"ridged" poems
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Since...
Terrain was ridged
In blinding grime
Sluggish ride devoured darling time
It was dark
Now...
A velvety way
Crisp air purifying the lungs
Time feel scarce
It still dark, but there is luminous light along the way
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
touch
bumpy
sandpaper
ridged
crusty
sight
half moon shape
yellow
green
purple
taste
lemony
cherryee
limey
purpley
smell
good
like sugar up my nose
like lemons
like cherry
sound
crunch
squish
crackle crackle
yum yum
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Round and baby smooth
Before the heavy lessons
Now more gold than globe
Earned geography
Topography in bruises
Ridged in blue and black
Fault lines and canyons
Shining yellow Kevlar-filled
Stronger in the cracks
But this recent dent
is a gut-aching crater
that wobbled my world
So, I wait for healing gold
And grow stronger from repair
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
One nightmare I had a dream, a dream of a terrible exhibit.
I was at a camp where nightmares grew, a place evil and ridged.
A profound impression was left on me,
the simplest of it all was the shoes in block 5.
The simplicity of it all seemed crazy,
this place called Auschwitz where I wandered in disbelief.
Imagine if such evil was in power today
with access to all our technology.
Cattle for the slaughter, they would slaughter us all,
their hate-filled solution for the innocent soul.
Human beings are inherently cruel this exhibit rang sadly true.
Fascism with applied biology, a profound impression to say the least.
The simplicity of it all seemed crazy,
a room full of shoes, battered and abused,
a room full of shoes from dead babies.
A profound impression was left on me.
This place called Auschwitz
where I wandered in disbelief.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
Every thanksgiving,
My family gets smaller.
Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison.
Gone to see the lord.
Funerals are how
I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies.
He’s there, a fixture,
almost a cliche,
like a great aunt with a black veil
weeping into a floral
handkerchief.
Today, at this funeral,
a thin layer of snow and ice
has frozen the ground.
Black dress shoes
press ridged footprints into the
snow.
Every funeral I’ve ever
been to has been cold. Dress
clothes and peacoats
aren’t thick enough to keep
me warm during a funeral.
I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward,
watching my breath hit the winter wind.
The winter wind is
an evaporated sadness, like god.
During thanksgiving, the gravy boat
on the counter
let off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick
on my potatoes,
A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye.
The days after a funeral are
filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow,
every unexplained noise
is a visitation.
So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing.
Glancing back at the table,
I look at his empty seat, reminded
how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was.
I
laugh like he laughed.
My teeth are as bad as his were.
I drink like he did when he was
my age,
days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs,
watching, with blurred vision,
my whisky breath hit the winter wind,
and evaporate, almost as fast as God.
After the turkey and the pie and the coffee,
I go down to the basement
and I pour myself a stiff
*** and coke.
I drink, in silence, to the gone.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Mr ***** said
"Hi",
"How you doing"
"Better than you get some self control"
What can I say I'm bone
Stiff,
Ridged,
White
As a ghost, he had nobody
He was empty inside
In need of feeling,
Not just bone
Cartilage,
Muscle,
Nerves
Were frayed, even though
None were felt, he just wanted to be somebody
Not just a pile of bones,
He would look around
But from his vacant sockets
A tear did
Roll,
Cascade,
Height
It fell from, meeting each rib
Different sounds of sadness
As each tear hit others on the way down,
He was *Mr ***** a sad nobody man
He was just bone,
People would always look through him,
Never look him in the face
A smile given, but with nobody
No one knew the sorrow and sadness felt by poor Mr Bone.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
Tedium brought them here.
Bored with routine head-counts,
museums and man-made landmarks.
Impulse told them
To flatten the silent fronds,
Blindly tear down the hampering vines,
Rattle the industrious cities beneath their feet.
Curiosity led them
To this patch of unkempt squitch,
This sacred space littered with clean bones.
No words came with them.
Only Observation...
... a leaping fire tended by savages
Polished teeth strung around their necks,
The bark-ridged skin,
The supernaturally piercing eyes,
Their ashen members grazing the farinaceous earth.
At the heart of this sacred place
Littered with the clean bones,
Condesention covered them with coats,
Misinterpreted grins exposing evidential remains.
Fear penetrated their too-white skins,
Their souls through the sockets of their eyes,
Their clattering teeth.
All this is true :
The scattered bones,
The brass buttons blinking through starved ashes,
The arrows in a glass case.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
I can't remember
If I told you I loved you
The first time we had ***
But knowing me,
I probably did
My fingernails digging into your back
Your face in my neck
I most likely whispered it into your ear
Said it softly but loud enough for you to hear
I said I love you
Like it could make you stay
Like it meant mutuality
Thinking that maybe the lack of space between us
Could hypnotize you into believing
That you loved me too
A part of me certain that the air particles
Could somehow sew us together
And that the inevitable reality
Lingering in the background
Could never detach us
Convinced myself
That we were an atom in pure form
Incapable of being split apart when we were this close together
***
Is not synonymous with feeling
I knew this to begin with
Love and lust
Like oil and water
Can be separated with ease
Television and movies
Trained me in the art of one night stands
But I never intended to have you for one night
I didn't wanted you for a week
I wanted you for the amount of time
Where we forget how long it's been
Memorizing every single one our limbs
Ribcage
Arm
Hands
Skin
Then ******* the demons out of each other
To rectify our sins
Making love until we have no recollection
Of who we were before we learned each other's bodies
We were nobody
Before the conquer of this foreign territory
I wanted to surrender
From the moment we touched
But making love is so similar to make believe
That it gets hard
To tell the difference sometimes
When I slept next to you on your couch
My back pressing into the ridged corners of the sharpness
It was not out of convenience
It was out of purpose
Believing that withstanding the ache
Would show you how much I cared
Forgetting that your heart
Belonged to someone with a different name
In different city
Yet every night you still called my body home
Coming back to it repeatedly
Like a drunken wanderer
I thought if you did enough times
You would never want to leave
I convinced myself
That letting you **** me
Was one step closer
To getting you to stay
***
Is not synonymous with permanence
We should have never done it to begin with
Knowing quite well you were here
With the intention of temporary
I talked myself into your skin
Thought if I wrapped myself in it
Deeply enough
You would do the same
To me
My body
Was nothing more than a grave yard
For you to hide your secrets in
No treasure,
No gold
I buried my love for you
Into the curve
Of your collarbone
I bet it would still be there
If you looked for it
But I know
You wont.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
you say your hands are cold,that you forgot your gloves
i look down at my hands
i take my only pair off and give them to you
i feel the cold air on my bare hands
i tell myself its not too bad and you'll give them back if i need them
hours go by
you still have my gloves
the muscles in my fingers become ridged from the cold
but i love to see you warm so i don't ask for them back
another hour goes by
you still have my gloves
i cant feel or move my fingers now
the tips are starting to burn...
i know this is the start of frost bite
but i don't want to take the warmth from you so i wait a little longer to ask you for them back
i finally gather the courage to approach you ...
under my breath, i ask if i can borrow them for a bit?
just to get the blood back in my veins?
you stare at me for what seems like forever...then you start to laugh
you say: i'm fine
you say: i don't really need them
you say: i'm dramatic
i say, i feel numb
i say: i just need them for a little bit
you say: i'm selfish
you say: i don't love you....that i want you to be cold like i am
you say: i'm a coward and say that instead of asking you
i should just learn to deal with it
i stood there not knowing what to say ... maybe you right?
so i decide to bare it , i bare it while my hands start to sting
i watch you with our friends as i sit on the side-lines
the love i have for you is the only warmth left in my body
i look down and my hands are turning blue now
i cant let me do this to myself
i realize i need to find help ...but that means i have to leave you
i never want to leave you
but you refuse to go with
after much consideration, i do what is best for no one else but me
i leave..
i leave while you still hold a bit of me
leaving was one of the hardest decisions i have ever made
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 9:28 PM UTC
Clouds this morning
ridged like
sandbars
in
very fine
sand
in the clear
shallow water
of
a very old lake
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Walk along the riverbed.
You will come upon a nymph,
Aged and smooth
As a riverstone
Sighing and singing with
The water’s flow
Ask her, “How are you, Nymph?”
And she will
Smile
Up at you and say
“I am but a tired soul
In a tired sea
Of tired souls.”
Her voice the soft bubbling of the river.
Walk among the trees.
You will come upon a dryad,
Ridged and furrowed
As the tree limb
Upon which she sat as she watched
The leaves fall with the autumn breeze
Ask her, “How long have you sat here, Dryad?”
And she will
Gaze
Down at you and say
“I grow and grow old
With the tree.
And the tree has grown tired.”
Her voice the raspy crinkle of the fallen leaves.
Walk amidst the flowers.
You will come upon a deva,
Light and sweet
As the honeysuckle she sat amongst
Watching and humming with
The many bees
Ask her, “Who are you, Deva?”
And she will
Frown
Away from you and say
“We, those of us that
Belong
To this place,
We are Afraid.
And we wish to no longer be Afraid.”
Her voice the wavering stems of delicate flowers.
The nymph chokes on her sisters' remains as
the dryad is cut down and shredded and the deva is
forced into restrained clay pots.
They cannot be freed by one
but by the response
of all.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 8:46 PM UTC
Knuckles knee-deep in bright orange dust
Her words half-crunched
In a hurricane of hurried lunch
I mix in wit to her serious plot
Her mouth flies open, filled with half-chewed corn starch
And she still looks like a matriarch
We turned the radio on
But was gradually turned down
The ridged **** twisted all the way around
So she'd mention a song and I'd ask her
"How's that goes again?"
To hear her voice slip in and out
When really I knew it all by heart
Even when there was no reason to,
We smiled
Giggled off each other's cues
She looked from me once
Her eyes widening like a telescope
Mouth gaping, absent of laughter, as she braced a hand against my chest
The liquid-like sucker punch
Of the metal colliding quick
Like jelly under a rolling pin, I stuck
Grasping onto prayers with my fingers loose as God
She didn't scream, just held my shirt
As my tumbleweed Taurus vaulted yet another foot
Into the same solid ground, the same stars of shards
Mingled with bright orange dust sifting through the air.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
An elliptical scent sways and swoons the chamber's floor
As goddesses feathering their summer clothes galore
Without mourning hot concreted toes anymore
As a cool spell sighs upon their necks
Each idle with radiance worthy of praise and sects
Worshipers of the nigh
Like neph
Tribute with sighs
Ridged, hypnotized by mere thighs
And ***
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
--To M. M. M'B.
Above the Crags that fade and gloom
Starts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat;
Ridged high against the evening bloom,
The Old Town rises, street on street;
With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead,
Like rampired walls the houses lean,
All spired and domed and turreted,
Sheer to the valley's darkling green;
Ranged in mysterious disarray,
The Castle, menacing and austere,
Looms through the lingering last of day;
And in the silver dusk you hear,
Reverberated from crag and scar,
Bold bugles blowing points of war.
2k
He hides in my closet
he has a scary look
with ridged nails
and pointy sharp white teeth
But he is shy and doesn't come out
till nightfall
when no one can see him
because he is insecure
and he doesn't want to be made fun of
by the other monsters who wander around
Every time I hear him come out
he is humming a tune
I would softly request him to sing
because I cannot sleep
when he would open his mouth
Wonderful words would come out
sounding excellently in tune
even though there was no background music
in my head, his singing sounded like a symphony
was playing the most lovely melody
If I could I would stay up all night
till dawn
when he would retreat back into the closet
I would listen to him all night
But as he sings
the melody floods me
and my eyes can not stay open
as I slip into a deep slumber
I would still hear him singing
When I wake up
my room is soundless
I would look in my closet to see if he is there
but he is hidden
where I cannot find him
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
You are made of stone.
As are we all.
We are all sculptures,
sculpted by the world.
But what the world will not tell you is
you are a masterpiece,
sculpted by the Sculptor.
You were made good,
your splendor carved by the Creator,
even before His creation.
The Almighty knew you,
even before a scentence
spoke the world into existance
in an instant.
He knew every chisel, ever groove, every crease,
etched in His image.
The world had convinced you
that you have a heart of stone,
but this is not so.
Though your exterior may be
as rough, inflexible, and ridged
as a rock,
your heart is written in blood
and laps against your rigorous appearances.
Your heart,
my counterpart,
is not made of stone.
It is a roaring sea,
of soul and emotion you have left alone,
and it longs to break free.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 9:37 AM UTC
coldplay reminds
me of your hands
ridged deep like
a cat tongue but
unnaturally smooth
at the same time.
And hooded lids,
that I liked to
draw, eyebrows
to rub and
stipple my
pinky with your
eyelashes.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
There Is Something Impossibly Impulsive About The Body We Wore.
Like A Costume On Stage, Every Change Felt Like A Quick One.
We Were Ripping Layers Of Cotton and Silk, Away.
Never Naked, Just Feeling Like Maybe You Might Of Left With A Little Less Than What You Came With.
We Stood Back-lit, Like Stage Props.
Held Frozen By Spot Lights, Unable To Reach Out And Touch Each Other.
Afraid.
Like We Might Break One Another.
The Ridged Lines, Hard Pallor Skeleton, Like Road maps, Through Broadway, And The Whites Of Our Eyes.
We Were A Balcony Away, Dusty Velvet And Aged Satin.
Palms Prints, Like Sheer Silk Gloves, Elbow Deep In Our Own Self Obsession, A Hallway Of Mirrors, One Thousand Watt Bulbs.
A Cast And Crew of Only You.
We’d Turn Down The House Lights, Dim The Emptiness Behind Our Eyelids, A Box Office Value, Of The Number Of Souls You Couldn't Keep Captive.
Always Realizing You Were Alone, An Underage Tragedy, Ad Libbing Our Way Through The Only Auditions That Mattered, The Ones We Needed To Make Something More Of The Masks We Wore.
There’d Be A Black Out, Long Enough For You To Get Your Bearings.
Realize This All Didn't Have To Be An Act.
There Would Always Be Red Glowing Exit Signs, Easy Outs.
But We’d Learn That You Can’t Be The Understudy In Your Own Life.
There Would Be The Curtain, A Dozen Gold Tassels, To Raise.
Break The Fourth Wall, And Divide Your Insides Apart.
Draw A Line, A Call For Places, A Dress Rehearsal, A Last Chance To Get This Right.
You’d Come To The Sound Stage Reaction.
You’re More Than A Performance.
A No Longer Tried And True Type Cast.
Please Take A Bow, Darling.
Make This Stage Worthy, Standing Ovation,
Say It.
Over rehearsed,
Side Scripted Lines,
Welcome To The Masquerade.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snowfall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall! '
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
On a swing of deadened wood she would
Swing, holding upon these slender ropes of thorn.
Piercing onto flesh, but always held on as
Though to fall, but tears bleed from this motion.
Back and forth, white became red as a head
Slumped forward and motions carried on as hand frim.
This dead wood sat upon a rope of thorns
Motioning the seeping tide that with each gesture flowed.
Grasping fingers ridged as these swings, each
With heads slumped, bleed a little and swung always evermore .
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
The sound of small plastic wheels
On the ridged metal lip of an escalator
Bookends each trip between home and birthplace.
The first two uptempo, eager
To race to the smell of marble and leather,
Perfectly cooked fish and pastries with blueberries
The next two, piano, as I cross back,
Result of exhaustion, arms full of clothes and sorting small bottles into bags.
But on exit
Not due to vents, air conditioning, or the sensory assault of shopping under halogens,
Home smells of rust.
Of dirt and smoke - burnt.
Home smells more damaged and ****** up than its neighbour
And it's apt position on the map
Behind our back
Peering over the shoulder of the small ursa, overbearing and controlling.
But it's not the smell of burning petrol and tissue in glass,
Nor riot shields and plastic armour,
And only slightly of over emphasis on Northern Irish poetry during exams.
It's the stench of friendships, bouquet of break-ups,
Awkwardness and overconfidence,
Fake tanning and too much tea.
And like bonfires and cigarette smoke,
Burnt wood and tobacco embers,
It's the one perfume I can't get out of my clothes.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 9:25 PM UTC
You turn me on with 40 what?s,
and turn me off with the flip of a switch.
I am as ridged as glass, fragile as flesh,
and as transparent as both.
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
Nature is everywhere.
It's in the sky;
A content shade of blue that contains the sun and swirling clouds.
It's in the ground;
A field of the greenest of greens, swaying in the midst of the gentle breeze.
It's in the ocean;
An ever-moving, ever-twisting series of tides that sweep onto the sand.
It's in the forest;
A group of ridged-feeling trees waving hello and the smell of fresh pine needles.
It's in the sweet fruit;
An arrangement of fruit that tastes juicy and pure.
It's in you, and me;
An eye with the twinkle of the stars, and lips that curve into a smile.
Nature is everywhere.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC