"soaping" poems
Tales of ghouls and trick or treats
Witches, ghosts, and things to eat
The spirit world is here to greet
It's Hallowe'en again
Soaping windows, creaky doors
Begging like addicted ******
They keep coming, they want more
It's Hallowe'en again
Haunted houses, ghostly frights
Witches flying brooms tonight
A zombie lawyer is quite a sight
It's Hallowe'en agin
Charlie Brown and Snoopy too
Get rocks as treats, I ask...do you?
Dressed as smurfs, all done in blue
It's Hallowe'en again
The smell of fall is in the air
Tonight the kids are out to scare
I stay downstairs like I'm not there
It's Hallowe'en again
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
In the noonday heat . . .
We open blinds, light water,
. . . My turn soaping her.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
*Clothed in noonday heat
We open blinds, light water
My turn soaping her*
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
seeing
sealing
sewing
seeming
setting
seeding
seeking
seeping
selling
steeling
sleeting
slipping
slitting
slighting
soaping
soothing
spotting
speeding
sweeping
swapping
swimming
swearing
swelling
sleeping
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
She stands in the shower.
Running her wash cloth across
Her body.
the slow rise of *******
the arch of hips,
the curve of a neck.
The day she's had
Swirls around the drain
Between the space of her toes.
All that's left is the smell of soap.
Against her skin.
Her washcloth is not as white as it was.
She lets out a sigh.
Letting the hot water crash
Against her body.
Ringing it out before
Soaping up the rag again.
Her body becoming softer.
Erasing every touch, every stare
That isn't her own.
Vigorously scrubbing.
The remnants of soap drip
Down her legs.
I knock on the door before
Poking my head in to check on
Her.
She hangs her head out with a smile.
The smell of soap and water
Glisten off of her light skin.
Before she closes the curtain back,
I ask if she needs help washing her
Back
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 11:09 PM UTC
*In the noonday heat
We open blinds, light water
My turn soaping her*
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
I'm from the non-stop ticking of an active heart,
from Kleenex and star-gazing.
I'm from the crispness of fall on your tongue,
the old crab-apple tree, the wild growing lilacs.
I'm from twirling like dervishes and always running late,
from sweets and generality to now or never.
I'm from internalizing and erasing my words,
from being an oak tree in the storm and soaping my hands before washing them.
I'm from mile-high arches.
I'm from the coasts and the heartland, the old people and the new,
from spaetzle and goolash,
from never learning enough and right timing,
from the way a smile can light a room,
from the silent sound of a soul leaving its body.
I'm from musky basements and cabinets,
from dusty old books and torn old pages,
from sentiment as precious as a thousand years,
as rare as the sunset of yesterday.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
I got this new hand soap, called “Frosted Coconut Snowball.”
It's the dreamiest scent ever.
When I’d unpacked (from Spring break) and had everything in place,
I dragged Andy and Leong into my bathroom. Wash your hands,” I suggested, holding up the soap dispenser and turning on the tap.
“Ok," Leong said, offering her upturned hands for soaping.
“Sure,” Andy said, assenting with his hands as well.
I pumped out a generous, foaming squirt for each of them.
Leong held the foam up to smell. “Oh, my GOD,” She moaned, “is this edible?
I shook my head no.
Andy sampled his as well, “Nice!” he agreed. Which is volumes from a guy.
“I fell in love with it.” I declared, adding, “You know, I never used to wash my hands before - now, it’s practically a habit.”
Andy chuckled.
“Good to know,” Leong said, before she began slowly inhaling the fragrance off her now-dry hands.
Mar 20, 2024
Mar 20, 2024 at 10:59 PM UTC
It rains while we are in Paris
we get drenched
so we walk back
to our hotel
(some dump place
small as a cupboard)
and get out
of our wet clothes
she turns on the radio
(she has to have music
while **********
some French dame singing
about whatever French dames
sing about
she says
I'm going to shower
want to come in?
why not
I say
so we shower together
body close to body
body touching body
soaping up
each the other
then showering off
then we get out
and towel ourselves dry
and now some
French guy is singing
he's singing about love
Sonya says
l'amour est l'amour
as we dry I notice
a tattoo on her upper thigh
not seen that before
I say
seen what?
she says
that tattoo
pointing to her thigh
o Benny
I have had that
for ages
she says
I've not see it before
I say
maybe because it is dark
when we make love
and you are too busy
at the time to study
my tattoo
she says smiling
I get closer
to have a better look
and it says
Du kan kysse hvis du ser
what does it mean?
I ask
it says you can kiss
if you see
or something like that
and can I?
you usually do
in the dark
so why not
in daylight
she says
so I do
and well you know
what happens
one things leads
to one thing
and that leads to another
and so we do
and still the radio
plays music except now
it's playing some aria
from Bizet
and I kiss each area
of skin I can
wet lips on dry skin
until it's wet skin
and wet lips
and wet everything
and still the opera
goes on
and the fat dame
can still sing.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
We get there
in London
that hotel
some cheap one
just behind
Charing Cross
train station
the two rooms
one bedroom
and a bath
and toilet
pokey room
it's evening
we'd just seen
a *** film
in some dive
and some drinks
Nima says
*** at last
Miss *****
is starving
needs her cream
the room smells
kind of stale
the old bed
looks well worn
then let's start
up the game
I reply
she closes
the curtains
(a dull white)
I go off
for a leak
then after
so does she
then we bathe
in the bath
together
soaping up
each other
rubbing down
rinsing off
then kissing
each other
on the lips
the body
and the arms
and the legs
then we dry
rubbing down
preparing
for one long
night of ***
she thinking
of the weeks
in the ward
of that old
hospital
without ***
or her drugs
or her *****
I'm thinking
of each inch
of her pale
white body
the small *****
the slim waist
the dark thatch
of *****
and near by
a gun's shot
or some car
backfires
stirring up
both of our
******
desires.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
another morning
another chemical coating
another narcissistic lathering
soaping my hair, face, body
antiperspirant, lotion
sunscreen, hair gel, eye drops
toothpaste, mouthwash
there’s nothing real about me
I am fake, head to toe
plastics, aerosols, fragrances
trying to preserve the real real
or mask it or hide it or fix it
as the mirror snickers at me
in 2d flat-screen mockery
I’m a stranger, a hitchhiker in
a borrowed body, a rogue
uncovered, this facade
bared down to its natural
stench and style
is something unpublishable,
something never in vogue
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC