"roundness" poems
Out of my flesh that hungers
and my mouth that knows
comes the shape I am seeking
for reason.
The curve of your waiting body
fits my waiting hand
your ******* warm as sunlight
your lips quick as young birds
between your thighs the sweet
sharp taste of limes.
Thus I hold you
frank in my heart's eye
in my skin's knowing
as my fingers conceive your flesh
I feel your stomach
moving against me.
Before the moon wanes again
we shall come together.
And I would be the moon
spoken over your beckoning flesh
breaking against reservations
beaching thought
my hands at your high tide
over and under inside you
and the passing of hungers
attended, forgotten.
Darkly risen
the moon speaks
my eyes
judging your roundness
delightful.
29.8k
On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
The tenderness as they described it is circumnavigating more than the ******* and the roundness of my protruding *******
Perhaps by tenderness of the breast, what they really mean is tenderness of the soul and the emotions one hurriedly tucks under the crevices of their *****
If one imagines how ******* are anything but tender, with their ferocity of nurturing life and their wholly encompassing nature to weigh and weigh and weigh
Weight carried by a mother,
Shed off by her daughter,
Caressed by the one she lies with in the crevice of her soul and the gap between twin XL bunk beds and walls full of picture of people who no longer weigh her down
It's the feeling of nostalgia and nostalgia feeling this tenderness growing from one's *******
Growth of the ***** of life as a life imagined is destroyed, nullified, kaput.
But most of all she feels nostalgia.
Nostalgia for the people whose tenderness she felt,
Nostalgia yes for her brother and grandmother cloaked in love around her neck like crystals from an iridescent silver clasp
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
there are 10 things you may need to know about me
if you'd like to get to know me better
if you care about me
1. i love thunderstorms
i love the way lightning looks against the sea at night
i enjoy the presence of crazy rain and
the arguments the clouds seem to have
i am a pluviophile
2. i hate small talk
i do not care for my feelings on this particular time of day which is why if you ask me how i am or "how i'm feeling" i will provide a bland answer
this is such a boring step for you to get to know me better
you probably don't even care how my summer went
tell me your fantasies, childhood fears,
tell me things you wouldn't tell your best friend
ask me questions about my former lover
i am curious to know
3. i am quiet a lot
i ponder about life and odd little ideas pop into my head randomly
like: i wonder if you can naturally change your eye colour or
why is it quiet only at night?
i think about people i haven't met or people in my past
those whom i care about and those whom i hate
4. people with sad eyes are attractive
i do not know why
the roundness and dull sparkle in their eyes arouse me
it creates me to gravitate around them
i do not pity them but i am somehow attracted to them
5. the internet is amazing
i have gained so many friends from here
different photos and art has inspired me
i lost fears through the internet
it's fascinating really
6. i have a fine appreciation for art
there are so many different forms of art and i love all of them
whether it's poetry or dance or drama
i have experimented and flirted with them all
they are unique and brilliant in their own way
7. i do not love myself
no matter how hard i bring myself to it
there are so many flaws and dents in my skin
that i cannot do it
i am shameful of myself
afraid of myself
and most of all
i am saddened by my own soul
8. i long for a soulmate
one to appreciate good food with
one to travel with
whether i am in love with this person or one whom i am
very fond of
i long for someone to be there for me at all times
9. i cry easily
i am sensitive and this is hard to admit
i am overemotional at times and the tears fall easily
most of the time it is because i can relate to the certain emotion
that is being depicted
10. i am filled with stories
i could go on and on about different rumors and secrets i have stored inside
i am in abundance with stories and good laughs
i have fascinating scary stories both fiction and non-fiction
many stories are mine and there are a lot that aren't
but both are entertaining and i enjoy telling stories
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
Molten glass molded Into a perfect circle,
Tinted with the shades of twilight;
- Lustrous lilac, blushing pink and pastel purple -
Embellished with shimmering stars, stolen from
the night
I gently slide them on my fragile wrist
reminiscing what he had once promised;
Like the roundness of these graceful bangles,
His love for me shall remain endless
They've heard me pray to the
Almighty
they've been kissed by the tears I've cried
Their clinking and jingling have always soothed
me
calling out his name when my eyes had dried.
A girls best friend may be diamonds
mine are these precious bangles
They've been the voice of my silent lips
And twirled at the touch of my fingertips
Sitting in a bangle box, waiting for me patiently
They will greet me again, merrily.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
poetry is heart speaking
her deepest wisdom
or lightest whimsy
traditional form or free verse
let souls sing
sprinkle metaphor and simile
if you are a poet, write like one
words are music
let them breeze like a melody
color with mix-matched sensory
don’t stay inside the lines
see sounds with eyes closed
hear flickering of fireflies’ light
smell beauty in distant mountains
taste majesty of flowers’ bloom
touch forgiveness
bring personification to life
“she” is much sweeter than “it”
and a seat cushion may have a roundness to her
throw in some high speech
make someone grab a lexicon
delete those extra words
‘I’s and ‘the’s especially
alliteration can create cacophonic chorus
while similar sounds of assonance
tie hoards and scores of words together
although there are no rules
try your best to use poetry’s tools
with this above all else:
let your truth ring
let your insights and revelations
be a healing to self and reader
let experiences resonate in hearts
and harmonize voices
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
That person who gets you, lifts you
As the stone that fits your hand does
Who loves you as the stone from your hand
Skims out across the sea, loves you so
Many times more
Than you can count
That
Person
Whose love seems older than the stone
Smoother than its perfect roundness
Whose eyes seem deeper than the sea
During the endless time your eyes
Meet. And the feeling
In your heart
Of that stone
That oldest
Perfect
Love
Skimming light, skimming fast
Skimming away
Away
As it fades
As it
Fades
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
can anyone tell me
why East and West are fighting?
in an indisputably Round world
going West far enough
will put you in the East
and vice versa
in a round view of things
people of the east
need the same things
as people of the west
and what about the middle people?
what do they need?
roundly the same I'd say
so roundly I also say
otherness is to be avoided
otherness to be voided
replaced by roundness
roundness is to be embraced
all around the world
so I'll start
and put my arms around you
like a circle around the sun
for I am
as round as you
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
Gnarled cedar ridges match one wrinkle,
Red on my foreheads smooth, pale, taunt skin
Contrasting the deep skies blue, roundness seen,
Through two globular, wet, brown eyes.
Cedar bark can feel jagged outside but,
Like my own tongues tendency to tell truths,
When picked open releases a green scent,
Honestly pungent, stingingly needed.
Cedar roots are buried under mounds of aged Earth–decay,
Gripping tight like family, faith, friends, remaining
As the one force that holds the Cedar up,
And I too reach my hands up in praise.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
I promise the usual things:
to love you and respect you,
to hold you and want you,
to make you smile
and laugh, and dream.
But I also promise:
to hold your hand
when you are trying
to get something done,
just because.
to kiss you
in the middle of a sentence,
and make you cry with me
when my feelings overwhelm you.
I promise to look at the sky,
and name the stars for you,
I promise to learn you,
I promise to teach you,
share a million little useless facts,
about unimportant things.
I promise to show you,
the simple things that get me going,
like the liveliness in your eyes,
and I promise to remember
your aspirations
and what side of the bed you prefer.
I promise not to get mad
when you forget my birthday,
(I know, you’re not that good at that…
it’s kind of cute),
and I promise to interrupt you
with something I just remembered
from two weeks ago.
I promise to quote random books
and random people,
and maybe they won’t be that random,
if a particular phrase reminds me of you,
of me, of us.
I promise to sing,
maybe just once, to you,
and every day to the scars of our love
(when the time comes).
I promise to give you my all,
and learn how to cook,
and I promise to take a break,
every now and then,
from everything
so we can do silly things.
I promise you the usual things,
to love you and to hold you,
to be as certain of this,
as I am of evolution,
as sure as the roundness of Earth,
as steady as the rhythm of your breath
that night I felt you sleep underneath me.
I promise you myself,
I promise I will be happy for you,
and with you,
and because of you.
And I promise I will finish this someday.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
The old man was standing,
still and quite,
his back turned to the sun
as it drowned
in stormy shades of orange and pink.
The old man was still and quite,
staring the wavy distant line
hills and mountains drew.
The warmness of the dying day
spread a scent of hay, exhaling,
a violet blue slowly cloaking
distance and nearness.
As the full moon rose
in close roundness,
brightening contours
in a charcoal outline,
the old man lowered his head
and turned away.
In the early morning,
their feet wet by the dew
glimmering the fields,
giggling children
and women with panniers
swinging in their hands
would come
and harvest
the ripening fragrancy
of strawberry fields.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Dear stranger,
when I was crying on a park bench in the rain, why did you offer out an umbrella? Every other stranger had rushed away as if tears were contagious, but you welcomed mine. Why did you go a step further to ask what's wrong? When not even those I know care to ask. We sat there in the rain until my words stopped and the clouds cleared. Why did you reach for my hand when I left? Are you too in need of a listening ear? I have known you for hours yet I feel with you I am safe, you have a stability about you, like a strong shape. Yet a roundness as well, a softness. If I believed in instant love, you would be mine.
With love,
the person crying on the park bench,
Yemaya
Jun 23, 2022
Jun 23, 2022 at 9:13 PM UTC
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.
Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the middle finger
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
We know as children that you shouldn’t stare directly at the sun,
“You’ll go blind!” parents say. Still, we take mischievous glances,
Scared, brave. Trying to separate the perfect, lemony roundness, from the burnished halo all around.
I remember standing on the front path of my Aunts house,
Eagerly waiting for a solar eclipse, the pebbledash grazing my back.
4 children staring boldly through a square of tinted Perspex. It was novel.
The first time I looked at you, I looked away, eyes glaring, seeing white.
It was like looking at the sun, I needed the dull, brown tint.
Eyes adjusted. “Hiya!” you yelled. Golden
In the moments after the rain,
Look at the sun, in the moist air hangs a rainbow;
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.
You’ve worn them all, not a colour left alone.
Joseph looks on, jealous, in his dull, lifeless overcoat.
You’re a solid rainbow, one that you can touch, feel, put your arms around.
Laugh with, learn with, drink with, dance with, love with.
A rainbow personified.
For L.C
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
Black is the color of my true love.
Black is his voice.
Black is his face.
Black is his hair.
Black is the fullness of his lips.
Black is the roundness of his nose.
Black is the posture of his pose.
My true love is the color of black.
His strong back and arms.
His never give up or in attitude.
To him my soul belongs.
His love is mine.
And my love is his.
My true love is the color of black.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
The hot boiled rice
With brown gram curry
The nutty smell of sesame
Oil shrills in hurry
Deployed on a thrice
larger rounder plate
For a boy's belly deplete.
"Can't eat this much rice!"
He shouts with a surprise.
“You can do my son sure.",
Her firm voice enssures
The boys look measures.
"The remainder you keep aside"
Her remand saves his pride.
A monthly forty rupees
Should not be pretty reason
For a lodger's liberty to please
Among two of her teen sons
Than a welling spring of kindness
A heart huge in roundness
Larger than a stainless steel plate
With a profuse heap of hot rice
The smooth boiled brown pies
Oiled with fragrance fleet.
For how he fully did feat it?
How she purely predict it?
The stomach of a young one could hold
The heap of love on a stainless steel mold.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
For ***** to bounce is very rude,
Unless they dropped. Ascendancy
Is boldness we don’t like to see.
And roundness really is quite lewd.
For spheres, directions are the same,
And favoring the vertical
Is impudent in a mere ball.
A proper toy should be more tame.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 1:42 AM UTC
First impressions dug deep into hearts of confusion
Messages of love so warm and vibrant
Perhaps we were fertile for such seeds of emotion?
Planted so accurately in our souls, cautious and yet receptive
As time proceeded the kernels of realisation developed roots, deep and stable
Reassuring our minds and relaxing our subliminal tension
Smoothing our lives as wonderful memories are built, daily
Simple hand touching and brushing of lips, sensitive and meaningful
Walking, talking and learning
A new experience that has become ‘us’, Jan and Max
No longer just two people but a synergy in living and loving
We get to know contentment and embrace it as a tender thing
Every day a careful brick of love is put in the wall of our future
Built on foundations of beautiful harmony and understanding
A creation of happiness and determination worn with confidence
Since no such feeling has ever before been available to us
Fortune and luck is one thing but such poignancy and roundness
Is seldom delivered in such an elegant packaging as our love
Each day is a treasure whatever we do
Feeling you close, hearing your voice, seeing your face.
Why is it so wonderful, was it the wait?
The lack of a belief then destroyed by the reality in fact?
Desperation of having no future, no plans and no-one to hold?
If so all of these are yet diminished by perfection
How close we are, how much we know of each other
Not just now but of the past and of the future we will share
Such true souls never to be parted, ever
These things are not accidental but designed with cosmic influence
Darling Jan since we met our growth has been amazing
Within ourselves and for each other, personally and as a couple
Stronger and stronger from one to a million and on
In this world and all to come
My whole being is completed, enhanced and fulfilled by you
Every day wonderful and a joyful symphony of love
My soul and yours are united forever and my heart...?
I gave you my heart so long ago.... on the day we met.
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:17 PM UTC
This cabbage,
Just an average roundness,
When turning greener then the savage forests,
Ruined my marriage at this early stage.
And now it's in a beige paper bag.
This peach,
My lover of all trinkets,
Became a gluten-tree fork,
With its ***** like a beach ball,
Came to me in a dream-like trance.
This onion,
The only window to my decomposing soul,
Unraveled its layers of tears to me in all
It's subtlety. It jumped on a subway train
Looking for fresher markets of prosperity.
Desperately, still.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
On days like this
cool, with little winds
desert birds forage for sticks
they build nests perched in cactus
some build green in palo verde trees
always I think of baby birds in spring
hatchlings, the fledglings that fly
I travel far beyond the noise of towns
watch the movement of cooling clouds
the roundness of rain upon the ground
the grey banked scurrilous skies
of hurried birds, their silhouettes before a storm
daisies that close, cold amid the stones
beneath where snakes and lizards go
slither and crawl in this landscape of saguaros
and I, ever tethered can only dream to fly.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
Salt and sand all over my hands and in the air
Lending that tossed, windy texture to your hair
Sand covered wheels roll us down the boardwalk beside
The push and pull of wanting and waiting blue waves
My fever and thrill so desperate to hold onto you
Burning and impulsive I ask you to bring me to life.
So the sun laid its hand on my scalp, gentle and beaming
Like the perfect roundness of your eyes, gentle and beaming
I absorb the heat from you both, a seaside pocket of heaven
To be a lover when the air is hot and the vibrant colors burn
To explore the world in the ****** of summer, passionately, together
Is the best way to get to know some one, you said to me.
The water lights up so stunning and bright in the midday heat
Like blinding diamonds across miles of blue disappearing edges
So perfect it makes me forget I am not new, nor the first to find you
But it’s impossible to harbor such feelings before a perfect dreamy horizon
So I let it all go,
I’m aware of what we are
What my hair, my lips, my eyes are all symbols of
Suns, moons, and stars from a world sister to ours
A world without the structure and friction these people know
With you I’m unafraid to take this world, to claim that I belong here
To kiss your lips on the boardwalk, to wear my hair down in the wind
To show my skin under the sunlight, to lift up my arms and beam
One person can make me come alive, one summer, one bright beachy day.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
First it was my arms
I didn't even realize what was happening
I thought this was normal
tank tops, shirts with quarter sleeves
fill with big blaring X
Then it was my back
and the fat it grew
I can fist it in my hand
But it still hangs loose
It has to consume me
I catch myself in the mirror
once, twice, forty-six
sun sets, rises, repeats
I can see my roundness now
Then my thighs
I thought I was over-weight
all consuming
If i didn't care about other's shape
why mine?
I the ugly duck in see of swan
my shorts sit in blue plastic bags in good will truck
Once I have torn everything in me apart
It is just my BDD
where did I go
Jul 17, 2019
Jul 17, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC
sometimes i can feel you growing,
just to be clear i'm speaking in metaphors.
i see your tanned skin; light doe-eyes, they reflect the sun seeming to glistens a whim of adventure.
the roundness of your face tells me you're youth; my beautiful baby girl:
when you join me years from now i'll build you up like a mountain.
i'm going to help make you whole from the start, fill the voids i know i lacked,
you'll always feel confident.
you'll be the best you can be.
you'll be strong willed with the confidence to let people know it.
your heart will be tender and soft; open to the sorrows of others:
receptivity.
the most important thing i'l teach you is love.
you'll grow, and grow, and grow, filling your body and spirit with the greatest gift of all.
love for yourself because you are YOU and you are BEAUTIFUL.
love for all people because we all are apart of one another.
love for your mind, and your heart- ego and soul,
although they'll often conflict you will have the confidence in your choices to achieve greatness.
you'll probably end up with some of my weaknesses, as we all seem to.
for this, i am sorry.
i am sorry for the pain it will cause you- the tears you will weep over such a sensitive soul
i'm sorry for the difficulty journey you've begun but it is one filled with richness and growth that you have only be able to dream of
your so called weaknesses, they make you human.
you my baby girl will grow into a beautiful person in more ways than you can count.
you'll be filled with passion and love, this will make you alluring to those around you-
drawn to you like a bee to flower.
you will be beautiful in your body because YOU know you are,
you will be empathetic because you'll have an understanding,
your soft heart will give you the ability to love and be loved,
and that love will bring you wholeness my child.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
Decent—
I hate that word.
My mother wants me to be decent
when all I really want to be,
what I actually am,
is loud,
color,
all mouth,
leather skirts,
and hoop earrings,
(an ode to the roundness of the sun)
nails in deep, dark red,
banging doors,
and laughing in all the wrong places.
She wants decent,
she means 'quiet'.
She means 'not anyone'.
She means 'forgettable'.
She means 'the kind you take home to momma'.
But, see—
I'm a Warhol pop art,
Kahlo brows,
that mouth in the Munch in a constant 'o',
the kind to put herself in an oven
and call it a day,
shirts cropped to their full potential,
belly button to the light,
black line drawn like a cat's,
maybe a little cherry on the lips
(the kind to kiss boys sweeter, dear).
But, okay, I love you—
and I will put on the heirloom pieces.
Just for tonight.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 5:23 AM UTC
sternum (n.)
a bone extending along the middle line of the ventral portion of the body consisting of a flat, narrow bone connected with the clavicles and the true ribs.
I remember taking an anatomy class in high school, we had to memorize the bones of the body - the skeletal system. Scapula, humerus, mandible all favorable to the tongue, but I never liked the word sternum, it sounds far too angry, nothing like the supple it actually is. Years later I would still find myself walking to work and naming them off. Bones on my mind. Tibia, ulna, femur, breastbone.
Breastbone rolls around my mouth, lulls my anxiety towards its twin like a boat in calm waters. I think of your breastbone as a platform to profess my fascination. I am surprisingly amazed every time I count the steady rhythm of your heart, it's sound conducted as though your breastbone is a soundboard. I feel the slight ridges of your ribs when my head lays in the valley of your chest. There's not a day that I wouldn't love to get lost in the formations of your bones, each crevice a new place to hide - lounging in the curve of your collar bone, plucking the muscles of your fingers like guitar strings, getting lost to the soft scent of skin, and memorizing the plush roundness of your ******* each sensation leaves me with a new obsession. I look for replicas in everyday life, the hunt almost as intoxicating as smoke from campfires, or plucking wishbones from hens.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC