i never thought
in a million years
would i sit there
under the blazing sun
still sea water
soft sound of crashing waves
in your arms,
thumb mindlessly strokes me
hand holding mine
leaning on you
my body fitting with yours so perfectly

never
*but it happened

I’d imagined twilight
Dripping like gentle strokes
Atop a canvas we’d thrown out,
Out window hours ancient – a, “light’s off,”
And shadow’s play,
Bitten lips and muffled pant;
The secret that’d eat, masticate,
*****, gorge atop more
And add to the first eternity knowing "end."

So the stars fell, “twinkle-tap-tap,”
For planets break, dust and tear
Atop our pillow post-ecstasy,
An only accomplishment and still
Breathing this only and
Remaining lonely’d thought,
“The other’s still right;”
Could I be so very wrong?

And she leaves with part of me upon back,
An ink wrought celebration of years later,
And imagined, the pour, not poor,
But immortal retreat
Born my buying one ticket
And later romp awry Reynosa;
The rattle of tequila, pool-***** and pockets,
Sweet, sweet, “Lenore,”
And the home she’d promised,

The home we eventually abandoned.

Empty sounds rushing through a November morning.
Long breaths creaking through a bedroom windows rattle.
Soft strokes of the skin break its comfort.
Tunnels of longing float through a mind's encouraging thrusted composure.
Ascending reveries flutter.
I'm left with a thought.

I saw a monkey masturbatin' in a tree
He looked at me so curiously
One stroke, Two strokes, and then three

Hey jerky monkey
Don't go shootin' your load on me!

Our senses help us grow and communicate
“This race must continue, go  find  a mate”
Saying  so,  our   emotions   do  we  berate
“Is it him or her?” 'tis  our  hottest  debate

We lock eyes, and so begins the endless dance
Call it an  experience or  maybe  even a trance
There’s  just the two of us in this vast expanse
Just to make things simple, we call it romance

Upon  us  now  is  a  turning  of  the  cosmic tide
In this scheme, We are like but fish out of water
Just under the surface, like the  truth  we  reside
As for the harvest, there must be fresh slaughter

Let’s take a  thick brush and paint this canvas
Let our colours be bright and our strokes, bold
Let them look back  at  our lingering  madness
“A millennia  before, our stories they foretold”

But   why,  when   there’s  procrastination
Would we ever envision a joyous peasant
And  why,  when  there’s  mass castration
Wouldn't we need these anti-depressants

We  store  the  remnants  of  our  memories  in  a  few  boxes
Never enough  space,  we  always  need  more  storage  units
Tiniest crevice do  we  find, “Come let us release our toxins”
We forget that they’re there, once they've lost their newness

We     come     closer     when     we     share    this     moment
A  simple  command  given  to our  pre-programmed selves
A  few  simple,  meaningless  words,  turned  into  a  slogan
Within moments, the symbols are sold out from the shelves

Sputtering from the cradle, stuttering to the grave
For  simply  living  each  moment,  we   are  brave
Even  sociopaths, while  in  a  crowd  will  behave
Never were you free, since birth were you a slave

“Find  a  prey, take  a  life.” Under  his  breath, chants the hunter
Weapons  soar  through  the  open skies, “Protect us, oh bunker!”
Here they  come, in  their cold  lifeless  selves, to tear us asunder
Wise old men say time and again, “Life is nothing but a blunder”

You are the guy with the unkempt room and a cluttered used car. You have many things in your head, from ideas to plans to the latest book you’ve read. You are a dreamer, and that means that if the girl you date isn’t like you, it’s unlikely to work out.

Don’t date a girl who doesn’t travel. She is the girl who wants to travel in theory, but has never made the time. She is the girl with the medicine cabinet filled with cosmetics, hair products, and perfume, but a passport filled with blank pages. She does her hair in memorized strokes every morning as she has been doing this for years now. She is a creature of habit. She is impressed by wealth, nice cars, and titles, but she knows nothing about the world.

Don’t date a girl who doesn’t travel because she will drive you crazy at how she tries to “tame” you. She will regard your life as chaotic and will not be able to understand your many nuances. She will try to make you feel like you need her. With good intentions, she will cling to you and manipulate your life into becoming like hers. You see, she will look at you and treat you as though you are a lost puppy, and regard herself as the kind-hearted woman that will put you in the right path. She will talk to you about security, and you will wonder at her ignorance.

She won’t go to any of the adventures you planned out, because she thinks they are bereft of value and a waste of time. While you have a plethora of foreign currencies in your wallet, she’ll only desire to go to those “foreign” resorts that accept US Dollar. She will not take chances. Her whole life has been inside her comfort zone. Her childhood revolved around a home-to-school-to-home routine. She might never have been allowed to play outside, or she might never have wanted to. She thinks she is better than you because of her stable, 9 to 5 job, which makes you want to gag because you will never want a life like that.

Don’t date a girl who doesn’t travel. Her world is nothing to envy. Her world where the only people he knows are her co-workers and high school classmates who she drinks with at the clubs on the weekends. In her world, net worth is the metric of success. There is no room for making a difference, changing the world, and working for ideals that are bigger than her. Don’t even try to have a conversation about the environment or social issues, she couldn’t care less. Her adventures are about the argument with the co-worker she hates and the other driver that almost hit her when he failed to give way to her SUV on her commute.

She will want to eat in overrated chain restaurants with you, and will frown at you when you ask to try out that food truck down the street. She will cringe at the thought of eating at food stalls at a busy Southeast Asian market or elote from a street cart in Mexico. She will try to lure you into her world, but you are not even tempted by such a dull and dreary alternative. She is oblivious to how unappealing the bait she offers is.

That girl who doesn’t travel has chosen the unexamined and robotic life. You can only watch in despair as she runs on the rat-wheel of her mental cage. She will never understand that, while her wealth is measured by the number of zero’s in her bank account, your wealth is measured on the places you’ve been to and the people you’ve met and whose lives you’ve touched.

She will never understand why you have so many random keepsakes from your travels, like a small soiled napkin from a Moroccan café or the train tickets that you use as bookmarks. She will never opt for the slower and more scenic route. She will not be content to see the world through a window or television. While you are watching the sunset, she is checking her phone.

When you do travel, she will want to rent a car, when in fact you would rather take public transport and meet people with amazing stories. She will get jealous and insecure when you talk to strangers, even those you meet at the bus. You see, she doesn’t talk to anyone she doesn’t know and frequently ignores those she does.

She will ask you not to travel anymore, to settle down. And you consider it. Then you realize that your passion and dreams will end the moment you give in. You have always wanted to travel around the world, to meet people from all walks of life, and to life live to the fullest. There is still so much to be done! There are so many things to see and experience! You imagine yourself two decades from now and you see yourself happy; passport filled with stamps and a refrigerator filled with magnets from different countries. A woman is there with you in that dream, reminiscing about the adventures y’all had.

Unless the girl you’re dating is like you; a free-spirited, adventurous traveler, you don’t deserve each other. Whether by fear or complacency, she is going nowhere. She can keep that dream of a suburban house and a manicured front yard, not let her weigh you down!

The medals from Vietnam only saw light
when it fanned beneath the bed
so that when you removed them
the black velvet had grown forty years
of grey moss

it wasn’t that you wanted to forget them
but that they couldn’t stack up against
the black and white time lines
the photographs of your children
my mother, aunt and uncle
that grew into color by the top of the stairs

it wasn’t a matter of forgetting
it was a matter of choice
and the shark teeth and crab jackets
that all the cousins pulled out of the Chesapeake
stayed on the shelf because
that was what you were fighting for

the only relic you decided
to keep in plain view
laid right next to the crab jackets
a little vial wrapped around
a little metal tooth

because when the mortar flashed like a stroke
inches from your head
your thoughts went to home
and that fragment of near death
you keep in the glass vial
looking out over the living room
to tease it, to torture it, to say
Not even you could make me forget

Last time I saw you was a year ago
and you were dying
bruises bubbled anywhere a corner touched your flesh
and oily scales peeled from the shell of skin
stretched over your forehead

last year you told us everything about your medals
they were all just throwaways
though your wife and daughter pried,
you knew that remembering them was a waste of dying time

now two more strokes since that mortar flash
have left you in the ward
people have stopped visiting
because visitors like to be recognized
and when Marmee sits and watches football with you
she hates football
she asks you what teams are playing
you sob
*I used to know.

Behold, an ethereal incarnate.
Soulful, astute, and delicate.
Her sight instills inspiration,
Her touch strokes with passion.

Callow, pure, and wholly innocent,
Inwards, she sprung, fully vehement.
With a handful of zealous volition,
And hopes to earn love and ambition.

Dazed by a benevolent trance,
She danced with pristine stance.
But, oh, so little did she know,
******* pierced like an arrow.

Lo, gone were the days of viridity.
Past was learnt, hence gained clarity.
No brand of man, no spoil of deceit,
Can cull her stead like maize and meat.

She who dons an exuberant shield,
Whose mighty foes will surely yield.
Brandished crown of newfound glory,
Behold, a Queen—hear her story.

tell me
what you want
because i want you

you look the same way
the sunset paints brush strokes
on the horizon

i want to be your horizon.

sometimes we love without a reason why, without knowing anything except for this. the way we clumsily work toward interlacing our fingers reminds me that life isn't perfect until we're content withthe fact that it's not perfect.
you make me see all that life can be. with you here, i am more than content. i am happy.

you changed my life.
like an autumn evening
changes green to red.
to yellow.

your smile is my
favourite constellation.
and i play connect the dots between
the corners of your mouth.

you make me love.
myself.
life.
the world.
you.

*always.

somewhere in my mind
a sky is full of kites
sunflowers blossoming on a hillside
fields of grapes, of my salt mixed with your perfume
my eyes drift across a canvas of waves
on which your warm feet have flattened grapes
into a sea diluted of sadness
stretching far from left to right
and wisping clouds above.
the heart follows timidly behind
approaching cautiously the soft strokes and waves
seeing each kite as an arrow
shot into the air by Cupid's jealous lover
as heaven's golden eye creeps past the mountain,
dips into the ocean
leaves this sky
a sweet, light wine; leaves me tipsy-turvy
while one can't help but believe:
loveliness is a vine mapped out within each
arms can hold, arms can drown
...I await yours.

In a window less cell.
Where the phone never rings.

No visitors here.
Hold myself dear.

The wind bleats as lamb.
Soft,virtually silent.

Only sound heard, rattling air-brick.
Still cold inside.

Lonely fool.
Sits waiting for endurance to call.

She doesn't need it.
He's just a *****.

He doesn't call.
Once he did.
She said she'd visit.

Only because she's bored.
Good Lord!

What is it that makes her hide inside.
Hide inside her heart that died.

Static she waits in her virtual box.

Watching the seconds dance over the clock.
Knowing all that he wants is a game with his ****.

Stuck In a vortex between love and hate.
Certainly not feeling great.

The height from where she fell was lowly.
He truly is not holy.

He lives where terra firma strokes the belly of the worm.
The worm wants her to stroke him.

Will F**k him but only with words!
She will not go.


By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

a loop in upper atmosphere today
with a model's figure of grass
to postpone his next canvass

this desire to retouch in a wanton lapse
his brush fitted in a cloud
and he steamed aloud  

a bubble's glow in a tip of the pen
to exclaim foment
as shape blew doctrinaire
with clasps of tarter  
where his strokes were ardor
that trend would enhance with finale
while he deeply supplanted the soul

The city sits above your eyes,
in dark mascara strokes.
Your soft pink lips are chapped and tried
unglossed, and un-baroque.

The flowers of a garden’s growth
are painted on each iris.
The laughter and the sadness, both
are on your cheeks that i kiss.

Your body sparkles, freckles brushed
are baked in your warm skin.
A bellybutton slightly pushed
by God’s last touch, thumb pin.

Decisiveness.
Swift and unfaltering.
steady strokes
unite ink and creamy paper
to herald this new day,
new life, anew.

I collect things- mostly words
written and unspoken
they hold a certain enchantment
and I gather them into my arms, my heart
like a greedy child
on seashell spun shores
and I hope to keep them here-
eternal and youthful
like the first memory of fireworks
and hot caramel
or glowing sea waves

I stack them on shelves
in between pages
in secret corners
even whispering to the wind
and in between the sheets

I keep things
and steal some things
like sunshine, rain, a kiss
because I wanted to
maybe you wanted me too
Desire is fleeting, ephemeral and often fickle
but it is decisive in the heat of the moment
sharp as a knife,
and it cuts through my thoughts
again and again
until
maybe just until-

I run out of pretty little words to collect
leaving me no choice
but to sing it out loud
the first three words I took
I took from a single glance
a secret gaze
from an electric dance
that we started
along time ago
one that seems to go on and on
like the pounding rhythm
of erratic heartbeats.

All of it means so little,
all of it means everything
or nothing.

And until that day comes
let me lie here
alone but me and the stars
to spin those pretty little words
feel their cadence on my tongue
with my eyes closed

lie here and wait
until the last sound
of your name
escapes me

And the enchantment
complete.

Grief's canvas stretches wide and bare
A blank slate waiting, with no one to share
The brushstrokes of memories, once vibrant and bright
Now muted and faded, in the dark of night

The paint of pain, a deepening hue
A color that clings, to all I once knew
The strokes of sorrow, bold and free
A portrait of longing, for what used to be

The process of healing, a slow reveal
A layering of emotions, a complex feel
The colors of love, still shining through
A radiant glow, in all I once knew

The subject of my heart, a beloved face
A masterpiece of memories, in a sacred space
Though faded and worn, the love remains
A portrait of devotion, through joy and pains

The final brushstroke, a gentle touch
A whisper of acceptance, a heart that's too much
The portrait complete, a story told
A testament to love, that never grows old

In this masterpiece of grief and love
I find solace, sent from above
A reminder of what was, and what will be
A portrait of devotion, for all eternity.

This is a lie, in that,
it is likened with the first thought -
blindfold for a day and daydream.

Sridala Swami caught a boy
who didn't wake up, odd hour
to let phosphene thoughts flow,
confused, like drunken drive on,
a footpath. This is likened to
a poem written wide awake,
could I ever really not see?

This has happened before -

The grass bristles ricocheting finger strokes,
pampered, like mother seeking refuge,
in the smiles mimicry of forgotten childhood emanates,
eyed closed, given in to the gut stretch fever
after retching and vomiting like a cartoon character.

One can't talk to grass otherwise.

In the purple faint of school assembly
hands reaching out to a thud
a concert crowd ready to catch
but delayed reflexes in play.
I felt the hands of strangers,
finger prints etched with water sprinkles
on my face, singing "Wake Up!"

One can't listen to hands otherwise.

Running on an unknown bridge
eyes blinded by sweat and tears
of shock sadness and watch dogs' stares,
of separation, disgust and anger over words
and intentions behind other's mistakes,
eyes closed under an idol unnoticed
a beggar's hand over the head in prayer

One can't sense an unseen person otherwise.

Inside out folding of your mind
impressions washed out, dried
on the wires of gratitude
unequivocal, irrevocable and unsolicited
in the summer sun,
feeling like a toilet flushed after years
I wonder if angels long for it too.

One can't hear silence within, so loudly otherwise.

i remember
in an autumn thunderstorm,
you clung desperately to me underneath our umbrella
you told me you were scared of storms, but that you loved them, and i find now that that was the best way to describe my love for you.  
a storm that brewed.  
but a storm that i grew attached to.
i fell in love with you in thunderous explosions of orange and blue
the fall was our favorite season but i had no idea just what the **** i was falling into
i thought that when i looked into your eyes i’d realized what i really truly wanted in my life
and that was to be healed by those ******* eyes
thunder shook you but lightning bounced straight from your throat and into my chest
you stopped my heart
you left me with a nasty scar that clung to me like doctor’s stitchings.
so i tore at them,
ripping charred flesh from my muscles almost as swiftly as my pen strokes against paper
it became muscle memory
and those memories of us beneath that clouding sky weigh me down
shackling and chaining me to your promises
grounded on the cracking asphalt of your street titled clover but that street was anything but lucky for us
because it had more potholes than your ******* promises
i have waited a month and a half to write this poem
and the only thing that has kept me awake until three in the morning
was the fact that you had the nerve to cling to the sweater in the bottom drawer of my nightstand
stained with your promises, your memory, your fears and your bravery
every glance, touch, kiss, smile, punch, tear, tear of fabric,
and every booming sob that left my body for the first time in five years
i can’t even cry when i read my writing about you
that was another aspect of me you clinged to
and something i couldn’t cling to
do you know how much damage you’ve dealt me?
mirrors i gaze into feel cracked
shards of glass better describing who i am now than who i once was
broken
and you broke me human
but still used me
as your umbrella
like i was worth something
worth more than all the things you’d made me
in an autumn thunderstorm

I
Thy trivial harp will never please
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear.
No jingling serenader's art,
Nor ****** of piano strings,
Can make the wild blood start
In its mystic springs.
The kingly bard
Must smile the chords rudely and hard,
As with hammer or with mace;
That they may render back
Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned hood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice of orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.

Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
"Pass in, pass in," the angels say,
"In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise."

Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.

By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin's mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled,
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mold the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall nor seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
Efficacious rhymes;
Wait his returning strength.
Bird that from the nadir's floor
To the zenith's top can soar,
The roaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.
Nor profane affect to hit
Or compass that, by meddling wit,
Which only the propitious mind
Publishes when 'tis inclined.
There are open hours
When the God's will sallies free,
And the dull idiot might see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;
Sudden, at unawares,
Self-moved, fly-to the doors,
Nor sword of angels could reveal
What they conceal.

II
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs;
Balance-loving Nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode;
Each color with its counter glowed:
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough;
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting ***** and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.

Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand;
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated;
Adding by their mutual gage,
One to other, health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and ire,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Nor ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The self-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.

Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife
Murmur in the hour of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay.
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.

Air carresses porcelain skin
His firm lips press eagerly to every nook
Hands graze over pert *******
Goosebumps appear as nails dig lightly

Teeth sink ever so slightly into pouty full lips
Lithe figure squirms beneath him
Brilliant twinkling blues stare at the dent in the lip
Leaning forward svelte tongue drags across

Tasting
Teasing
Suckling

Finally sinking pearly whites into the dent
Ears perk as a hard moan escapes from deep within her
Releasing the lip leaves that wondrous mouth to catch
The sound that drives every lover wild

Gasping
Grinding
Groaning

Her body like an instrument
To be stroked, trimmed, plucked
Until that magnificent all consuming music plays out
With tender strokes, pads lightly pluck taut rose buds

Body leans back over the arm
Ample spheres of beauty push out as the back arches
Flames of spun silk kiss the floor
Aqueous tongue traces a path up the center
Veering right at the last second
Drenching tightly drawn peaks by suckling with the inferno
Inside his mouth

Insides quiver almost tossing her over ecstacy's edge
Feeling his phallus hard against trembling thigh
Blood races to the pleasure center pulsating where his rod presses
Crying out passionately, followed by begs

"Please"
"Please what?"  He asks.
Each word sending lava to her core
"I don'don't know!"  She screams frustrated

He chuckles further infuriating and confusing her
Knowing what is wanted he continues to tease
Pulling her forward with hands pinned behind her back
An exasperated sounds emits from swollen lips

"Tsk Tsk"  He admonishes
Subtlety grinding the tip of his staff against that hidden pearl
She struggles, yanking at her arms
Unable to escape the torment, trying to block it

Suddenly a door opens a soft mew fills his ears
Soft plush pillows caressed by firm ones
Mouths open as tongues greet eagerly,

Twisting
Turning
Dancing
Caressing

He feels the change the point of no return
Lush curves push against muscles
Bare mound begins to move up and down his thigh
Moisture soaking through his jeans

A fierce cry permeates the air as his teeth sink into her neck
Replaced by tongue stabbing over, suckling hard
Yet biting again
He feels her pace pick up as she grinds deeper and faster

Pain equals pleasure
Pleasure is pain
He begins to crank up the heat
Nipping the ear lobe as fingers grip and pull on tight *******

Her body responds like a well played guitar
Cries and moans spur him on
Bites become harder
Pinches become twists

The pale silk flesh suddenly covered in red welts
Mews turn to groans
Groans turn to cries
Cries turn to screams

As the screams start his thigh is flooded with her ***
Moans escape his lips in time for her kiss to catch them
His member is pulsating, he needs to take her soon
Ruby lips are devouring his

Teeth smash together
Lips split and bleed
The salty taste the only clue
He feels her lips pressing against his neck

Licking
Kissing
Nibbling
Biting

Feeling her teeth press deep into his neck is his undoing
Growling loudly as his body reacts
**** jumps up with steady spasms
Yanking the buttons off the fly

Fully engorged mushroom springs forward at the tip of
9 sleek thick inches
"Ahhhhhh" relief as the beast is let out
Unpinning her hands they immediately go for his shaft
Gripping tight

Air ***** hard like a kick to the stomach
Lips meet again
Twirling, suckling, dancing fervently
Hands everywhere no part left untouched

He slides a finger deep between silky folds
Pulling forth the sweetest nectar
Leaning forward tongue delves out suckling the heated sweetness
Her breath hot in his ear as ******* dip deep
Filling, stretching, pushing, adding a third elicits a guttural moan

Fingers curl up pressing against the soft ledge
Mouths crash together again
Hand grabs a fist of flames pulling back
Deep emeralds flash such fire stare back

Watching as her last effort to undo me occurs
Tongue glides slowly tracing her mouth lips
Fingers ease out replaced by the sword
Placing digits between her lips leaning in tasting her *** upon her lips
As his hard length slams home plundering Her tight volcanic well deep

Pushing
Pulling out
Ramming to the hilt

Mouth swallowing every sound
Allowing it to fuel musical movements
In, out, up, down
Sliding, pumping
Biting, pinching

Flesh hitting flesh the clapping sound oblivious to us
Her heated well ******* his clock deeper
Hips lifting, gyrating meeting each ******
Opening to him like no other

Sweat covers naked flesh
Bodies collide over and over
Neither giving less than the other
Feeling her vice grip upon his shaft it begins to quiver
He increases the pinching, biting, and suckling

Rocking to and fro harder, faster
Gasping as his clock twitches
Her hand reaches between them making a circle around the base
Gripping tight as he pumps in, tighter still on withdrawal

Ahhhs,  Ohhs, yeesssses!
Fill the room
Her emerald greens gaze deep into his striking blues
Arching hard her body beneath  his
Her ***** having such a grip he can't breathe
His ***** tense as he feels his own ecstasy approaching

Trying to move but wanting to hold on just a moment longer
The redhead leans up tracing his lips with her tongue
Slamming home three more times
Sacs draw up and he feels the release as it flies through his staff
Spewing deep into her red hot well

Her walls tremble, gripping and releasing after her own body
Explodes, her juices spurting forward mixing with his as spasms rock their world

Afterwards is calm and warm
Looking at her sweet flesh now a wreck, marks from his teeth, fingers and lips evidence of how hot things became

Lips meet once more in an almost chaste kiss
Bodies intertwined as they fall asleep
Each dreaming about the hours before.
Sleeping in blissful contentment

I like poetry
Like a painter likes art
While they make brush strokes
I stand up and try to evoke
Feelings  
I can’t paint a picture with a brush
But I sure as hell can with words
For instance
Some of the most beautiful things
Come from sadness
I’ve seen Poets hold back tears
When talking about lost lovers
I’ve met vagabonds who run
From state to state looking for
A place to call home
I’ve held my baby brother and sister
In my arms while I smile to myself
Knowing that they will have a better
Future than me.
I put these thoughts into poems
Because we use feelings to create
It doesn’t matter if it’s
Poetry, photography or painting
We all have an escape
My favorite artist killed himself
At the age of 29
His only escape
Consisted of starry nights
Wandering in wheat fields
And painting the man he wishes
He could be
Not realizing he had
All of the time in the world
To find his happiness
But It didn’t take much time
For the bullet to enter his chest
Lead penetrating his heart
Where his passion should be
His last words were
The Sadness will last forever
And it does
It feels like an eternity
When depression is clawing your back
Leaving you bruised and scarred
When anxiety comes crawling back
Leaving you broken and breathless
Realizing the person you once were
Is no longer the person you truly are
You’re not the same kid
That your single mother raised
Working night shifts at bars
Where people were shot in cold blood
Because my father decided
That leaving a 19-year-old woman
With a newborn was a good idea
You’re not the same teenager who prayed
To a god every night and ended up
Being even more alone than before
I don’t believe in hell
But if it’s real then I’m already living in it
You soon begin to realize
That life doesn’t owe you anything
So you try to make the best of it
Even when you’re dying inside
Because life is about memoires
Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses
Watch the sunset and sunrise
You have to travel to the places
You dreamed of seeing as a kid
To remember the innocence
Fall in love with someone that
Leaves a fire in your chest
That cannot be extinguished
Because for once
Waking up will be okay
If they’re in your arms
Learn to live your own life
Before you teach somebody else
How to live theirs
Learn to love yourself
Learn to live freely
And don’t be afraid to explore
You have to be lost
To eventually find where
You belong anyway
So don’t rush to your destination
There’s so much to see along the way

Your body is my heaven
As I grip on your soft hair
I kiss your soft lips
My kisses gently go down to your neck
Leaving hickies and you start to pant as my hands go down to your sides;
I reach up and loosen your bra
Revealing your breast, I slowly lick your *******;
Flicking my tongue and hearing your pants;
You say, "go lower daddy."
Your wish is my every command
My hand now on your *******
I kiss your stomach
I go lower and I nibble on your lace *******;
I bite my way through those underwear;
I'm greeted with a beautiful rose
Your **** pulsating
I nibble on your ****
Hearing your moans and groans
My hands steadily spread your legs
And my fingers gently enter your wet ******;
It now resembles a water fountain, my face soaked enjoying your every moan;
I looked you in your eyes and asked, "are you ready princess?"
With a smile on her face she said, "yes daddy."
I proceeded to lower my pants
I entered a warm ocean
Slow strokes, every moan and pant
She enjoyed me inside of her
Pure love being made
Not letting go, she looks me in my eyes
She mutters, "I love you"
I knew she was the one

his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged

this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words

his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light

there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive

you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry

suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night

understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?

no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride

and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light

©2016janetaylorhardy

THE FARMER
The lonely wood pigeon perched, echoes, sounds of joy – ‘the morning has risen’. The farmer stirs from a deep slumber as a beam of sunshine escapes through the curtain, reaching his furrowed, leathered, weather-beaten brow. He places one foot on the wooden floor, his lips part as the second foot completes the pair. Whispering, “Thank you;” he feels a deep gratitude for having awakened to this new day. He scratches his head in anxiety, with a hand that has worked the farm, wondering if the area aid from the EU will keep him afloat. He understands his maker has determined this day, yet the weather elements will dictate the farmer’s way. He glimpses through the window to see what is yet to come and sights a congregation of birds on the electricity cables above - a sure sign of rain on the way!
In the kitchen, he listens for a weather update. Warming himself near the Aga cooker while making a brew. He looks to the Sacred Heart picture and the hanging family rosary beads. To understand the farmer, one must understand the traditions of the land. The land has a holden-fist on the heart of the farmer, as many farmers well know. It has caused bitterness and disputes in generations past. The farmer must feel a love for the land and a passion for what he does best. The land holds high expectations and demands dedication from him.
From the first leaves falling in autumn, to the nurturing of crops through understanding of spraying techniques. In winter, hearing the cows crave for hay, and repairing machines during the low times. Springtime brings cattle and sheep grazing pastures new; and seagulls landing on freshly ploughed fields. Grass whirling in the wind, then corn ears blowing side by side. The warm glow of the valley in summer brings the harvesting of ripe golden corn. Haymaking sees farm picnics, readymade tea in old lemonade bottles, poured into mugs and stirred by straw, with the smell too of homemade bread and curney cake. The farmer, seeing birds migrate in a ‘V’ pattern, feels an anxiety for the year-end accounts yet to come. Feathers are scattered outside the chicken coup - the fox has been and gone!
The farmer leaves the doorway in silence and walks out to the fields to assess his crop. The early morning dew dampening the ends of his trousers as he walks. A slight smile parts his lips as he listens to insects galore. He bends down and reaches with a strong, hard-skinned, gloveless hand, grasping his crop and pulling from the root. He sees what he needs to know. In that moment he is complete; he is a Farmer! He turns and strokes his dog, which had been laging behind.
He understands his fate. One day he will leave the land behind – he will be gone, but the land will remain forever!

"Copyright Verona Pentony 2014  from 2nd collection Reflections from Time  see www.veronapentony.com

I would have said so many things to you
But the words were too heavy
And my voice isn't strong enough
I managed, "I'll see you again"

We are not heavy.
Nothing in this life needs to be heavy
God was not a Mason, moving heavy brick
God was an artist, painting weightless strokes
Every second we had together was a stroke of God
On perfect canvas

The story of our lives cannot be contained on the pages between two covers
Sometimes the stories need space and more ink
She would fill an entire book

I would give up shooting stars
And making wishes
Because I had everything
And traded it for anything, which wasn't her
We all make mistakes; we all have our sins
But what would you give
To start it again

So I use my shooting stars to bless her life
I use my magic moments to ask for our life
To not be separated too long
Because that was the hardest goodbye

In our tears, I could hear
Her whispering profanities
Waves of my gratitude
For who she taught me to be
"You're such an *******," she said
And I know how she feels
How can goodbye be something that's real?
Our book is not done
There's more to be said
So instead of "The End"
"I'll see you again."

What is it with four letters?
That mere intersections of lines and loops
Of curves and edges
Of creations of ballpoint pens
Have managed to spell the faces of the voices that keep me up at night

P-A-I-N. Pain was the story of age 5
The reverberation of the door slammed shut
It is the sound of my mother’s wails and my father’s rage
It is the sight of skin kissing skin in the most unromantic of ways

H-E-L-P. Help were the tears that have run dry from age 16
The tugs and pulls, of scratching to hold on to anything and everything
They were of hand after hand that stretched only to push and silence the crying of the girl left with nothing
They were the stares that spat on my face, whose breathe have filled my lungs with words
Which said, “you are not enough” , “you are a mistake”, “you will never be more than your failures,”

L-I-E-S. Lies are the roommates that have taken over my bed at age 21
They were the tags that came with the packages of death and failure
It tells me bedtime stories of fault and regret until I dream of only those
It is the gate that have forced its way to barricade my heart because my heart; no, my life; no, my existence is undeserving of interactions outside these walls

What is it with four letters?

D-O-N-E. Done is the selection of ropes and blades, of bullets and train rails at 23
It is finally believing in the bedtime stories of defeat and condemnation
It is stepping on that last rock, layers above creations worth saving more than I
But no, done is the shadow that stretched into my vision
It is the intersection of two lines that drew a gap between my feet and the fall
It is the truth of the fallen and the risen that have tilted my head to look back
At nail pierced hands that have been embracing me all along

R-A-I-N. Rain was the prayer I said at age 25
It is the drops of red that dripped from places in His body that are now just scars of triumph
It is the ocean that kisses the shore anew a million times a day
K-N-O-W. Know was I never forgotten
It is the realization of a presence that have charted my life’s story since day 1

What is it with four letters ?
What is it with four letters?
Wait, what is IN four letters?

H-O-P-E. Hope is man redeemed
It is the truth pain have tried to numb us of and lies have tried to replace our memories with
Hope is glorious substitution, it is of spared lashes and whips
It is the inhale and exhale of a man enduring
Of steps- right, left, right, left- of a body stained with blood untouched by this world of gravel and dirt

Hope was of a baby born on straws resting on earth’s grounds
Hope is from His last breathe, a scandalous end that exhaled life into a new beginning
It is Chapter 3 of an “undeniability” that defeat is a myth refuted by an empty tomb
Hope is redemption from resurrection, deliverance from remembrance
Love and grace eternal
Forgiveness impartial like fire that consumes all sides: past, present, future- the done, doing, and did

Hope is Christ taking flesh to save a creation unworthy but loved still
An irrationality made reality
Accept that this is not the end, that life may have moved without you but the Author of life has never failed to write you in each time
So stand today with an authority respired by Christ and rebuke the sayings and said
Of screams and whispers by your stories of ages 5, 16, and 21

Know that you are the King’s beloved, paid by a price with an amount that transcends infinity
Darling, hope is a four letter word written in strokes that spell L-O-R-D
And as everlasting as those letters spell is hope as eternal
So place a cross on your front porch
So next time pain and lies pay you a visit, they’ll know that your home is not of bricks and stones but of a body lined with bones and flesh of man who have conquered their master who is death

Bask in the divine, it is finished

glide the sharpened blade
of a sacrificial knife
up and down my wrists
then up to my throbbing throat

so similar this seems
remembering her fingers
glide across my skin
as we became like the Sabbatical goat

neither her nor I
were either inside or out side
we were as Baphomet
and we did float

brush strokes, of our blood
used to paint the figure we were becoming
something worthy of worship
as our nails dug into eachothers sides

Oh, I could feel her ferocity
trying to get inside of me
Oh, though she could only follow me
as I follow her-like the moon and the tides


her soft lip, whispered something to me
up against my warm throbbing neck
as her hips continued to sway like the seas
and she said something to me that put a shake in my knees,

"I love to feel your heart beating
deep within me, like a serpent's in me
now feel mine on your lips
can you feel us?
Can you feel
when our souls kiss?"

I had to hold on tighter to her
as she did to me
as we spiraled away
into certain bliss

our bodies were no more
nothing but ecstasy we became
boom, bloom, eyes like blackholes
and like nubulas, we came

and there we drifted
within what is us






I am not sure if she ever came back down
her presence now is like a winds gust



so I sit here
with this sacrificial knife

teasing my belief
in tangible life

finally, I get a smile from her
as she stands in front of the sun
an so innocently says,
"Ooh, that looks fun"

"It is,
it's better than pictures."

"Even a mirror?"

"Yes, even a mirror"


"How do you do it?"

"Just breathe, and remember."

"But, what if I bleed?"

"All the better, take a sip and remember."













"We were dead, weren't we?"

"Yes, my love, yes indeed."

We walk
through
the night,
and spoke
of infinite
realities
and myself,
I thought of
how one
may speak
as the beholder
of their own sight,
and yet, what
can be may
also be what
it is not, how
I perceive the
coffee I hold
as differing
from the
view of my
companion
within our
conversation
in this metaphysical
moment of time,
we reached the shore,
and so together,
we stayed
by the ocean,
“how do you
see the blue
of the sea
as a way
of knowing
your heart?”
he asks,
the shore
becomes
the tides,
and I say,
“I see the
strokes of
white as
my own
thoughts
immortalized
through papers,
as waves,
they will
crash,
and I will
love and
live through
others,
as a rose
opening
it’s petals,
I will bloom
infinitely
through
the hearts
of those
I love, I will
sing for the
voiceless,
and create
a symphony
for the grieving,
so they shall
grow, reaching
to the beyond
as the flower
beyond the
barbed wires,
I am the
one who
dreams
forever
and soars
beyond the
clouds, to
the rainbow
skies, far
from the
cruelty
of the
world
coming
with their
swords
at my
white
wings,
I am
the one
who has
already
flown
to the
place
I call
home.”

the sky sprawled out across the atmosphere
the sun melted into a rich, bursting orange
and then into a deep, mellow lavender
clouds like sharp strokes on a canvas
drifted so slowly they
seemed to be suspended onto that artwork

from my vantage point,
having exhausted myself in study and in loneliness,
that sky seemed to knock on my heart's door
and leak into what cracks i had sustained
yesterday's despair seemed so far away in that moment
for once i admired the present for
what a gift that sight had been

for such an array of beauty
i had no words to describe
but after giving it some thought
i feel your name would fit it best

Of colors born
from depths of human sight?
with fingers taking scuffing steps
and their raspy breath
for years of yearless quest,
what gold weigh with a
master’s piece made destitute
by passion wants?

Visions mothering hues and strokes,
in blood, tears, and sweat hardening on the canvas,
from pockets that solely dreams of bread to sit on the table,
would they find the worth?

Lo, when the hours covet sleep,
but the soul in the soul lay wide awake,
and night and day bleed on each other and the yearn chafes his bones no end to be under promise to the craft.

“Apologies, but into the word art, simplify not,
nor of labels you set a perilous climb to a wicked peak take refuge.
For whilst eyes, in liberty, take pleasure in mocking outcomes,
the road on the way there taxed the soul flesh pound per pound.”