"snugness" poems
Opening up to Monday
I unwrapped myself from the duvet
Pasted my limbs to the floor
Slippers winked at me
Invitingly, I settled my feet into their snugness
As I stood, I was thankful that today
Is Monday, wonderful Monday
Free as a song bird to create
My own melody, a chorus of hurrah
I caught up with the shower
On hot house temperature
Scorching...I fumbled for the cool
Climate, turning it sufficiently to
Bathe and recycle myself
As I stroked the cat meowing
A feline opera, making her presence known
The outside world had a dismal feel
The window onto the day told me so
Yet, blue escorted the clouds
Pushing the doubting rain packages
To another realm
Introducing the blue yonder that
Had won the day
We all gathered up into the aroma
Of a new week, stretched our
Arms towards one another
I joined the links for a few hours
Tattooing their conversation into my
Subconscious indelibly
Unhooking ourselves we separated
Turning towards the duties of the day
Swiftly we deposited out parting gifts
Hugs
Kisses
Our best
Our loving wishes
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
The shirt that once hung loose from my shoulders, hugs me as tight as a small child does to its parent on the first day of swim lessons.
Shorts and pants that I used to swim in, now fit maybe a little too snugly.
And the weight I want to lose like a pair of glasses, or a set of keys, keeps adding up like apples in a math problem.
Does the saying "it will get worse before it gets better," have to apply to everything?
Maybe my shirts will hang lose again, just as the children get used to the water in time.
Maybe the snugness of my pants will wear old, and my bottoms will go back to needing belts to hold them up.
Maybe a friend named Sam will need some apples, and we will learn to subtract.
Maybe I will feel safe eating one of those apples, without wanting to throw it back up again.
Sometimes I think that I never want to give up this disordered habit of mine.
And other times I know it will never do me any good.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Under the celestial heavens,
The sceptic, is so small, slight—
In a dull room, filled with gloss, vacant,
Unbelievers, hayseeds, who unbeknownst
To themselves, are all in an incestuous love cult,
A construct so vain, vacuous, of spineless comfort
And smarmy snugness, a tribe of loose, yawning tripe,
A spew of runny phlegms, a scheme of useless blue things,
Festering. What rational and clear clods, of beheadedness,
Cluelessness, in clefts of lobotomy, plain and clearly sightless,
Without seeing, they proclaim, all that their dull drivels, the dear
Elders had once spoon fed to them, preached, said— now, how,
They are sad, righteous and solemn in their preordained, oldness,
Incongruous, indifferences and prejudices. To have completely lost
Any warm, decent, actual feelings for emotion is foreign— the stars,
Do not align, the waters will not part, yet they are blind to the lies
In themselves. To have experienced— any real, beating, ******
Thing is beside the point, is beyond their ken, is not knowable,
Yet, kowtow-able, quantifiable, not actual, but unbelievable
They—the smug, slugs, under rugs, are dead, as dust,
Under celestial skies, deep, darkness inside . . .
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
the root of sea is dead
our sky is still unreal
which deep it may reside
your parching gentle tear
a rain of sleepy draught
on cheeks of silky night
in blush of coyness thin
we start a fresh new life
a life same as we dreamed
now born in lap of time
in cradle of our love
as blooming summers prime
as nursed by tender joys
sweeping as twilight red
echoed by tranquil breeze
in arms of roses spread
scrambled and lost tonight
brood over freshest hues
amidst gleeful snugness
we kiss our moment true
may million pains which shall
try douse and dim this flame
or crawling creep our souls
spread foul revolt our faith
let them brew up a storm
summon a herd of beasts
while world fogs out our day
remember darling please
if root of past be dead
and future sky unreal
our love shall ride us through
wildest waves my dear
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
My dearest.
Words cannot describe how much I long to be in your embrace.
Your warmth that envelops me
And your softness.
Your tantalizing smell of clean laundry
And painted wood.
Your caress engulfs me,
Filling my dreams with peace.
I hate when I have to kiss you goodbye in the mornings
Walking out the door
With a final longing gaze at your beauty and snugness
But I can remember that you are always waiting for me
When I walk into the room
And dive into the warmth of the covers
And return to you
My bed
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 7:31 PM UTC
We sipped cocktails in the dimly-lit lounge, candlelight flickered, not a sound was heard beneath the murmurings of the early morning revellers.
A high pitched giggle pierced the snugness, the light chatter and knowing looks of lovers and would-be-lovers, smiling at one another, dreaming their dreams and dreaming their partners dreams for them, they came to enjoy the evening and the night would take care of itself.
Our day had been splendid, more than we could ever have hoped, and now exhausted but not wishing the day would end we escaped into the comfort of each other, for once to the exclusion of all others.
We talked of everything except what we were thinking and what we were thinking was exciting and the very thought took away our breath and our hearts drummed a faster beat and drinks done we departed in search of a finer heaven.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
If I ask you would you give me some time
A brief moment shared in rhythm and rhyme
I will not ask for any more than that
Just the merest glimpse of sweet paradise
Inhaling your sweet scent of civet cat
Aroma feeding my inner desire
Just a moment of lust shared between us
Ignites the spark of eternity’s fire
The supreme love of Vulcan and Venus
Again, I ask for a moment in time
The question hidden in casual chitchat
My words lost, disguised grains of wild rice
Will your heart see all this that I desire
The dark love within romantic snugness
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 3:51 PM UTC
She stole little pieces of his heart
or maybe he gave them to her freely
the truth is most likely hidden
in another story
another song
another poem
it was the little things
the simplest of gestures
the kindest of her smile
the soft colors reflecting in her eyes
in how she had perfected
the art of a hug
both in the duration and snugness
it was the the way she talked
how every word that left her lips
became a song bird all its own
it was in the way she listened
and the way she was quiet
when nothing else
needed to be said
in how she turned
a moment of silence
into a heart felt orchestra
and with every piece she stole
and every piece he gave
his heart grew bigger
and so the story went
the truth hiding
in the open pages of a book
the notes of a song
waiting in a poem unwritten
where she stole
and he gave
until there was nothing left to give
and nothing left to steal
and all that was left
was love
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC