
C’est chic
feel like a geek
always looks the biz
sparkle and fizz
oozes cool
men drool
her va-va-voom
fills a room
hearts go boom
midriff begs to be shown
territory unknown
I’m navel gazing
eyes glazing
She’s amazing
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
i had a dream last night that there was water in my lungs.
i could feel the ocean wrapping careful hands around my limbs,
caressing my thighs with soft seaweed,
my hands with gentle current.
i could taste salt on my lip,
the way a first kiss with a new lover settles and stains on the skin above your tongue,
i could taste the care the water was taking in taking my life.
taking it's time, the ebbing ocean snaked across my midriff,
hands on waist, wasting away at skin with salty touch as sandpaper
scraping away at my sense of self
i dreamt the water changing pace from calm glass coffee table top,
held flowers and coffees and your feet and mine,
overlapped and intertwined
and into
undertow,
pulling your hand from my waist
and your salt from my mouth
i dreamt that i saw nothing,
felt nothing
but your salty sandpaper hand scraping skin across my collar bones
as you pulled your coral reef body away.
the glassy water turned to pavement
and you left me in rapids under black ice.
i had a dream that i was trapped under ice,
with children skating on top
and i couldn't hear or breathe or scream
but i could feel their skates on my insides
they cut my hair with their blades
and as they spun in circles above me
i spiraled further into the depths of an ocean
that felt more like a fire.
i had a dream last night that there was water in my lungs,
and it hurt less to breathe then
than it does now that you're gone.
i never thought about how it would feel to cough the water back up,
until i realized how much it hurt going down.
and i was never scared of the ocean
until i saw it's vastness unescapable
it's arms
unrelenting
and it's love
everchanging
and i realized nothing's everlasting.
i was never scared of drowning
until i woke up puking the water i drank before bed.
and realized there was nothing more in my stomach
but salt.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
Pain is beauty:
The thick, swollen red line
Runs jagged between my hip-bones
To right beneath my belly button:
Peeking out from under my
Drawstring pants
As my figure wavers
In the fogged bathroom mirror reflection:
Beauty masks pain.
I focus on a freckle above my midriff
While my stomach heaves in and out-
A testament that I'm still Here.
Life is concealment
Of all the run ins with death
That we are too humble to
Praise
With the same unabashed glory
That we attribute to the very
God- whose own son's hands
Were marred with the scars
Of a self righteousness
That isn't felt in hospital recovery rooms.
Sensations are transitory-
Leaving subtle marks upon our fragile
Bodies,
A reminder
That death can never be beaten;
I trace my fingers across
The rigged Scar- but I don't feel
Anything-
I don't feel the missing faulty pieces
Of my body,
Carefully extracted like a childhood
Game of Operation:
They didn't belong there, anymore.
Beauty has fallen
(Down from the right hand of god)
Into the arms of modern medicine,
Adorned with sickly sweet lilies
And medals of honor
Pinned upon the breast
Of anyone tragic enough
To experience
Life
Without the security
Of a timely exit.
I am whole because my experiences
Are hidden beneath a functioning
Exterior:
My marred flesh burns against
The heavy fabric draped over
Last summer.
Experience is merely a fallacy
For survival:
My raised skin outlines
A tragedy too human
To pray about over the dinner table.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
i am slipshod Monty
wonking the gossamer lust of ill fortunes
strewn to all winds
a lisp of beacon
churning in the midriff of your titan virus
crumbs of ore
bejewel the wet femur
of our last corpse.
your merry Shelly
is morose
than less
god.
bending runes; you nip tink and **** from odd drums
summoning the haven of your wrong
repenting in the
pent up
down.
just 'cause.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Pt 1.
These thighs I really hate
See, they have far too much weight
They wobble too much, they're not at all tight
They're not as small as I would have liked
I'm the midriff, and I'm much better
Skinny and toned and shapely
From ***** to hip,
I do look fit!
Them thighs got nothing on me.
Yet what better way to move about
To run and dance to 'twist and shout'
Without them I'd surely lose
Without them I could not move!
Now I ought to see this more clearly
For a long sickness has beset me
And I have been the weakest link
Im holding you back - don't you think?
Pt 2.
Oh stomach you're a constant pain
Though I know you're not truly to blame
But, at its very worst,
I, thighs, have been cursed
I cannot do my duty
Now ruled by your various aches
Oh tummy! - Just let me run for Christ sakes
Such a simple thing to miss
Deprived by your fetid sickness
I'm just trying not to let you stop me
From enjoying life as I ought to be
And I know that we all suffer
From some something
At some time or other
You turn food to energy for me
I can't do anything quite so tricky!
You see each and every part takes its toll:
And each and every part makes up this whole.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
Gnats-eye lace scallops over
whisper-skin lady mounds as my free
range gaze, three thin sheets
to the wind, spies her midriff eye,
and tiny star-burst lines invite
tonight's tired sigh to imbibe life.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
Give me your hand darling
Rest it lightly near me
Place your cool fingers on my cheek
Say gentle words as we lie together
Let me hold you close and feel
Your body relaxing muscle by muscle
Close your eyes and pretend
Pretend that sleep has overcome you
Breathe deeply and rhythmically
I know you have had a busy day
Don’t worry my love I know how much
You have felt this peace and wanted it to consume you
You are beautiful in your stillness
The arc of your mouth describes the way
Oh how much I can feel those lips and want them
Your eyelids quiver as the remnants of the day leave you
Then as your cheek calms and rests so do they
Lashes still, as you drift into rest
Delightful baby you are mine so completely
I picture you and see my love reassured
A tumble of dark hair framing your face on the pillow
Enjoying the magical senses that caress and protect you
Whilst the darkness engulfs us
Peacefully and with tender soothing
In the half light I hear your little sleepy noises
The darkness seems to magnify each sound
A bird outside in the distance calls it’s mate
It is met with silence
I place my hand on your midriff yet cannot feel your breath
Then, the mantle of the night caresses our faces
Our bodies give in as it keeps us in love as we sleep
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC
You
are stretched out,
lithe and feline,
in a patch of sunlight on the taupe carpet
in a sweater and jeans,
the sweater fraying and courtesy of your
grandmother in Maine.
she doesn't remember you.
the jeans tight and courtesy of the
salesgirl in Savannah.
she doesn't forget you and
she doesn't think she could.
she still remembers
the shape of your hips
in your denim cutoffs
when she lies in her bed.
she still remembers
the contours of your bare midriff
salaciously exposed by your crop top
when she squeezes her
*******
she still remembers:
shoulderseyeslips freckles voice tone pitch legs toes.
she still remembers.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Amid the restlessness of a blood enthused crowd
Stood two gladiatorial practitioners both battle proud
From the inner arena a barking summons rang out
Calling the combatants to engage in battle's bout
The blood lust crowd wanted sport without delay
No quarter was ceded in the gladiator's display
Slashing lashing swords flayed high then to the midriff
Shields clanged and clinked in alternate shift
The foot-work of battle was magnificent of flair
Both took the onslaught with a disdainful air
Around the arena walls went a deafening cloud
The performance of the gladiators intoxicated the crowd
While in the bowels of the arena lions and tigers roared
Battle fervour rose to the gladiators they who are adored
Striking like a lightning bolt the victor's sword kills
His opponents chest dies in blood's gushing spill
Enthused by the spectacle of blood the crowd cried for more
Other combatants offered themselves to the gladiatorial floor
Battle Gods gathered at the celestial fray
Sang songs of battle to the arena's clay
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
There is a Soldier I know
Her short cadence
with military precision
is always careful
At every bridge she
breaks step
to avoid foolish
oscillations a peeking midriff jog
pounding shoes
on asphalt pavement
hard could these send infatuated
hopes to destructive swing
Who knows what chasm
fantasized are crossed
Who knows what war
wages and what broken
battle of bulges lost
Why burn another Leader
ego living in some
Downfall Bunker
There is a Soldier I know
Her short cadence
in boots bare run faster
than legged strut
Every night she comes
through a backroom window
protected by a silver
Spoon at best
and every morning she
survives as golden tongue
poetry written on
our wired cages
There is a Soldier I know
Her name is Eden
and her hands are hot
with Dante's inferno
Her adolescent face is cool
and on each ear
a ring of Blue Herons
Every day her short cadence
brings rouge life
to our clay complexion
and every night
her milky whey
lips wonder lost
in our King Lear
kabuki song
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Being bombarded with temptation
Doesn’t dim the fireworks
That crash like the a Titan gait
Inside my heart
No exposed midriff will propel my drift
As my thirst can’t be satisfied
With the bucket and pulley water they fetch
This carnal passion I feel remains sky-lit
Bright and beautiful
All, because of you
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
*I met a man with a wife.
She was beautiful-
Eyes as wide as the sky,
Just as blue, too.
Her hair was long and golden,
Falling past her chest,
Just to her midriff.
It was late when he first saw me,
Four years younger than he,
Plain in comparison to any other-
But lack of beauty didn't seem to matter.
And so he spoke-
Begged for me to follow.
But who is worse?
The unfaithful man,
A broken promise, a sham,
Or the young woman,
Not ignorant to his ring,
At lack of love for wanting
To pretend that promise was hers?
And what is love,
But a broken promise?
A broken ring?
I'm not sure it matters, but,
He said he was a Christian.*
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Image
In a nation full of mirrored meanings
Losing the plot to the points made by editors
With the front to cover-up
The dots and dents
That differentiate one doe-eyed one-day wonder
From another
Not too difficult
Then
To discern from where our demons are derived
The motivation behind our mothers' mockery
All too often a fearful fantasy
That this will be a permanent reality
A lonely destiny of separation
In sanity
Choosing challenge as our champion
Causes less respect than one might expect to receive
From those persons whose pretence it is
To adore independence
In fact they abhor the idea
That they might not
Have got a clue
What's best for you
It's all so clear to them that the fix is a daily change
Lies in a variety of lipsticks
And the new best-dressed latest range
Of thigh-thwarting
Waist-winning
Sin-free super-fad foods
That nourish your neuroses
Whilst simultaneously stifling your spirit
While your mind is on your midriff
You're not wondering if the government have gained their votes
Through the generous use of their
Accumulative groins
And you are much less likely to ponder the particulars
Of the power plants you pass
If every article you read
Is ready to remind you
Of the importance you should place
Upon the proportions of
Your ***
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
Why is the pillow on the lap of the female actor?
Is she trying to hide, to no avail, that midriff muffin-top factor?
This is a great phenomenon, though crazy, it is true.
And now that the cat is out of the bag, you will notice it too.
For in almost every sitcom, and in almost every scene,
in movies and soaps and dramas alike, it's almost becoming obscene.
****** Cleaver's Mom never did it, but notice the girls on "Friends".
They'll either sit with folded arms or a pillow to hide what offends.
*Feel free to add a verse or two to this poem and post it.
Should be great fun.....there are no rules.*
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
she was the queen who tainted her lips with the blood of her enemies before waging a war against mine.
i licked it off just to savour how truly ruthless she was.
clasping the red flag parading her midriff
like a stiffling outer corset sinners wore
justifying her heinous deeds.
but red had always been one of
my favourite colours.
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 8:59 PM UTC
A sheer pink lip balm
A harsh light bulb-lit reflection
Deep, tired, dark circles
That outermost omnipresent aloofness
Dark 00's and midriff
The cold, 6:00 am, hollow and dim living room
Seriously demeaning and only aware introspectively
Noble-felt, harshly observed silence
First, the summit most deeply craved and sensually submissive to
Clarity and optimism
Motivation and kindness
But impending soon after
A permanent loneliness, soullessness, sadness and a vast emptiness
The every day conscience
Hours spent absorbing the stillest silence possible
Not being able to think full thoughts or talk to oneself
All that's distinguished is feeling paralyzed in the mind
Harsh bathroom lights
Loud, rough water filling the bathtub
Staring as the repetitive breathing moves the water line back then forth
Up then down
Slow moving and eerily melancholy
Continues
2 am... 3 am... 4 am...
Physically exhausted and still
Lethargic bones
Mentally continuous, even rapid, and imaginative
Consisting of only slightly heavy, controlled breaths and an idled pause
Everything is paused except the mind
The body goes without
Naturally retracting from the mind
Counting the minutes until the alarm goes off
Arises to feel disoriented
Resolves with more
A light-dark shimmer and brown boots
Perfectly placed lips
A sharp nose and a sunken aura
That craving, comfortable normal attained
It all resurfaces
The smell of that time
The mentally formed associations
Cold like the winter, early mornings and the fluorescent light
Cigarettes like the emptiness, somber, bitterness and silence
Oppressive but so liberating
Depressive but so enthralling
It smells malignity pleasure-filled
A sheer pink lip balm
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
Martha Maguire sits
in the back pew of the church
cigarette between fingers,
smoke drifting slowly
to the high beams and tiled roof,
her blue eyes focusing on the Crucified
His arms stretched wide
His head lowered
His eyes shut
the skimpy cloth
about His midriff
nails in hands and feet
and wound in the side
a slit of red paint revealed,
she takes a drag on the cigarette,
inhales deeply holds the cigarette
just away from her lips and
with no effort releases
the smoke in a steady stream
over the pew in front,
the Crucified's skin
has a yellowy sheen to it,
the crown of thorns have
acquired cobwebs and dust,
only her in the church
silence except for distant traffic,
Magdalene had talked
of the priest and one
of the nuns and some
kind of thing going on,
Martha muses
watching the smoke rise,
the young priest not the old codger,
which nun was it?
not St Agnes that's for sure
she'd only *** out of
her thingamajig,
as would most of the sisters
no doubt,
Sister Lucy was it?
maybe can't recall the gossip,
she inhales deeply again
scratches an itch
on her thigh,
Mary Moran and her ways
with the boys
and she only fourteen too
as am I,
she smiles recalling
what Mary said of Brian Brady
and what he tried to do
put your hand in some other
girl's private place not mine
she said she said,
the Crucified hangs in silence
not a word
not a judgement,
some days she's sure His head
lifts and He gazes at her
with an awkward smile,
His eyes half open
the **** thorns pushing
His hair over His eyes,
the door at the far end opens
and the young priest enters
in his black garb
like a young rook
on the prowl,
he genuflects
and makes the sign of the cross,
then peers down towards Martha
who hides her cigarette
out of sight,
the smoke drifting less so
but under the lower pews,
he looks away
goes to the altar
fiddles with things
goes to the tabernacle
and opens the door
and fiddles inside,
she looks at her cigarette,
lowers her head
and takes a swift inhalation,
then sits back up
gazes at the priest
**** arsing about,
the cigarette between fingers
out of sight,
and she thinking
if it was the priest and Sister Luke
and the carrying ons
and what and where if so,
anyway she muses
letting the smoke drift
from her lips
what do they know?
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC