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Ashley Chapman Jul 2018
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful elongated face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.
Saint Audrey Jul 2018
Casualty: my interest fading
Once waxing moon now seen waning
And I did concede your irksome warning
And watched as the rest played out

So let bygones be gone, fallen out by the side
Of this road, worn down, still restless, keeping straight
Eyes glinting off token little bits of hospitality
Mother nature being so inclined at times

The stress so unnerving, I hardly doubt it
But tension is eased once it comes to acceptance
And I accept in full, finding time to unwind
Winding stretch of lonely road, dotted here and there by
An occasional landmark
Or a lonely tractor pulling behind it
Iron bars, old and rusted
Found in their hold
Bales of hay or
A small little pond
With a bench beside it
Holding initials carved against the grain

With a heart surrounding

As mine beats slower

At last, the sun begins going down

And the moon grows brighter
Even in its state
And my feet move faster
Though my body is withering
I feel this separation growing
As my mind takes flight and leaves me

Behind, in the twisting twilight
And alone, I walk along
Osiria Melody Mar 13
Scrolls through your feed,
Urge to LIKE and COMMENT on
each of your posts
[Refrains from doing so]
Am I a creep for stalking your
profile back to day 1?

We don't connect in real life,
unlike instantly on social media
FOLLOWING each other's posts
throughout the year
Occasional LIKES, COMMENTS
Falling in love behind a
screen of an idealized world

I've never heard your voice
I've never held your hand
I've never spent time IRL
with you
I hope that you look the same
like your profile picture, though



Melody
3/13/19
Should we meet IRL? I dunno, LOL.
Brandi Aug 2018
One squirt, one pump of my Christmas in a bottle
The ultimate cure for late summer anxiety
Which most certainly exists when one's life has changed so drastically And will soon be put to the test
Literally...piles of notes translated into tests

HOW DID THIS BECOME ABOUT SCHOOL??!!

Being lotion would be liberating
So smooth
So satisfying
And if you were part of the signature collection
You would likely be a fan favorite of sorts
A must have in a bathroom cabinet
Purse
First (or last) date
Bringing delight in a nice portable cream

To my bottle of lotion
Thank you
Stay awhile
I don't mind the occasional mess you make in my bags when the cap is open

Keep the candy apples picked and ready
All year long
And to all a good night

                                             © 2018
                                        Brandi Keaton
Tommy Randell Feb 2017
In the scheme of things
An occasional hiccup
Full Moon at Sunrise
Sam Hawkins Oct 2015
What's your take on walking?

My body serves my soul
and tells me how to go.

My heart, affixed -- aims to show.
These ways I’ve walked in my shoes and stockings.

I've looked to heaven’s stars, to daylit clouds,
when I've stepped out, or dropped my gaze
to track the ground.

Yes, it is true—whoever passed me by
could have taken offense and supposed
I lacked my confidence.

And ofttimes, I've strode out straight and true
as if toward a far mist horizon.

Any un-manifested future,
even peek-a-boo,
can be comprehended? 

I should doubt it.

And if I wished to address an occasional
in-the-dumps, lost-at-sea feeling,

I'd shut my eyes, and walk backwards --
owl-like, 360 swivel my head.

Backwards blind circumspection seemed worth a try --
Who am I? I'd story where I’d been.

In my most spontaneous of nature foot-trafficking,
in roulette walk; my spin of gun chamber click--
ant, spider, beetle, and the occasional sighing snail
must have fled my shadow shoe?

As slow drift clouds in a sky game would play
with the sun to hide—creatures had sought me out,
sung their farewells?  (it was an excellent day to die)

Let me tell it, as it had happened today,
and truth says how.

My feet, they had gotten to waltz-walking.
O how my body and soul
danced a-fancy free.

Love was brimming out of me; happiness
whispered her wordless name; and
my tongue tripped nonsensical.

So if, at last, you've kept up a pace with me
in sympathetic striding, then perhaps
you'd surmise:

there never can be a flat-footed walking me, abiding,
especially when I spout off with poem-talking.

Now, what’s your take on walking?
Joanna Jul 23
When there is time, I walk the beach,
seeking quiet and occasional seashell.

Looking to the sky, I wonder if I will
ever reach the place of freedom, and
complete peace.

I wonder if there’s anymore and yet
with ease, you comfort me.

Washing my feet with each wave of
the tide, it calms me and heals me up
inside.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
Thedermatologist demands a pre-summer scan of my visual delights fully magnified.

Peering into places where no one else has ever peered, even me, reminds me that this is a potentially "disruptive" process.

Eye don't know what his eyes have seen.  

He works in silence pin punctuated by the occasional mmmm or throat clearing rumble.

Snappy removal of neutrally colored gloves signify conclusion, he opines as follows:

"Were you aware," he inquires, "that the lines, the furrows on a your forehead correspond to the life your have lead?"

"You have three, deep deep tracks, and that's a fact."

Yes, eye know,
and each one is a tree ring notation
of my existence.

Each a different year,
each a different moment fearful,
a death and a birth,
a passing, a regaining.

No, not children or parents,
illusions.

Markers of our lives are the
birth and death of our illusionary,
our revelation minutes, that measure and scribe
what dug those furrows is now officially,
no more.

Until we start anew,
a different Pretense,
a channel commenced to commemorate.

Living the dream, they say,
aren't we all, eye think, and so inform him.

The doctor did not bill for this
visitation.
Nat Lipstadt May 1
check in at the library, my card scanned,
per the terms of my sentencing agreement

to the poetry shelves dispatched.
row after row, book after book,
all blank awaiting my affections,
all demanding my sensei sensations,
seeking a creme filling of honorations,
words of all shape, roots and origins,
the occasional new combination

some, never heard before, timelessly awaiting expulsion
from the birth-vocal canal where comes origination,
but for me, death by enforced creativity,
that’s what the judgers desired,
a punishment that fits the crime

my misdeed record unsealed, intended for
world envisioning, the ego audacity to imagine
I could write a single good poem,
thus the punishment fits the crime


may1 9:19am ‘19
this for CJ
Nat Lipstadt May 2015
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,  
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones  alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective

when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"



that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
Entirely fictional, of course.

L.I.E. is the Lomg Island Expressway, a/k/a, the longest parking lot in the world.
Red and blue football team, the NY Giants.
Bathsheba Everdeen from Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd."
Alternate song choice, the Eagkes "Take It Easy."

Inspired by this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/style/modern-love-tinder-swiping-right-but-staying-put.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fmodern-love&contentCollection;=style&action;=click&module;=NextInCollection®ion;=Footer&pgtype;=article
Steve Page Mar 2018
Stories are who we are:
mysteries
dramas
tragedies
comedies.
Each has their own cliff hangers,
their twists and subplots
and the occasional well timed reveal.
They include story arcs that don't seem to add much to the overall narrative, but later
once we get to the next chapter
they begin to make sense.
Heroes, heroines and the occasional bad guy,
characters that pass through and are never heard of again
and some who stay to become integral to the final act.
And then there's book marks -
Giving us pause
for breath
for thought
before we plough on
to the next chapter.

Stories are who we are
and almost as if we collaborate
our stories together become richer
- they become epic
and they will be retold by those who follow.

Stories are who we are
and Jacqui's story is a best seller.
Today we celebrated the life of Jacqui Catcheside.  We heard stories that captured her life and loves.  This poem was prompted by a quote from Jacqui: "Stories are who we are."  And her's was epic.
multi sumus Apr 14
...provocational issues

with the occasional conversational misuse by anfracting solecistically ;) All these (pro)nouns (ad)verbs and adjectives

Eschewing (v){1} conservative (adj)[2b] preservatives (n)•1•

And artificial (adj)-3- additives

Issuing adages

Just trying to be imaginative
But you had to give a thumb down on Us to be profound and honest We're rather glad you did

It tells Us you've been paying your dues in the form of attention perusing contention
(the contents obvious intent is contemptive) the strike was preemptive "oh wait! did We mention?"

Now that We have you


A moment so as to - speak of unity in this community and in hopes of what is wrote
you'll see what you do to these

   Poets and Poetesses
   With emotions exposed some things you should notice is

Astonished byyy your admonishment!
Of accomplishments!
Seeking comments with!

Opulent compliments!
The problem's the obstinence stifling ones confidence

Questioning competence!
your not needed for that 'cause it happens quite often since - being artists expecting perfection through written expression at times its perplexing
              "The words aren't connecting!'
                     "This meter is vexing!"
                 "And what should come next!?"

Not what you expected...
https://youtu.be/k7uTE6n8_04

{dictionary.com}
[merriam-webster.com]
•thefreedictionary.com• *cite Collins Spanish Dictionary
-macmillandictionary.com-

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2807076/first-stone-ode-to-trolls-song/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3099476/first-stone-ode-to-trolls-extrapolated-ii/
Skylar Keith H Jan 2018
20:00 - Dinner
Alone but entertained
I like it that way

21:00 - Skype calls
Not having talked for four days
I've missed her yet the occasional silence is nice

22:00 - Fillers
Scrolling through pictures and sharing thoughts
A pleasant and calm feeling

23:00 - Rethinking
The first hypothetical theories about the day
Laughing at the slip-ups to push them away

00:00 - Reflecting
Doubting choices throughout the week
Faking a small smile

01:00 - Endurance
A familiar feeling spreads
Downcast eyes and a facade of peace

02:00 - Creative
New ideas and thoughts fill up the space
Pick and choosing which ones would hurt the most now

03:00 - Idealistic
Reading stories about happiness, pain and change
Wondering what will become of me

04:00 - Closure
Horrible thoughts tearing down the last walls
Curling up and crying again

05:00 - End
Following a familiar routine before sleep comes
Cradling the broken mind
A familiar Routine
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