"pawing" poems
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.
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Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
THE BUFFALOES are gone.
And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
Those who saw the buffaloes by thousands and how they pawed the prairie sod into dust with their hoofs, their great heads down pawing on in a great pageant of dusk,
Those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
And the buffaloes are gone.
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In the evenings
the deer would emerge
from the edge of the woods
stepping over the tumbledown stones
of walls left untended-
they'd leave tracks through the snow
in a wandering line that led to the last apple tree
in the field by Orchard Street.
I remember that now,
staring at this antler I've found
in the clearing between the cactus
and sun bleached stones.
The lines of the antler
flow into the fractures of my palm-
two thousand miles from snow,
and two thousand miles from
the blue evening glow
of a shivering world
glazed over by twilight…
And the deer-
magnificent, pawing the snow
searching for apples that had fallen below-
emboldened by the frozen sweetness of autumn.
They were graceful even in flight-
when cars with chains
jingling and crunching the ice
rounded the corner
down Orchard Street.
Today I've tracked over two thousand miles
in my own wandering line-
the lines of the antler
flow through the tangles and hollows of time.
Sometimes I stand in a clearing,
sometimes hidden by trees,
sometimes I scratch below the surface,
and I run- but, less gracefully...
There are walls I've left untended
and some I've crafted too well-
it is through forgotten tumbledown walls
that memories come-
I thank grace
it was into this clearing they fell.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
i've never desired to be selfish more than i do at this moment.
take you away so you are alone with me
your hand in mine, squeeze for comfort
eyes looking at me, through me
smile like the sun, for me because i made you laugh
sweaty palms pawing at the inside of my thigh, secluded together
i love you's shared with only each other
but i will not be selfish.
i will not cry on my couch at 7:10 AM before school because i know i'll see you.
i will not talk about you to my friends and they will not ask me how i am.
i will not hide in the bathroom during lunch so i don't have to see you be okay while i am heart broken.
i will not sneak glances around the hall in search for your heart-melting eyes.
i will not be selfish.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:12 AM UTC
Thousands of electric pulses
scattered in confusing patterns.
Imagination convulses,
tattered, mind under matter.
Enveloped by space and time,
pardoned by neither,
eloped by both.
Pacing.
Shooting from the hip,
mind's eye is blind fire,
pawing through the labyrinth,
waiting for the shift.
Hopeless.
Blunder.
Shocks.
Over.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
heavy head, ****** and tired sleep echoes through my corridor head. love, a treasure, buried deep within my x-marked chest; i stuck blades of grass in a picture frame, because everything else went away: like the cleaning lady outside my door, vacuum like a pet dog, pawing at carpet, grooming it with its soft, snuffly nose. mess cleaned and she went away. vacuum like a pet dog, hip-hugging, man's best friend.
lines in the bathroom, lines out the back. waiting and shaking with a crazy laugh filled with warmth like a smile radiating from my muscles. powder leaves the plastic surface, like the cleanin lady outside my door, and her sniffling, snuffling vacuum-dog. ****** into a ten dollar bill, with a whimper and a sigh, the pup hops away with its owner, the cleaning lady off to brush along some other fool's corridors.
on the cold steel, the train slows down, a mile out from the station. up hill, down hill, steam choking carriage, searching for thrill in the click clack, crazy rails of a cool powder train. in the bathroom crushing pills to get you up hill, down hill, with a steam choked carriage and that cleaning lady outside my door, she brought that dog, and he was barking real loud, makin' a fool out of me, in the bathroom of that click clack, crazy powder train. hands scritch' scratchin' on the white sheets, until in a moment, it all crumbles to dust, ridin' on the wind's back, leaving like they all do, like the cleaning lady outside my door, and that pet vacuum-dog of hers.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
*Teddy bear, soft, warm
Milky, curly hair— pawing
Bear in lambs clothing*
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Laying in the land of lies.
Kissing broken butterflies
Knows what she wants.
A tigress on the prowl.
Howling and squawking.
Howling and scowling.
Pawing, cat calling.
Pussycat growling.
Love laid roses on the path.
Tangled thorns and demon horns.
Thought she'd have a laugh.
Love she chooses lonely pawns.
Howling and squawking,
Howling and scowling
Pawing,cat calling.
Pussycat growling.
She snatches sweethearts.
Creating works of art.
Living on cupcakes.
Cementing works of art.
Breaking hearts and crushing bones.
Howling and squawking.
Howling and scowling.
Pawing, cat calling.
Pussycat growling.
Fingertips tips as razor blades.
Razor blades are on the ****
Love dies screaming silently.
At wicked women's will.
Said goodbye.
Howling and squawking
No more talking.
Pussycat cat cuddles.
Snuggles and kittens.
(C) LIVVI
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
- These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lings that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable, and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
- Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
- Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
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I ate a man once .
First I caught him by the eyes ,
Plucked those souls out and called em mine .
Why ?
Cause surprise ,
There was me reflected back in perfect symmetry
Pawing him
Back and forth
Called him closer and
Swatted him up .
Nibbled the fingers who reached to stroke my mane .
But **** ,
This prey loved pleasure and pain .
All I did was dpi and sway and stalk
Purring the sweetest talk
He learned the rules
Only watch
So I could gaze
At my shaking prey ;
As he swear and want .
I licked my canines
Wiggling in secret heat
At all the desire done by little ole me .
Then I pounced
Took him down
Cracked open his chest
And cleaned him out
Plucked out those electric strings
Cause under was the sweetest meat .
It beat .
Slightly torn
I bit , bitter sweet .
To my stomach it sank
Growling as it turned to stone .
Heavy lead , love , & bone .
Gasping as it poisoned as
His souls shone/shown
I made it run in his
Every vein
With my deadly game of
Pleasure and pain .
As he slipped away ,
His weakness kept at bay .
With a smile .
Every ******* day . ™
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
1. ( uncouth )
Teddy bear, soft, warm,
Milky, curly hair— pawing,
Bear in lambs clothing.
2. ( bottom )
Teddy bear, listless,
Alley home, downward spiral,
Fell— off his wagon.
3. ( shameless )
Teddy bear, stone cold,
Faced down in gutter, soiled—
Must have been some night.
4. ( forsaken )
Teddy bear alone—
Left in cold, empty alley,
Could use wash and hugs.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
I tell people that there are two kinds of days.
There will be days where you wake before the sun and roar out into the untouched day, pawing at the ground with a fierce conviction to take your day as you like it. These days, your very footsteps will shake the ground beneath you while your enemies run haphazardly, tripping over their own feet in order to avoid your fearsome self.
There will be days where your ears twitch at the slightest suggestion of confrontation and conflict, and you scurry about your day through the shadows. These days, your frantic heart can't take much of anything, and the vastness of the faraway horizon makes your limbs shudder and quake.
When your day falls into the former category, remember that even as you strut around with your lion-heart, there are timid mice who move hurriedly about your feet. Remember to watch your steps and mind your roars.
When your day is one of the latter, remember that lions aren't necessarily monsters, and know that their claws can be sheathed and their velveted paws can also comfort. They know nothing of soft steps and whispers.
Find comfort in the cacophony of roars and in the solemn silence of tail-twitches.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
My God, my God, what queer corner am I in?
Didn't I die, blood running down the post,
lungs gagging for air, die there for the sin
of anyone, my sour mouth giving up the ghost?
Surely my body is done? Surely I died?
And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?
Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied.
Yes, I lied. Or else in some ****** cowardice
my body would not give me up. I touch
fine cloth with my hand and my cheeks are cold.
If this is hell, then hell could not be much,
neither as special or as ugly as I was told.
What's that I hear, snuffling and pawing its way
toward me? Its tongue knocks a pebble out of place
as it slides in, a sovereign. How can I pray>
It is panting; it is an odor with a face
like the skin of a donkey. It laps my sores.
It is hurt, I think, as a I touch its little head.
It bleeds. I have forgiven murderers and ******
and now must wait like old Jonah, not dead
nor alive, stroking a clumsy animal. A rat.
His teeth test me; he waits like a good cook,
knowing his own ground. I forgive him that,
as I forgave my Judas the money he took.
Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips
as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take
my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips
and wrists. For three days, for love's sake,
I bless this other death. Oh, not in air --
in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots,
under the markets, under the sheep bed where
the hill is food, under the slippery fruits
of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws
of rats I commit my prophecy and fear.
Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.
We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.
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You say you've got it all figured out,
got the science down at age nine-teen.
I roll my eyes, because that's just silly.
I'm older than you by a year at least,
but regardless, I watch you hitch your
skirt up and strap your heels on before
leaving the house. You think I'm crazy
to stay around only to meander about
in my fuzzy socks and stained sweatshirt.
I'll have you know that I actually quite
enjoy my one-women tea parties with
Ms. Austin and the Bronte girls on a
Friday night. At least I won't get a head
ache from strobe-lights and my utter
confusion when it comes to pretty-looking
cocktails. I realize I probably won't be
seeing you until midmorning anyway
when you stumble rather impressively
into the kitchens still in your club clothes.
You'll make a disgusted noise at my
pillow fort, my coloring books, my
towering stack of certifiable Disney
DVDS and I will pretend not to notice
that you smell like stale sweat, alcohol,
and aftershave.
You will feel compelled to tell me all
about him, all about them, all about all
of last night--down to the last disturbing
detail--and I will burry my face in my cereal
so you can't see the faces I'm making.
Undoubtedly you are bragging
(or so you think), but really, I'd rather
not have had so-and-so pawing at me
all night, because neither you nor I
know where he's been, and I personally
find no appeal in waking up in someone
else's unfamiliar room because my comforter
is super soft and fluffy and I feel like a
princess when I go to bed all clean
and cute in my PJs. This way I can get up
whenever I want and take a shower and
be loud and not have to put the seat up
when I *** or quietly try and find my way
out of someone else's home.
Also, I'm lazy most of the time so
I definitely wouldn't like the walk
home so early in the day. I have to say
that I much prefer my crayons to your
aspirin, my forts to your mysterious
bathrooms, my imaginary sword fights
to your hike home. Most importantly,
I like waking up regretting nothing the
previous the night except that I didn't
get to watch all of Mulan and what her
reflection really shows.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
“Adam Kieslowski, I want to punch your face in, with all due respect.”
“Dan! Don’t do it! Don’t go there!”
“I’m gonna, do it Megan.”
“Don’t! You’ll **** him!”
I was at the point of snapping
No man scared me
The blood was pumping
Through my fists.
Mike Tyson could have
Walked through the door,
******* Gargantua
I would have got froggy for
Megan.
Silly cow could never even love me
Back, but alas, tis the work
Of lust and ******* desire.
I am by no means a good fighter
But a ***** one,
A tactician,
Teeth an’ claws are no bounds for me
******* Oedipus him if you have to
I had a bellyful of beer-shits
And I was ticking over
Idling
Thinking, teasing
Working the jaw.
The door opened and I pounced
Throwing him to the floor
I could feel Megan pawing at
My back
But it was futile
When a man is pumped, even
The God’s can’t stop him.
I threw him back against
The floor
Gritting my teeth
His lip swelled like a melon
And tears filled his
Watery eyes
“Oh my...”
“What the **** did you say, buddy?”
“Dan please...”
“What the **** you messing Megan around for?”
He mumbled, blood oozed from
Every orifice and his mouth
“Answer me!”
With that, he did something
No man expects,
He burst into tears!
Floods of tears, not just a trickle
A ****** fountain.
We nearly had to call in Moses
To do his party trick with the
Red Sea.
I let him up, as Megan’s eyes
Burned my head.
With that he ran out of door
And drove off.
Puff.
Safe to say, I now had to get
Out the room
Without Megan killing me
Multiple ways.
I didn’t return for several days
Like one doesn’t return to
And aeroplane crash site.
I saw her one day, and she
Said nothing
She came up and
Kissed me on the cheek
And walked on.
I guess Adam never
Bothered her again.
I returned home
And continued to write
And drink beer.
I didn’t think
That situation was
Too bad for my
Soul.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 10:23 AM UTC
I've peered inside what my heart hides in It's cage now
I know that I've made many mistakes for my age, how?
I'm addicted to the touch, to the ****** and the sweat
Darling,
Moan
Would you still love me through all of my regret?
If I let you hold me close, if to you my heart I gave
Would you trust that you're the one I love?
Could I be the the one you want laid on top of your grave?
If I let you kiss my scars and let you occupy my heart
Would you accept the hurt and despair?
Love my soul, and mend all of my broken parts
Pleasure me when that vicious urge for a ****** lingers in my air
I've done some things for pleasure
I've done things to please
wet eyes
"Please, don't ignore me when I'm down on my knees!"
If you knew what it meant, If you knew how I feel
I'm here for you, I'm giving myself..
That deep stinging pain inside is real
Look me in the eye, hold my cheek
Kiss me hard because your knees are weak
And when I swallow both our satisfactions,
Do not question where I learned my actions
There is a past behind me,
I'ts pawing at my memories strands
Help me forget them
Help me warm my cold hands..
Tell me it doesn't matter,
That you have me now and that I'm enough
You want me forever, for me you are tough
When someone disrespects me, will you be there to set them straight
Defend my honor, even my curious past
Fight my battles with me, vow to me that we have a love that will last
Love me even though I think you never could
Give me a love you think I deserve, and for once dear God, let it be a love that is kind, encouraging, and understood.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
It came like a sudden darkness, storming up and snuffing out the already fading light of dawn,
When I found myself floating, above the ground suspended on the backs of blue clouds that kissed the purple sky like a clinging lover
Chasing the movement of birds before my eyes I turned to stare down at the blackness beneath my toxic cloud of color, at the puke green sea covered in the orange foam of soda where what looked like the remnants of my breakfast that morning road the frothy waves.
Pink,
Pink
Pepto-Bismol stained whales attacked the early air blowing bubbles filled with what looked like Oreo cream screaming happily the music of contentment
A cry a loud mewling filled the acid induced happiness of the moment, yowling agonizingly, as if possessed by the spirit of pain itself.
Thumping, Screeching clash and the ***** of nails had me blinking away from my floating tea party within the sky and looking rather questionably to the hunky dream boat pouring me a fresh glass of tea,
His smile plastered by the very gods themselves didn't waver, and in my dreamlike stupor I thought nothing of it
But the terrified yowling, hissing, strange purr-mewl didn't stop.
The sky no longer a pleasant purple faded to a nasty shade of plum conjuring two disembodied chillingly green slated eyes
Frantic with irrational fear I panicked falling off my blue cloud to plummet towards the angry green sea below
Falling, Falling ever faster staring up at the sinister glowing ambient green eyes, whilst hearing that terrifying screeching yowl, from the Cheshire maw
Slamming awake with the tingling sensation of a ghostly belly flop, I find myself still staring up at those eerie green eyes.
This time surrounded by a flowing mane of toffee fur and speckled with tan zigzagging stripes of inky black,
Buddy, with his demanding meow of attention, insistently pawing my forehead with the command of a gentle rub,
Plucking my wings, and crippling me with a cuteness that only he can have.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Helios prepared his golden steeds,
Each huffing and pawing at the waves of Oceanus,
Alectrona raised her arms, and Eos woke from her slumber.
The chariot was lashed to his stallions,
And slowly, the sun god rose.
Eos spread her fingers across the sky,
And as he rose, a fiery flare bringing day,
Threads of pink illuminated the clouds as purple ribbons split the darkness.
Phanes lent Helios light as he rose on the mountain in the sky,
Orange twined its way through fields of blue,
A blazing scythe that cut away everything but itself.
Clouds that had formed by Zeus were gathered like birds,
And as Helios passed, they lit from within with scarlet joy,
And the laughter of Tethys echoed as she made the white fleece of the heavens.
Farther and farther he climbed the mountain in the sky,
And the heavens turned a bright blue,
The orange scythe that had cut away the onyx and navy fields
Faded away to return the next day.
When at last day had truly begun,
And Hemera had truly awakened,
There was only a purple horizon,
By that mountain in the sky.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
Covered in plaster dust, I stumble out
coughing, and laughing
you wipe the white and dirt from around my eyes and
fail to be stern
i’m supposed to leave these things to the professionals
not a google search and my bare hands
once, i plastered and painted a bedroom wall
for a ********* i was living with
and now i think i am a handyman genius
then i whine for hours at the cuts on my fingers
the soreness between my shoulders
you roll your eyes and run a bath
and tease me when i still pick up the cat
eventually we have to hire someone
to repair what years and lack of life
(and my mistakes)
have done to this old house
we sit on the porch with beer
no longer afraid of it caving underneath us
we wake, curled around each other and
the blanket we dragged outside
the hungry cat pawing at our hair
you are bathed in the glow of the early sun
i clutch your sleeves and i am grateful
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
I'm a runaway writer, the wolf of the pack,
In pursuit of the thought as the words seem to stack
One on top of another like bricks in a wall,
Like a tower, an Empire, answer the call.
But the rhythm keeps flowing, the rhyme never ends,
Like a postroom of mailbags when one letter blends
To the next in succession, a fleeting affair,
A romantic illusion, with no time to spare
On the sentiment, rushing, the train careers on,
Full of people and packages, memory and song.
With a sting in the tail, there's a transfer of weight,
Or a pause for a second . . . never too late.
It's a race in my head, it's a storm, it's a game,
And it carries me on but is never the same.
The soaring of seagulls, the roaring of rhyme,
It's a pattern that's pawing and clawing at time
Yet immerses itself in the verse of a thought,
And the fish, by the seagull is suddenly caught.
And they say it's forever, a language in stone
But the pages of people are gradually blown
One away from the other, too far and apart
To act with conviction, to play their own part.
And the words from the waves to the wind they are tossed,
And in one single moment, the poem is lost.
Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
This, the generation
Of the Trampling Bull,
The trodding of the Crop,
The headlong raging run,
With never any stop.
Having pulled the stakes,
Dragging tethers;
Pawing unchecked,
Throwing clods above his withers;
Fence posts falling,
The corners cave.
Town boys chase him
With sticks,
Unable to check or to drive
His rampant run,
O'er suffering fields.
Where are the men
Who'll come to force him,
Bellowing,
Back into civility?
Where are the men?
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC