"rubenesque" poems
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Published by Erosha, The Eclectic Muse, Muse Apprentice Guild, Nisqually Delta Review, Erbacce, Poetry Life & Times and Brief Poems. Keywords/Tags: warming, pearls, necklace, ******* belly, rotund, Rubens, Rubenesque, **** painting, art, bath, bathing, seductive, sensuous, baroque, full-figured
Mar 23, 2020
Mar 23, 2020 at 3:37 AM UTC
I wanted more than anything
to wash your mouth out with soap and rot
your teeth so no girl
would ever want to kiss you but me.
Told her things in ***** words you thought
you taught me,
but you weren't my first
tongue,
blood, use for a bandage.
-
I wanted to say I had swallowed pills
that hurt more than you.
-
I wanted to adopt lilies
as my little sisters to help them grow with
my tears -
something has
to get fertilized (has to be real).
-
I wanted to believe in fairness, that I'd
done something wrong
wrapped my lips
around the base too hard
you are what I needed so much, perhaps
it put an ache in more than just
my heart.
-
I wanted it to have been loneliness
not desire
(that is why I let someone's father put his
fingers in my mouth
and napped in lingerie his wife
never wore, and his daughter, aged
one year farther along
than me, heard us
me being his good girl, and
her understanding why she never was.)
yet you were not lonely
just painting a still life of two girls
with rubenesque thighs
you had hoped would last forever.
-
I did not want to be saved.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
An old friend asked for my company
To visit a friend across the Utah Nevada line
We walked into "The Turkey Ranch"
About a dozen "Rubenesque" shaped lady's
Lined up near the Bar
They came in all flavors
(According to the sign)
Chocolate, Vanilla, Herry Berry, No cherry
"Hey Handsome - Buy a lady a drink"
I ordered a whiskey on ice
She had - "What he's drinking"
Twenty bucks for my shot of whiskey
And her shot of Tea
(It went on my buddy's Tab)
My buddy and his friend went to her room
In the back
They were gone for an Hour
(Good thing he had a Tab)
I noticed he had a limp when they came out
As we walked out into the bright afternoon light
I asked him - "Why you limping Pete?"
"Ahh - She bit me on the cheek to remind me
"We have a date next week"
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
It would be inaccurate, indeed downright unfair,
To label her as a convenience,
Certainly no matter of being any port in a storm;
She fell into that category of handsome women,
Tending more to the Rubenesque than the runway,
And those occasions where an evening with the gang
Fragmented into a somewhat unmatched set
Were more in line with settling into a familiar harbor,
Bereft of the intoxicating hazards of shoals and sand bars, perhaps,
But comfortable with a certain steadfastness about it,
A pleasant haven from the riptides, undertows,
And various entanglements of the open water.
It was an aneurysm that took her, the type of thing
We’d associated with grandparents, aged aunts,
Corpulent colleagues of our fathers.
What’s more, it turned she was staunchly and stubbornly Lutheran,
Regular to the point of obsession in her attendance at services
(We’d no way of knowing such a thing, of course,
The notion of staying overnight at her place
To rise from last night’s sheets at mid-morning
And share a table for omelettes and awkward chit-chat
Being both curious and curiosity)
So we arrayed ourselves in stiff collars,
Accompanied by ties we’d hoped to be suitable,
As the whole affair had us a bit off balance,
And we were only able to restore our equilibrium at the end,
Just in time to attempt to bounce pebbles onto her coffin lid
In what he hoped was some witticism in Morse code.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
Nothing but hands and feet escape the ****
where bodies are ****** in,
limbs are free of this pagan romanticism.
He would destroy it all:
The mucus pearls and thickening **** of tassels,
the mounting of cymbals through temples.
he would cast aside his wide-eyed diamonds
to **** the ripe flesh of the girls at his mercy.
He has time to hear their wails and harden his heart
to watch the contortion: a circus of sorts.
His rubenesque pony riders and acrobats
twirl fitfully to their deaths among the common throw pillows
and marble foot paths.
Reclining in zeal and pink lips,
the silken king.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
As I rode up
to Milka's parents' farmhouse
on my bike,
Milka's mother
was by the back door
shaking out a carpet.
I left my bike
against a fence,
and walked towards
the back door,
watching her
standing there
hands gripping the carpet
and shaking determinedly,
as she shook the carpet
her whole body moved,
and I took note
of her motherly *******
bulging and swaying.
She turned when she
heard me coming
over the stony path.
Hello, Benny,
she said,
you're here early,
Milka's not up yet,
but still come in
and have coffee or tea
and maybe toast.
I smiled and said:
that'll be nice,
and I followed her in
as she carried
the carpet back
indoors again
and took it into
the lounge where
it had come from.
Take a seat,
she said,
I’ll get us a drink
and some toast.
So I sat down
in a chair by the table
in the kitchen,
and she busied herself
getting down mugs
from a cupboard
and putting slices of bread
under the grill.
What are you having?
She asked me
tea or coffee?
Tea please,
I said,
watching her
slightly plumpish body
move before me.
She put tea
into a teapot
and put the kettle
onto the stove.
She turned and said:
what are you
and Milka doing
this fine Saturday?
Going to show her
the place I used
to go fishing,
I said.
Fishing? Milka?
didn't know she
was into fishing?
He mother said smiling.
She's not,
I said,
but the spot is beautiful,
and we could sit
by the pond
and watch the wildlife,
and maybe take
some sandwiches
and drinks of pop
and have a sort of picnic.
O that sounds good,
Milka's mother said.
I said nothing
about anything else
we may get up to
if the weather held
and it stayed dry.
She turned and made
the tea and watched
the bread under the grill.
I watched her
move about
taking in her
motherly *******
her Rubenesque figure.
Just then
Milka came down
the stairs
and into the kitchen
in her dressing gown
and her hair
in a mess.
You're here early,
she said to me,
make me some toast
and a coffee
please, Mum,
she asked her mother,
and sat down
next to me.
You could at least
have washed
and got dressed
first Milka,
her mother said
looking at her frowning.
Didn't know
Benny was here,
Milka said.
Well he is,
her mother said,
so get yourself decent.
Milka sighed
and raised her
eyes heavenward,
and stomped
off upstairs.
That girl,
Milka's mother said,
just as well
her father's
not here or he'd
give her coming down
to breakfast like that,
just as well he's
up on the farm.
She poured me
a mug of tea
and two slices of toast
and butter,
and sat down
opposite me
and said:
you've a handful
there, Benny,
not an easy one
to motivate
into action.
No I guess not,
I said,
keeping the image
of Milka and me
in her bed
******* away
inside my head.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
You were older than I was:
nineteen years older, old
enough to be my mother
not my lover, but you were,
each part of you, that dyed
blonde hair, Rubenesque
figure, blue eyes, **** voice,
and us making out either
in your lounge on the blue
sofa or in your double bed
with moonlight pouring in
on us. You liked the bottle
of wine or scotch I brought,
the Mahler 1st or 5th, small
talk, the big talk. You were
the seduced of my youth
and it was fine, it was an
education of one to one,
a kiss and never tell or tell,
but not with whom or where.
I sailed you through Seven
Seas, climbed your mountain
peaks, surveyed your valleys
of dark and love and lust.
You rest now, in God's peace,
I hope and I trust.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC