"pauline" 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
I can be a sadist
I can be a ****
I enjoy a bit of pain
I'm often filled with lust
I want to be the Top
and to be topped too
I'd love to tie you up
or to be tied by you
Push the right button
and I'll be your subby
or grant to me control
I may lock you in the cubby
Stick me full of needles
or I'll put some in you
zap me with electricity
I may pass the current through
Whip me, flog me, spank me
I too can you impact
I'm happy to do whatever
and that's a ***** fact
I can be anything for anyone
pretty much more or less
it all depends on circumstance
and on what you confess
So let's stop prevaricating
and get on with the fun
let me know where and when
and which way round you run
Cynthia Pauline Jones 25/10/13
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
I want perfection
I want that moment where our eyes meet
and neither of us can break the gaze
where our souls open to one another
like buds thirsting for the rain
where I see eternity, endless infinity
expand and share their secrets
from within you and know in that instant
that you see the same in me
I want that perfection of recognition
I want perfection
I want a shared empathy
an effortless telepathic connection
to feel that golden thread that links
all my chakras with all yours
I want to wake thinking of you
to drift into sleep doing the same
to know this is true for you too
and to meet even in our dreams
I want that perfection of synchronicity
I want perfection
I want to explore your body
to marvel at its complete perfection
even though you believe it imperfect
I want you to marvel too
at the perfection you see in this body
although I know it to be far short
I want to be consumed in mutual lust
to burn with your tastes sounds and smells
subsuming our senses into one another
I want that perfection of sensation
I want perfection
I want to run and work and sweat with you
to experience the joys of music, of performance
to travel with you to places of wonder
to inspire your creativity
to be inspired by you in every way
to reach new heights as yet undreamed
to remain forever grateful
for the gifts of your love
I want that perfection of complementarity
Cynthia Pauline Jones 4th May 2015
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
"There are animals in the road"
the traffic reporter said
"We're not told what they are
find another route instead"
And so I got to wondering
though I wasn't going that way
what the mystery beasties were
that were on the road that day
Were they a herd of wildebeeste
who took a wrong turn on the veldt
or perhaps a wayward mule train
delivering some sacks of spelt
Maybe a team of trainee reindeer
diverted from the North Pole
or a bunch of llamas from Peru
that fell through a wormhole
Or bears, or wolves, or lions
could be zebras or kangaroos
surely not beached aquatic mammals
or elephants trumpeting the blues
Exotic beasts seemed unlikely though
it was more likely cattle or sheep
though it could have been migrating badgers
moving goalposts somewhere safe to keep
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 27/10/13
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
I don't know where should I start,
But lately it's been tearing me apart.
I guess I should start by apologizing,
'Coz I might have caused you too much overthinking.
I hate fighting, especially with you.
You're my bestfriend and I hope we could get this through.
You mean a lot to me more than you'll ever know.
Despite of our differences, misunderstandings and petty fights, still, I will never let you go.
I could never stay mad at you for too long,
'Coz I know this friendship is just too strong.
I also hate the fact being this far away.
It's hard to reach out and express the things I want to say.
Even though I'm deeply hurt, I will choose to set that aside and stick by your side.
Whether you like it or not I'll always be here;
So please lend me your ear.
I am hoping by the time you finished reading this, all the good memories of ours, you'll reminisce.
You are irreplaceable Pauline and you are worth fighting for. I ran out of rhymes but who cares? I just want to let you know that right now.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
Hello Love I'm breaking up with you
tired of all the little things you do
and I'm telling you now cause I'm feeling blue.
You might return, but I don't think so
can't believe what you choose to show
not that you say what I already know.
Forget you loved me
time moves on you'll soon see
that some love isn't meant to be.
Goodbye my inner demon so divine
hey Pauline I won't let you shine
I'm taking this broken reflection as my sign.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Once upon a time, in a place called Venustus
a raw newb caught my eye
I wonder what it was about her
that made me want to try
The quiet one
kneeling on the rug
playing with her Pegs
quite unlike the others
less submissive,
yet somehow more so
in ways that I couldn't see at the time
She chides me for my lack of attention
shouldn't it be the other way round?
should she not be the one attending to me?
yet somehow I can't make that demand
can't bring myself to issue the command
can't take the risk she'll call my bluff
begin to realise I can't get enough
I begin to doubt my Dominance
as we get closer there's something else
Incredible as it seems,
I feel her body close to mine
her warmth come through
and then she asks
"do you feel it too?"
And I do feel it
I feel you beside me, within me
I feel that for us
it has always been this way
that I've always known you
and you feel that way too
Then everything became simple
and yet more complicated
Now I had no choice
but to face myself
to admit the thing I'd tried to hide
because love demands honesty
to be honest with you
I had to be honest with me
Even though I had no doubt
still I needed space to work it out
a week or two should be enough
the next three months were really tough
Cynthia Pauline Jones, March 2013
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
What's behind the Bright Red Door, is it all my dreams come true
Is this where Time and Circumstances has secretly hidden you
Did Circumstances steal you away before the light of day
Keeping you confined, for reasons Time won't say
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
Maybe it's my lost childhood, that behind it is imprisoned
Books read at bedtime, awake before the sun has risen
Mud pies are made, fire flies chased and all my mistakes forgiven
Before the division, when Happily Ever After was still envisioned
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
Wonder if it's my future there, right beyond that door
I know my past, I know my present, both have left me floored
Would it finally all work out, or the universe's fatal blow
I'm still holding tightly on to hope, so do I really want to know
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
Standing in front of it, mindlessly wringing my hands
Heart beats, that of a humming bird that never lands
Skin on fire, as it turns white with the fear
Hand shaking, turning cold as the **** comes near
Should I crack it open, take a peek, do I dare explore
Do I even want to know the secrets of the Bright Red Door
If old dreams lie behind it, can't I simply dream anew
If it's a lost childhood imprisoned, it's ok, with the years I grew
If the future, shouldn't it remain unseen, leaving hope to grow
For as mere humans we're ment to look forward, only to tomorrow
I turn away from that Bright Red Door, temptation firmly resisted
What does lie beyond, I'm sure is severely twisted
©Pauline Russell
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
The worst thing about abuse
is not so much the guilt
of feeling you're to blame
that you should never
have been so attractive
so irresistible, so seductive
though in all other contexts
you felt anything but,
were filled with doubt
and lacked self confidence
No, the worst thing of all
is the way that when
it's repeated enough times
you get used to it, inured
then in time there's a part
of you comes to welcome
that expected familiarity
need it even, participate,
share the other's pleasure
But the rest of you
rails against this
taking of your autonomy
this removal of consent
and that part wages war
upon the part that
gives it's acquiescence
and you are fractured
hating your complicity
despise that you made it
in any part your fault
Yet to have healing
requires you recognise
the part of you
that went along
was no more to blame
than the part that didn't
it was just a coping strategy
you needed to survive
after all what else
could you have done?
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 18/10/13
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
First, kiss your frog
rinse out, then repeat
until you have kissed
every frog in your street
Then carry on kissing
much further yet afield
until the one you seek
is eventually revealed
With your final frog kiss
only then you'll see
if it's your Prince or Princess
or one with lethal toxicity
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 3/11/13
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold
Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken
I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before
Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed
We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
i felt Your beast stir
He called to the *****
the **** who lies within
and she answered Him
with whispered seductions
coaxing Him from His lair
filled with longing for Him
to emerge and sport with her
spreading herself wantonly
craving to be taken, devoured
eaten up and filled
made a plaything, consumed
the ***** inside me needs to see
the beast in You set free
her freedom to exist is in His gift alone
her purpose to rise to meet His lust
to take His stripes as her own
and bear them with pride
the beast in You will find release
inside the ***** who lives in me
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/01/14
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
I thought I'd write a villanelle
though form is not my forte
yet I'll try, what the hell
Let's see if I can do this well
as an exercise in structure
I thought I'd write a villanelle
Can I make my verses swell
write five of them as tercets
well I'll try, what the hell
For to my inertia quell
while my muse is absent
I thought I'd write a villanelle
Now I've fallen to the spell
but the next must be a quatrain
so I'll try, what the hell
My words upon the page do jell
and this is almost finished
I thought I'd write a villanelle
then I tried, what the hell
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 10/5/2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Boudicca, long hair tangled and bunched; fiery flame red hair.
Warrior queen of the Iceni, daughter of these isles of tin.
Defender of freedom, leader of men, slayer of legions.
Through the mist the Britons, Celtic in origin; saw the legions.
Row upon row of tightly packed troops, shields locked together!
Flanked on either side by cavalry. Above the silence orders could
Be heard echoing across the field, the leather harness’s creaked
Metal chinking, horses stomping and snorting, in the stillness.
Through the mist came the first rays of sunlight glinting on sharpened
Swords and spearheads; horns began to blow as the steady
Stomp of the legions moved forward in formation.
Boudicca’s eyes peered out from a face of blue woe. Bow strings
In turn began to creak death, as archers pulled back on their bows.
A slow chant from the Iceni, slow at first, began to build into a crescendo
Of noise, as the boom, boom of sword and axe rapped against wood shields.
Boudicca flame haired warrior queen stood proud and fearless on her chariot;
Daughters on each side of her, defiant against Gaius Suetonius Pauline’s
And the might of Rome.
Oh what a sight it must have been!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Sometimes it's all about the ***
though mostly it isn't.
Sometimes it's about the play,
about enjoying the effect
that I have on another
or, less so recently,
about seeking to please
and enjoying whatever is given.
Sometimes it's about wanting
to hold and be held in return
to feel the love
and the connection
and the closeness
and that warmth inside.
Sometimes play isn't enough
when it ignites my desire
and frustration strains the pleasure
sometimes holding someone
isn't enough either
when the warmth turns to heat.
So sometimes it becomes
all about the ***
and yet that's so elusive
when my attentions are unwanted
or I find my desire
impossible to express.
Sometimes I feel in need
yet nobody picks that up
none come forward to ask
to writhe with me, entwined
to seek mutual fulfillment
of a shared lust.
Sometimes it's not about the ***
because that's not on the menu.
Cynthia Pauline Jones, Aug 2013
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
That curving space
between her *******
a perfect place
for my chin to rest
as I dreamt a scene
along the Seine
of the perfect *******
of my sweet Pauline.
r ~ 6/20/14
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Give me my warm pajamas, my heart has been covered with snow
There are only lonely nights, no one to hold
Give me my warm pajamas, there's no one to hold
My bones are weary and so very cold
Give me my warm pajamas, my bones are cold
My heart is frozen over and growing old
Give me my warm pajamas,my heart is growing old
Winter has came, summer's been sold
Give me my warm pajamas, summer's been sold
With the hand of cards I've been dealt, I just want to fold
Give me my warm pajamas, I need to fold
In this world, I never fit it's mold
Give me my warm pajamas, I'll never fit the mold
By my past, my future has been foretold
My warm pajamas won't be why they find my body cold
©Pauline Russell
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
This is a poem of anger
this is a poem of grief
this is a poem for those
to whom death was the only relief
from the words of abuse
from attitudes of shame
from the spittle and curses
from the taking of blame
from the raining of blows
from fists and boots and rocks
from the penetrating blades
that **** like sharpened *****
from the bullets and blasts
that tear flesh apart
from the tearing of veils
from the hammers and nails
this is a poem of outrage
this is a poem of pain
this is a poem to honour
those who were never to blame
Cynthia Pauline Jones 20/11/13
For International Transgender Day of Remembrance
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:41 AM UTC
Hello, Pauline...?
Turns of the century
Question's of only and seem
Turn on the light's, for the curious...
Suspense has a drool...
Snores and faery feet
Is a living testimony to a finger pulled
With a meager smirk, the time has it to meet
The season of suicide
Where with all, in a momentary pause
Frankly, is my favorite ride...
Hello, with me, its always the odds
In another shame...
Set to prodigious music
Let a little more, than a fury's name?
Only a care to tell the truth, is intrusic?
Swallowed pride
And a peppery smile, to rage:
When beauty eats a stare, for snide?
Stars above, the price of wonder is, page for page...
Apr 14, 2024
Apr 14, 2024 at 1:09 AM UTC
Another lone celebration meal
another year of down at heel
another draught of loneliness
another night without caress
another year at least until
another life can bloom in full
another year of wondering if
another hoop will materialise
another year of wondering why
another year has been let go by
another year to question whether
another year will bring me pleasure
Cynthia Pauline Jones 24/3/2013
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
Deaths Of 2013
My third year doing this.
Paul Walker, Texas ranger,
driving fast leads to danger.
Matt Osbourne was Doink The Clown,
Paul Bearer always wore a frown.
Dennis Farina and James Gandolfini,
always played a mobster meany.
Peter O'Toole, famous actor,
Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
President Nelson Mandela,
Dennis Burkley, was a famous fat actor fella.
Lou Reed, is now on the wild side,
took all the colored girls for a ride.
Conrad Bain and Bonnie Franklin,
tv actors who had white skin.
Paul Blair and Stan The Man,
playing baseball, when they can.
Marcia Wallace and Lisa Robin Kelly,
both had ***** that bounced like jelly.
Tom Clancy wrote famous books,
not much on having good looks.
Cory Montieth and Patti Page,
one died young, other of old age.
Jean Stapleton, was Edith Bunker,
Archie always put her in the dumper.
Pat Summerall and Deacon Jones,
played football and broke some bones.
Dr. Joyce Brothers and Pauline Phillips,
they both gave good and bad tips.
Ray Manzarek, from The Doors,
Jeff Hanneman knew all Slayers chords.
Chrissy Amphlett, liked to touch herself,
Caleb Moore's trophies are on his shelf.
Mindy McCready and George Jones,
both hit those country tones.
Chris Kelly from Kris Kross,
Ed Koch is a New York loss.
David Frost and Roger Ebert,
always had words to insert.
Anneitte Funicello from Mickey Mouse Club,
Eydie Gorme almost got a snub.
Jonathan Winters, was very funny,
to come from Mork's egg, made him money.
If you don't know who these people are,
look them up, internet not very far.
For the ones that I missed,
please don't get to ******
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
Oxymoron
Good judgment comes from experience, experience from bad decisions
This whole ******* life is a contradiction
It's an oxymoron at every turn
Every decision only gets you burned
If in old age you manage to arrive
That's when life's lessons are realized
The young are bound in the futility of it all
Never seeing the cliff before they fall
Not wise enough to know
God clipped our wings before the throw
He turned everything upside down
When he placed us on this hellish ground
We all were marked
You can't see the light unless your in the dark
You don't appreciate the sun's rays
Till you've stood in the storm for days
Without pain you wouldn't relish the pleasure
Without work, there would be no leisure
What is good, if taken to much only leads to bad
Giving love away leaves you with more than you had
The act of forgiveness is not for the one that hurt you
But heals your soul before its through
So do the best you can in life
Even when it equals strife
For this world will keep you spinning
For the score card is plain, death is winning
But don't you worry, I'm sure that's an oxymoron too
When deaths door we pass through
Real living, then will we ensue
In death there will be no rest
This life is but a test
For the oxymoron weaves it's way through it all
Even when death, at your door calls
©Pauline Russell
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
Seven forty five we start to arrive
To tea coffee water or squash
We’re all there by eight and no one is late
Not without a good reason or ten
There’s Barry, and Michael (his brother) and several others
And Sharon and Karen and Ken
Keeping it neat in our stocking feet
We find ourselves somewhere to sit
We all bring a bible and some bring a bottle
And some come with paper and pen
There’s Anita and Jill and some others still
And Sharon and Karen and Ken
Breaking the ice with something nice
That’s happened to you in the week
We go round the room and each takes their turn
Telling what happened to them
There’s Geraldine, Barbara, and others we’ve seen
And Sharon and Karen and Ken
Now the serious bit we listen to it
From a tape or on D.V.D.
Then we split to discuss not shouting too much
Taking care not to deafen
Hosts Pauline and Paul and that’s not all
There’s Sharon and Karen and Ken
From heated debate before it gets late
We gather our thoughts and pause
We offer a prayer for those who aren’t there
For the world and for the church Amen
From Wendy and John and I should mention
Sharon and Karen and Ken
Then a choice of drink what do you think
Of squash or coffee or tea
Now a glass of red wine that would be fine
It’s hard to know when to say when
For David and others I won’t mention (the brothers)
Or Sharon and Karen and Ken
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 12:49 PM UTC
And the monstering comes to this
the result of the ignorant taking the ****
the product of shaming
by society's ill-trained watchdogs
gnawing at the bones
before the body's cold
before the body's aligned with mind
and still gnawing when all's done
to make sure we know the price
to keep us in our assigned place
to monster us, to demonise
to create and feed self hate
so we hide, turn inward, upon ourselves
so we don't disturb
the comfortable myths
by which they live
the black and white
wrong and right
binary fantasies
that allowing us to be would challenge
so the real monsters monster us
and impose on us the binary
of life and death
Cynthia Pauline Jones, March 2013
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
Skipping ropes tied to lamp posts
hopscotch was another for girls
I'd try to work out the rules
but dare not ask, nor yet even
be seen to be showing interest
sometimes I'd be invited
to join in girls play
I could hold the rope
while others skipped
but had not the grace
or the agility to skip
at all well myself
there were role play games
of families with dolls
proudly displayed
tenderly nursed
and I would be offered
the role of 'daddy'
though I had no clue
of how to do that
having no father myself
so I would be told
to arrive home from work
to sit in my chair
to put on my slippers
to smoke my pipe
to hear tales of misbehaviour
by the children
and I would be amused
but would be told firmly
that I must be stern with them
then when that was done
to eat my tea and afterwards
to sit watching the telly
distracted from the game
that continued around me
or to go out to the pub
and I thought that
fathers must be
the most boring of people
The rough and tumble
was not for me
why would some boy think
he could throw me down
straddle me, pummeling
overpower and hold me there
trapped, despite my struggles
I learned early that
scratching, biting,
flailing, kicking
were not permitted
nor were tears
yet I shed them still
and screamed and scratched
and bit and flailed
if I could not avail
myself of natural defences
generally expected of girls
then why should my attacker
receive no more than
mild admonishment, if that
while I'd be advised
to "toughen up"
and the goading
carried on relentlessly
"you run like a girl"
"you throw like a girl"
"you kick the ball like a girl"
"you fight like a girl"
as though doing those things
like a girl were demeaning
Cynthia Pauline Jones 30/10/13
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC