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Cné May 2017
'twas a long hot summer day
sticky air without a breeze
concrete burning my bare feet
cicadas screaming in the trees

a triggered memory
smelling honeysuckle scent,
the way he looked at me
remembering what he meant

when I was sixteen
with his mischievous grin
and a squint in his eye
he said, I hope you know how to swim

in his old pick up truck
as we rolled the windows down
he drove us to this place
in the woods outside of town

off road, through a pasture
to a watering hole, he found
guaranteed to cool me off
from spring fed water underground

sweet talking me naked
still not sure how he did it
a memory now sacred
my first time skinny dippin'
I still love skinny dippin' to this very day
Still Crazy Apr 2017
he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully

he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am

the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack

pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety

so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint

so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged

and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:

"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years


...and other stories
8:02pm 4/21/17
Paul Jun 3
In the quiet of her chamber, Olympia,
propped on one elbow, one breast hung
toward the bed; unkempt, untended,
unmade. No fruit, flowers, or servant
bending to her needs, but the noon sun
reaching through the window with shafts
that baste her soft flesh gold. She exhales, listless as the breeze that moves
the curtains, lifts her tussled hair.
after Manet's Olympia
Bardo May 25
Well I guess at this stage of my life
It's unlikely Fame will ever find me
Guess I must have missed my Boat,
    sailed off without me
Must have missed my Train too, left
    me standing in the station
(Did I ever really want to go anyway ?)
Probably missed the Bus as well, by
    the look it.

I guess you might say things are
    looking kinda bleak
But y'know, I've been thinking...
    maybe...what if...I wonder ?
Supposing I was to spice things up a
    bit
Add a little controversy to the mix
Like a mischievous Madonna or a
    Prince (R.I.P).

I read somewhere once that some
    artists before they can create
They gotta set a scene first, gotta
    create an atmosphere, a certain
         ambience
So they do weird things, they light
    candles, burn incense
Put on strange music, wear strange
    outfits of clothes.... a favorite hat
         whatever !
Helps put them in an altered state of
    mind.

But y'know Me! No! I don't need to do
    any of that
Me! I just like to keep things simple
    yeah
Me! I just like to, well, I just like to do
    it in the ****
No!!! Not when I'm in the mood
In the ****!! IN THE ****!!!

Yea, I like to get it out when there's no
    one about
There's nothing I like more when I get
    through my front door
Than flinging my clothes off
    everywhere
My knickers they land on a picture,
    my pants their down the hall
My shirt's up on a lampshade, my
    vest's up on the wall
Gotta bare my body before I can bare
    my soul
I like the freedom it affords;
And like a Scotsman and his kilt
I like to wave it around a bit
Till I'm ready to take my seat, my
    Muse for to meet

Descending like some beautiful
    winged Pegasus from the sky
I wait till she alights, then I surprise
    her
I jump on board and ride her
Rising way above the Earth, the two of
    us
Wild and free, with nothing at all
    restraining me
Together we traverse, yea! together we roam, the wondrous skies of the
         Imagination
Like some incredible!...amazing!...
    Lady Godiva!!!

Wait a minute! what's that I hear
    outside my door
A Big Ship's ****** a hollering, a
    Train's whistle a wailing
A Bus's horn too, beep beeping... all
    furiously sounding
And jostling with one another to get to
    my door
Man! Their coming so fast I think their
    gonna crash into one another
All wanting to take me away with
    them, take me away from here
And promising me all kinds of crazy
   wonderful things....

Just goes to show.... But remember
It ain't lewd and it ain't rude
To be a Dude who likes to write in the
    ****
In fact... in fact, it's quite cool
(actually it's very cool Brrrrrrr....hey!
    someone shut that door!).
A bit of fun. Would do anything these days for Fame or Infamy, anything to get me off the old 9 to 5 treadmill. A poem about, well, freedom. Next time a politician speaks of freedom, you can smile knowingly.

Lady Godiva, legend has it rode naked thru town as penance for her husband's harsh taxing of its inhabitants. No one was supposed to look at her, but one brave soul named Tom did, hence the term "peeping tom". And not many people know that. (read this somewhere on the web whether true or not).
Steve Page Aug 20
We each sit in silence,
punctuated by the scrape of canvas,
and while it takes a while for me to hear you,
to taste the essence of you,
- slowly your aroma filters through
your curves,
your creases
and I cease to see your flesh and instead
I see the palette of you,
embedded in the greying of you,
waiting for this, this view,
this interpretation of you,
while you sit in your steady state
of quiet undress
Each September comes BEAT Borough of Ealing Art Trail - Art shown in artists homes. And each August poets are invited to write an accompanying poem to a piece of art. This is one of my BEAT poems.
a (the) woman’s body (pretty pleasing)

is my reciprocal

her waist is my happy place

her neck is my doorway

the rest is
best when she is mirror accessorizing,
preening, **** upon first rising,
tallying the gains and the losses

unaware of my watching,
never satisfied she, tho she is 98% unadmitting contented,
as she shifts her weight,
from knee to knee extended alternating
with slow delicacy

for the pleasure is trebled
for her imagine image reverberates
throughout the house

for ever(y) mirror is pre-positioned,
accidentally angled just so, lol,
her image transported from living room to dining alcove
all the way to the kitchen’s bleacher seats

she doesn’t know and asks why I’m grinning,
answer is
no confessionary, no telling I’m swelling and
sinning

eyes scheming-dreaming of her reciprocity

she smiles and says  
“good morning bad boy”

maybe she does know
but you won’t tell her,
we, you and me,
are pretty pleasing

she is 1/me
she is won over me
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


~ ⚈♡⚈ ~

You don't need sight to see my soul,
my love
Stroke and trace your fingers on my
skin and feel

Underneath the anticipation
of our very first night, my
dress becomes a silken
stream around my feet

I want you to touch me...
Truly touch me...

Trace over my temple and feel
the hearth of my heart; the
flames burn hot and true
for you

Stroke the pillars and feel
the cracks; like you, the
edges of my soul
are marred

Close your eyes and feel the
sun's kisses and the shadowed
whispers; my most precious
of dreams and darkest of fears

Fingers thread together,
through my hair,
foreheads kiss
lips reddens
tongues strokes
skin enkindles
goosebumps rise

See and smell my
roses,and taste the
salt of my rain

See my heart,
how crudely it's stitched
and salve my pain with
your love and truth

My body is your breath...
I am your braille
and yours alone...


During this night,
the first of many,
let us join together
and give birth to
purest love...

~ ⚈♡⚈ ~


Mind's still blocked, but it's not as bad as yesterday's.
I'm working on the next part of the Masked Bard series.
Thank you everyone for your kind comments towards me in my poem 'Would'. It means alot to me, truly. I'm sorry that if I sound like a broken record, but I am truly grateful. As of next week, I will be able to go through
everyone's comments. This week alot of things have happened in and out of my course and honestly, it's made me feel so drained.
I'll make a collection for the Masked Bard so you can catch up!
Thank you all again, you mean so much to me!
Lyn ***
Ron Sparks Jan 14
Send me nudes, you said
I sent you my naked
truths instead -
An unfiltered and unapologetic
glimpse into my heart
my innermost self
That part of me that so
rarely sees the light
of day much less the
judgement
of another soul
In the end, staring at my
demons, at my fears, and
my weakness you
failed to see
my strengths, my beauty,
or my integrity
You looked into the
abyss of me and
blinked
Cné Sep 2017
Let me mold my body along your curves; trickle yourself into my entire being

Vulnerable, ****, my heart exposed, palpably we connect across the starry sky; you ... within me

I want your intimacy to linger along the edges of my lips hours after you've gone

I ache to be consumed by your eyes, intense with emotions, long after the dawn

Take me to your intimate chambers where hearts race; the rhythm of our silhouettes melded on satin sheets

Leisurely feel your way; a slow descend along the avenue of my rhythmic swell; forgive me of my quivering wanton needs

Allow me to graze at the gates of your femininity, drinking the honey from your pink walls; to feel your crowning point between my lips

How can I resist those wandering lips that stirs the curtains of my garden alcove; perfectly painted in honey dew, I throb for the touch of your kiss

Drape your thighs upon my shoulders; let the waves of satisfaction cascade up your spine

I beg to be released, dear God, of this intoxicating spell; I submit myself, heart laid bare; oceans of emotions no longer can I hide.

Find your eyes locking with mine; my torso parallels yours, my body pressed to you; equal in ferocity and tenderness

Mesmerize by your burning eyes in our melting flesh, so strong your hold; yet so tender your caress

Utter our names in fiery moans both whispered and screamed in heated breaths on our solitary night

Vile obscenities float out on heated breath, as cool air kiss our molded skin on the evening our time takes flight

Take me to your heart & cast away the flesh; allow our souls to weave in the throes of passion as our bodies mix into one; slow-motion ecstasy

A longing deep inside, the locked chambers of my soul to exotic places beyond our imaginationsyou sneak into my heart to fulfill my every fantasy 

Feed me the lullabies you paint on your canvas; orgiastic symphony we conduct in cascading tides; trembles throughout our bodies when our fluids mix

Let me paint upon your heart a ballet of our duet; the crescendo palette of my tide drown you in the spirit of our lyrics

Your ripe fruit quivers tenderly while our union completes; take my hands and let me be yours

Hold my sated body that tremors from the wake; a union of our souls ensnare a bond secure
~
A Collaboration with Jack Jenkins.
https://hellopoetry.com/jack-jenkins/
Nothing turns this angel down
Excellence, in the flesh
And if they try, an evening gown
In satin works the best

Is beauty deeper than the skin?
Surely she'll impress
Instead of showing what's within
She forces you to guess

Eyes of gold been tarnished brown
By tears that have been wept
Dark and shining locks abound
Make up for shades not kept

Sin runs red in times of blue
Every angel's seen
Temptation's there to carry you
When you have lost your wings

Consider but the outside shell
For that is most well-known
Appearing to be straight from hell
To garnish feelings shown

How could she be so mean, you ask?
What makes her be so spiteful?
Why can't she see it's not a mask
That makes her feel delightful?

Lies frozen, held through time
In silent desperation
Hiding at the scene of crime
A ****** confrontation

To free the memories from her head
Would unleash such a fear
She'd rather end the night instead
As not to feel him near

Ah, here's the one; the big bad wolf
That's haunted all her dreams
Whom proved too well by wearing wool
All are not as they seem

But I am ****, but skin and fur
And showing her my core
And telling her the parts that hurt
While donning nothing more

He's changed her mind, she's cast astray
But I could be the shepherd
To keep the hungry wolves at bay
As countless dogs endeavored

One light can only shine so much
Before the flame has died
To reignite it just a touch
Of love might satisfy

Surely there is nothing worse
Than feeling left to dry
Entrapped within a lover's curse
And never knowing why

Well, in defense of self-defense
I must admit it's snide
To hang a face upon the fence
Until you've picked a side

It's safe, my friend, just be yourself
Strip down to nothing hidden
And let emotion feed your health
By eating the forbidden

A heart must be coaxed from its hide
With tenderness and passion
In order for the passersby
To notice what has happened

From way out here it's hard to tell
But underneath a soul
That liberates a girl of twelve
Longs for a soul to hold

To hold would mean to carry, too
When harsh times rear their heads
To be the one to follow through
When love needs to be fed

But most of all it means to dress
With confidence or loathing
Just make sure you can impress
A saint in Sinner's clothing
Brain pictures
Reclining ****...

                        For a scribbler in that art magazine

             “…bodiless heads, green horses and violet grass,
             seaweed, shells and funguses...conventionally
             arranged in the manner of Dali.”

           -Evelyn Waugh, Put Out More Flags, pp. 31-32

Making messes is but poor huswifery
Tie-dyeing creativity into
A finger-painting school of assemblage
Asymbol’d: “Reclining **** with Pet Frog”

In praise of working people and, like, stuff -
Your comrade cleaners whom you claim to love
Could tell you what a simp you are. They won’t
Because they need their jobs, dear precious ****

So, disappear your selfies into your ‘phone -
The 1960’s are over and gone
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
hand
grasping other
has-been hands
life
I'll split galaxies
they break
cherry lips
dead men
(redemption)
def leopard
dead-- beats
&
radishes
hovering
out of life
&
in
to
purgatorial
dreams
of
****
death
(bare--
skeleton)
L B Feb 2017
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now

“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while  I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded

Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!

…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....

How could we have forgotten?

“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”

We laugh
and let the tape go....
This is one of those poems I'm so glad I wrote because no photo or recording could ever capture this memory as well.
anthony Brady Apr 2018
A jogging man from Bude
was most incredibly rude
being greatly endowed
but imprudenly proud
he did something silly
he trod on his willie
now he's never about in the ****.

TOBIAS
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
Under the hillbillies of yellow afternoons
You sleep in the sunshade toes quite ****
The curls on your head getting rather hot
But mummy loves you her cuddly ***.

Love Grandma x
srax May 2018
They'll paint white walls over your thoughts
Because they think simplicity looks better than polka dots

They will strip you down to nothing
Because bare is better than bare minimum

They say your body is your canvas
Then why are they scribbling
On her canvas?

They'll doodle
They’ll doodle words
With some phrases of flatter
Like "You're pretty"
Teaching us that -that's all that matters

They'll hang up a **** model picture,
Because your body should look like this, you know? Richer.

They'll say your body is a temple
“Oh you're eating all that for lunch?”
They'll say your body is a temple
But her body
her body is the house
she grew up in
And yet you have the audacity to try and burn it down?

Oh,
I forgot to mention,
The white paint that they used to paint over you? yeah ... slight misunderstanding. Its permanent.

What could they expect? Their fault, actually... it said everything on the label.
But they were too busy, you see.  Too busy to see what it was really made out of, too busy to read what made it the way it was.
Because one glance is enough, right?

One glance is enough to ask her what did you eat today?
And she would answer oh plenty!
Sure she did.
she ate plenty of lonely with a side of regret and sprinkle of sadness for a touch of flavour
And for dinner, she ate her tears
she watched her blood eat her alive
And suddenly
she wasn't so hungry anymore.

And you would look happy with her answer because
she is treating her body like a house she doesn't even recognize

And you would look happy with her answer because
she let her body become your canvas

And you would look happy with her answer because
Your white paint was worth your money after all.
Forbegging yay Progress, me Most High Lord
Besoothe thaye Stock's High-Cast-Baste-Reborough
And Livvenny-Lug, quain Twill-Truth's-Be-Word
Would Sluggenny-Bust thaye Pell's Arthorough
Aye, take them Less to thore Summerful Sum
Therr quine bemime blubber-boost up-to-front
Shanty ye, Crown, dow Caraparcel's Hum
Laugh more shan't take much Desire on Wont
We porkify Lub-Senses wore Jiggers clude
Feast-Tea ye Merry; Jolly-Cant, digress
Till Ferry thaye Maidens; And Torque-Pie, ****
Rode ye Arkins - Road! Be thaye Kiss address.
Labber ye, Throne, deserve Cot's Privilege
Roar Pull-Course Attract; Mine Concubinage.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
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