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Ngoni L A Mupure May 2014
Lost lovingly in the lustre of your love
Softly stroking the texture of the moments-
The time and trust we have shared- the definition of romance.
The awaited angel from heaven above…

Your choicest body-tickling words,
Softer than satin and fresh silk
Nurturing in nature like milk
You are gentler than the breeze of a thousand shades.

Thoughts of you colour my mind like butterflies
Mere thoughts of you burn my heart
And melt away pain like Picasso’s art.
Your love makes me fall for you like lies.

You are that tickling fire within
The strength when I am weak
Like 7 days you build my week
And make my world spin.

If I ever burn to death,
You are that tickling fire
Growing day by day- a gift from Messiah
To me you mean the whole earth

You perfect my weaknesses with your care
And melt me into shape like a steel smiths-man
Till I am a refined man
In you I feel defined and free like the air…

That tickling fire
Of two hearts burning together in flames of love…

This is the art of my imaginations, handwriting of my heart and tribute to your heart. Engrave it on your heart





OutspokenArt #2014
my girl’s tall with hard long eyes
as she stands,with her long hard hands keeping
silence on her dress,good for sleeping
is her long hard body filled with surprise
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles
a hard long smile it sometimes makes
gaily go clean through me tickling aches,
and the weak noise of her eyes easily files
my impatience to an edge—my girl’s tall
and taut, with thin legs just like a vine
that’s spent all of its life on a garden-wall,
and is going to die.  When we grimly go to bed
with these legs she begins to heave and twine
about me,and to kiss my face and head.
Mike T Minehan Apr 2013
I like a whole lip-smacking smorgasbord of words,
such as preposterous and scrumptious,
sumptuous and curious,
roiling, rambunctious and trumpeting,
priapic, satyric and seraphic,
satyriasis and mimesis. Now this mimesis is the imitative
representation of nature and behavior in art and literature,
which is a pretentious way of trying to say what us writers do.
But hey, we don't just mimic things,
we can be sagacious and salacious, too.
Accordingly, I also like *******, which has a liquid sound,
and I'm not being facetious to suggest that
******* has a close connection to callipygous.
Then, for those who are suspicious of the libidinous,
I also like curmudgeonly and bodacious,
loquacious, precocious and pulchritudinous,
lubricious and fugacious,
scripturient, radiance, iridescence and magnificence,
lissome, lithe and languid (but not too limp),
shimmering and diaphanous, effulgent and evanescent,
flamboyant, fandango and flibbertigibbet,
(although this is difficult to say when you’re drunk),
voluptuous and vertiginous, slithery, **** and glistening.
And when I include crepuscular, strumpet and strawberry,
I may as well add whipped cream
as well, because this can be laid on in dollops,
and dollops is really an excellent word
along with slurping and *******, too.
Actually, I'm very flexible about words,
because in my lexicon, low moaning noises are OK, too.
These sounds come from the chord of creation
which is a sort of reverberation from the time of
primordial ooze, which I would like to squish between my toes.
Then there's protozoa, spermatozoa and also
wriggling flagella everywhere. So there.
But words don't even need to make sense,
because sweet nothings can say everything,
and heavy breathing can be ******,
even rhapsodic, ending in delirium.
Titillating should be in here too, because we all need
some tintinnabulation and tickling of the senses sometimes.
I've also decided that fecund is my second favorite word after love.
Fecund sounds abrupt, but it buds magnificently
in ******* and bellies to burgeon in absolute abundance,
everywhere. This brings me to *******, which I like, too.
I'm also partial to proud words, including bold, bulging and
brazen, along with a bit of swaggering braggadocio.
Then I like some big words, like brobdingnagian,
although I hope I'm not sesquipedalian.
Salivate is a word to celebrate as well,
along with onomatopoeia that helps choose some words here.
Drooling is highly evocative, too,
and it's not being provocative to observe that
even weapons drool when they're in the wrong hands.
And I shouldn't leave out *******, as you would expect,
because ****** is a sort of rippling word
that rhymes with spasm. Both sound deceptively simple,
but by golly, they can be intensely gripping.
And really, it's alright to writhe to this occasion
because all of us writers should endeavor
to have some good writhing in our oeuvre.
Even some bad writhing can be lots of fun, too.
But I almost forgot to mention yearning and burning (with desire)
and vulviform, velvet and venerous.
Yippee, yee har and hollerin' along with other exclamations
of exhortatory exuberance should be in this index, too.
Now. The words I don’t like include no, can’t, never,
stop and mustn’t. Also, irascible and intractable,
unmentionable, ineffable, inexpressible, incoherent,
immutable, impotent and impossible.
Then I don't like importune and misfortune,
and I don't know who thought up unthinkable,
because this is an oxymoron.
Inscrutable is also a complete cop out,
especially when there's no such word as scrutable.
Gawping, gaping, cavernous and cretinous, obsequious,
grovelling, pursed lips, circuitous,
obfuscation and isolation, unpalatable,
cruelty, tyranny and hypocrisy,
should also get the heave-**.
And I definitely don't like parsimonious and mendicant,
which are miserable words.
Quitting doesn't get there either,
and shut the **** up and ******* should also be taboo.
Also, hopeless is, really, well, it's hopeless
because it denies hope, and hope is buoyant and boundless.
I mean, sometimes hope is all we have.
But the word I dislike most is ****,
because this is an insulting word, and
to be taxonomical,
the negative score of this word is astronomical.
Hate is also right up there on this list. Hate is abominable
because it tries to destroy love, and love is indomitable.
Indomitable
is the
mightiest
word
of them all.
Yeah. So there.

Mike T Minehan
II felt good after writing this - it was a bit like purging the personal dictionary in my head. I think all of us could write our own list...
Stacey Handler Mar 2018
The mere wiggle of my fingers
The stroke of a feather
And it all begins.

First there’s the tickling
Then there’s the tears
the ship leaving my emotional ocean
you leaving me empty,
feather still in my hand.

Connection of joy
Laughter, squirming flesh
Togetherness briefly
Pain wickedly lingering.

Tickling stains the moment
Tears stain my cheeks
Your exiting footsteps quickening their pace
My heart slowly sinking.

As the tickling ends
Your coldness begins
A faucet abruptly turned off
A story with pages torn out.

Echoing laughter remains,
I wipe away my tear stains
As you vanish into the dust.





2018 Stacey Handler
JayceeJellies Oct 2014
That silly feeling inside,
Bubbly or fluttery?
I can't decide.
It's as if a million butterflies are just there,
Underneath your skin tickling you without a care,
They want you to know that these feelings are rare.
Embrace them don't push them.
Just let them happen.
Christos Rigakos Apr 2012
tickling
squirm and giggle
lead to grabbing hands and
holding hands and stares while drawing
nearer

the eyes
draw faces close
before the hungry kiss
and held hands release to embrace
with fire

the kiss
now ended nice
recalling the tickling
realizing it wont work again
that's past

(C)2002, Christos Rigakos
Cinquain Sequence
Poetic T Oct 2014
"How does a flower move"
When wind does not blow,
Stalk
Petals*
Pollen
Released, sprinkled
Upon the ground below,
Does it dance for the sun
Energy
Food
Nourishment
From above and below
People ask
"How does a flower move"
"When wind does not blow"
"Simple"
Its worms tickling its
Gentle roots, many tickling in one go,
Its pollen falling is its laughter
Seeding the floor below
So when you see
Trees
Bushes
Flowers
Gyrating, moving with out wind,
Know its those naughty playful worms
Slithering, tickling there sensitive roots below..
Jennifer Wolfe Sep 2018
MOMENTS OF MOMENTS
LONGING FOR HIS TOUCH
CLOSENESS OF OUR BODIES
FEELINGS WE HUNGER FOR SO MUCH

WHISPERS OF A BREEZE
TICKLING SIDE OF MY EAR
SENSATION RISES MY CHEST BUMPS
WITH FEELING OF WANTING HIM MORE

AS WE START TO PLAY
HE GUIDES ME IN A WAY
WHERE HE LAYS HIS LIPS ONTO MINE
AND THE PLEASURE IS  RECITED ALL DAY

FINGERS TRACE THE LINES
OF BLACK SILK ON MY SKIN
SLOWLY HE PULLS THEM DOWN
WITH A RISE OF EXCITEMENT STIRRING DEEP WITHIN

I STAND THERE COMPLETELY BARE
PEAKS AT A RISE
THE WAY THAT HE KISSES ME
AS I STARE INTO HIS EYES

VULNERABLE AND EXPRESSED
THE WAY HE LOOKS AT ME
I START TO FEEL COMPLETE
BECAUSE HE SAYS TO ME

“YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL MY LOVE”
“I COULD STARE AT YOU ALL DAY”
“NEVER COVER UP”
“AND NEVER BE ASHAMED”

WITH YOUR HANDS INTO MINE
RIGHT WHERE THEY BELONG
PRESSED UP BESIDE ME
FEEL OF HIS ARMS SO STRONG

OUR BODYS GLIDE TOGETHER
I CAN’T EVER GET ENOUGH
MOVEMENT FROM HIS CENTER
GIVING IT TO ME NICE AND ROUGH

ACTIONS FROM OUR MOVEMENTS
EXPLANATION NOT IN NEED
MOTIONS FROM OUR FANTASIES
I’M BEGGING TO BE FREED

THE GLIDE OF HIS PASSION
EXPRESSED TO ME EVERYTHING
LEAVES ME FEELING FAINTLY EMPTY
SO SATISFIED AND DRAINED

THE TENDER KISSES HE PLACES
ON THE SKIN BETWEEN MY THIGHS
TRACING OF HIS FINGERS
STROKING IN AND OUT OF MY INSIDES

AMAZING ELECTRIC WAVES
AS I CONTINUE TO BEG FOR MORE
WRAPPED IN HIS ARMS
MY BODY EXHAUSTED, PAINFULLY WORE

THE SHADOWS OF OUR BEINGS
GIVES THE WALLS A LITTLE SHOW
WITH THE PASSIONATE MOTIONS WE DEMONSTRATE
IN A RHYTHM WE ALL KNOW


                                                            -BY JENNIFER WOLFE
REALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT ANYONE THINKS OF MY WRITING.  IS IT ANY GOOD?
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
Anastasia C Mar 2017
When you love someone who doesn't love you back your world ends.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back you keep pumping love. You are so oblivious and eager that you give them so much love. No matter what they won’t give it back.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back. You feel nothing but absolute pain and sorrow. You feel like there nothing left except the love that won't be taken. Your love is so strong and there’s so much that it floods you.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back. You feel hopeless because of all the love you gave this person and how much you'd do for love in return. You'd give them all the time in the world, all the love in the world. You still do this relentlessly even though they wont give you five minutes when you need that five minutes.

Being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is a burning red pain. It's a pain like nothing else because no matter what you do, no matter what medicine or treatment you give to that pain it's still there. It's there when you see his face, hear his voice, remember his touch. It's always there.

When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, you don't have to worry too much about them intentionally hurting you. That's because everything small memory you've over analyzed hits you across the face over and over. You're constantly hating yourself because this one person was so important to you and now he's gone. “I should've done..” “Why was I so..” “No wonder he doesn't..” Those thoughts are toxic and seizes up your body.

When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, you get so ******* close to hating them. You hate that they've ripped you open, eaten you up and have left you to decay. You hate that they have let you hate yourself more than you could ever hate them. You hate them because of the things they gave you which weren't all good. And the things they stole. Like crying on their shoulders which they gave, but your pride they took.

When you're in love with someone for the first time and they don't love you back, you never want to fall in love again. You never want attachments with anyone because of this substantial pain that is constantly there. You never want to kiss with love, talk with love, witness love. You never want love unless, it's that one person you love. That's the only thing that matters. Love had a horrible reputation, it's either make it or ******* break it. Not take it.

When you're hurt by someone who can't feel pain, you wish you never fell in love. Never in lust, never started talking, never meeting. You wish you could erase their smell so you wouldn't ever have to think about why you remember it so well. You wish you can't vividly remember how their arms felt and how they were once so welcoming.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back, you are pathetic. You cry in bed while replaying your first kiss, first date, the time you fell asleep together. You can remember every feeling from the first time you felt love to the first time your heart skipped a beat because, well, it was ending. You remember the goosebumps running down your back when you last touched his hand as you left his car. That was the last time you'd be in his car. And that was the last time you touched his leathery skin that was wet from your tears. And that was the last time he would know how much you loved him.

You replay every memory over and over until they're worn out. And after they're worn out you can't ever get new ones. You love this person and you will for a long, long time. But they won't ever love you. They won’t get those stomach tickles when you hear their name. They wont miss having their chapped lips against your neck tickling you elegantly. Because to them that doesn't matter, they didn’t feel love.

When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, it's almost impossible to stop loving them. No matter what you do. No matter what they did. No matter how it hurts. No matter what, you will love them.

When you love someone who doesn’t love you back, you are incapable of stopping because you are paralyzed.
I am not feeling these things anymore, i wrote this after a breakup. This breakup was very hard for me, I never really felt worse in my life. The pain was horrible and I will never forget it. I hope to never feel this way towards someone again because as of right now, I don't want to love like this ever again. Theres so much emotion that goes into one person and it was so one ended for me. Ive grown from this and learned from this. l
zebra Apr 2017
i'm your o so wanna be lover
I'm afraid not what you would expect though
i admit to being a difficult pleasure
perhaps
a tad strange looking
squishy with long tentacles
half man half octopus
with a winking cycloptic eye

i entreat you
looks can be deceiving
how many pretty boys have you loved
crawling worms for a soul
that have left you a ruined creel
a jagged cry chattering tears of desolation

have you ever asked your self
who adores you
who would give all to protect love and cherish
i'm waving my eight arms at you
from the center of the universe
i eat black holes to kiss your ***
am i not a cosmic horror
with my big Cthulhu smile
quivering with tenderness

do you hunger for butter **** lollypop
i have two big **** heartbreakers
with teardrop curves
a feast for your ravenous holes of emptiness
and many armed tentacles to hold you tight
to slither all over your tender woven caves
to pull you into me
with suckers that thrill
during swirling inky *****

i will unravel your mind
your soul tilthed
if you can get passed
my
gray rubbery boneless head

i can push this shape-shifting balloon face
through your annul tubular contours
all the way up your beautiful ***
licking
salivating
tickling into your
tender bowel and throat
like a great dancing tongue
a stretched waving goodness
entering your mouth from the back side

can pretty pretty do that?

come slowly unto me my beloved
i am all chromatophores
endless glittering nightlights
incandescent
so we may wander our way through long dim nights ******
in the deep deep dark
with tentacle ***** galore
an infinity of entertainment
for every crevice and desire
and one winking cycloptic eye
that pierces your soul
Odi Aug 2012
The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
I count;
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave  us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
nothing effects
me anymore
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
scream
want to scream
yuodont finish jakc at 5 am
zebra Jul 2018
flex and perspire my darling
would you mind a small suffering for craven kisses
to have your dark fig **** and drenching *****
stroked with a tickling finger lingering
and strong hands around your sweetly curved throat
that shunt the breath
to yield willingly for sharp-toothed nibbles with surprise tongue whipping?

will you present your soft belly and cupping *******
for dark cruelties that excite beyond tabulation
will you present yourself with smiles
and goddess leg show
sobbing for feral pink spires gleaming
while quivering thighs
turn hot red from the slap of the leather strap splitting stings?

will tears of love
mix in wild berry utterance
and flashing spitfire’s tongue?

are you made for this?
your every whimper an invitation
like an open pink gate
do you need the saint of dark desires to rescue you
from banal dim-witted all american in and out?

do you need to drown in oceanic wave tsunamis
of hot butter **** glitter, blood flooding gasms
and tender aftercare?

my wish
that you shimmer like silver
possessed
by the saint of sadism
popes of eros
who fill you with the milk of the moon
all stars that melt you into the depths of paradise

and that this dark ecstasy
is the only suffering you will ever know.
your pain is my pleasure
mmmmm
Asha Jun 2015
And monsoons,
will always be about our kisses,
wet and passionate,
your breath tickling my neck,
your fingers warm at my waist,
as rain drops soaked your hair,
and wet the front of my shirt,
the look in your eyes I will always remember,
of total surrender,
how you gave away everything you had
and how I held onto what little was left of me...
You and I are like summertime;
You are the warm breeze that brushes the hair across my back, tickling.
I return the favor by tickling you with silly faces and sarcastic remarks.
You are the stars that come out late at night, twinkling against the navy sky.
I am the pair of eyes that light up when they meet your own.
You are the butterflies that have found a home in the depths of my stomach,
like the same ones I watch flutter around so beautifully innocent.
You are the sand that becomes so accustomed to being kissed by my salty waves, and then..
Then, low tide arrives.
The warm breezes turn chilled, leaving behind goosebumps instead of laughter.
Stars that once shone so bright become blurred into overcast skies
All good things must come to an end, and they do just that.
such a weight lifted when this one was finished...
Cné Aug 2017
A tentative touch unsure
of erotica I've yet to explore.
Her sweet ripe ******* allure
my watering mouth can't ignore.

Tickling teasing touch to ignite us
giggling on our high
Soft soothing caresses in between
wondering why I was so shy...

Our fingers tangled in long blonde hair,
then gently stroking soft warm skin.
Bodies writhing, legs entwining,
where she ends, there I begin.

Oblivious to our thoughts
enambered with desires
Lips of wine in heated passion
soaring pleasures even higher.

Perfumed oil on bodies glistening,
**** laughs and playful fights.
Lace and heels and toys aplenty,
Girl, we'll make this last all night.

By EJ and Cné
A little wine
A little laugh
A little pleasure
For our own behalf

Thank you EJ for such inspiration
https://hellopoetry.com/elizabeth-j-1/
Nigel Morgan Jun 2013
She sent it to me as a text message, that is an image of a quote in situ, a piece of interpretation in a gallery. Saturday morning and I was driving home from a week in a remote cottage on a mountain. I had stopped to take one last look at the sea, where I usually take one last look, and the phone bleeped. A text message, but no text.  Just a photo of some words. It made me smile, the impossibility of it. Epic poems and tapestry weaving. Of course there are connections, in that for centuries the epic subject has so often been the stuff of the tapestry weaver’s art. I say this glibly, but cannot name a particular tapestry where this might be so. Those vast Arthurian pieces by William Morris to pictures by Burne-Jones have an epic quality both in scale and in subject, but, to my shame, I can’t put a name to one.

These days the tapestry can be epic once more - in size and intention - thanks to the successful, moneyed contemporary artist and those communities of weavers at West Dean and at Edinburgh’s Dovecot. Think of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstowe Tapestry, a vast 3 x 15 metres executed by Ghentian weavers, a veritable apocalyptic vision where ‘Everyman, spat out at birth in a pool of blood, is doomed and predestined to spend his life navigating a chaotic yet banal landscape of brands and consumerism’.  Gosh! Doesn’t that sound epic!

I was at the Dovecot a little while ago, but the public gallery was closed. The weavers were too busy finishing Victoria Crowe’s Large Tree Group to cope with visitors. You see, I do know a little about this world even though my tapestry weaving is the sum total of three weekends tuition, even though I have a very large loom once owned by Marta Rogoyska. It languishes next door in the room that was going to be where I was to weave, where I was going to become someone other than I am. This is what I feel - just sometimes - when I’m at my floor loom, if only for those brief spells when life languishes sufficiently for me be slow and calm enough to pick up the shuttles and find the right coloured yarns. But I digress. In fact putting together tapestry and epic poetry is a digression from the intention of the quote on the image from that text - (it was from a letter to Janey written in Iceland). Her husband, William Morris, reckoned one could (indeed should) be able to compose an epic poem and weave a tapestry.  

This notion, this idea that such a thing as being actively poetic and throwing a pick or two should go hand in hand, and, in Morris’ words, be a required skill (or ‘he’d better shut up’), seemed (and still does a day later) an absurdity. Would such a man (must be a man I suppose) ‘never do any good at all’ because he can’t weave and compose epic poetry simultaneously?  Clearly so.  But then Morris wove his tapestries very early in the morning - often on a loom in his bedroom. Janey, I imagine, as with ladies of her day - she wasn’t one, being a stableman’s daughter, but she became one reading fluently in French and Italian and playing Beethoven on the piano- she had her own bedroom.

Do you know there are nights when I wish for my own room, even when sleeping with the one I love, as so often I wake in the night, and I lie there afraid (because I love her dearly and care for her precious rest) to disturb her sleep with reading or making notes, both of which I do when I’m alone.
Yet how very seductive is the idea of joining my loved one in her own space, amongst her fallen clothes, her books and treasures, her archives and precious things, those many letters folded into her bedside bookcase, and the little black books full of tender poems and attempts at sketches her admirer has bequeathed her when distant and apart. Equally seductive is the possibility of the knock on the bedroom / workroom door, and there she’ll be there like the woman in Michael Donaghy’s poem, a poem I find every time I search for it in his Collected Works one of the most arousing and ravishing pieces of verse I know: it makes me smile and imagine.  . .  Her personal vanishing point, she said, came when she leant against his study door all warm and wet and whispered 'Paolo’. Only she’ll say something in a barely audible voice like ‘Can I disturb you?’ and with her sparkling smile come in, and bring with her two cats and the hint of a naked breast nestling in the gap of the fold of her yellow Chinese gown she holds close to herself - so when she kneels on my single bed this gown opens and her beauty falls before her, and I am wholly, utterly lost that such loveliness is and can be so . . .

When I see a beautiful house, as I did last Thursday, far in the distance by an estuary-side, sheltering beneath wooded hills, and moor and rock-coloured mountains, with its long veranda, painted white, I imagine. I imagine our imaginary home where, when our many children are not staying in the summer months and work is impossible, we will live our ‘together yet apart’ lives. And there will be the joy of work. I will be like Ben Nicholson in that Italian villa his father-in-law bought, and have my workroom / bedroom facing a stark hillside with nothing but a carpenter’s table to lay out my scores. Whilst she, like Winifred, will work at a tidy table in her bedroom, a vase of spring flowers against the window with the estuary and the mountains beyond. Yes, her bedroom, not his, though their bed, their wonderful wooden 19C Swiss bed of oak, occupies this room and yes, in his room there is just a single affair, but robust, that he would sleep on when lunch had been late and friends had called, or they had been out calling and he wanted to give her the premise of having to go back to work – to be alone - when in fact he was going to sleep and dream, but she? She would work into the warm afternoons with the barest breeze tickling her bare feet, her body moving with the remembrance of his caresses as she woke him that morning from his deep, dark slumber. ‘Your brown eyes’, he would whisper, ‘your dear brown eyes the colour of an autumn leaf damp with dew’. And she would surround him with kisses and touch of her firm, long body and (before she cut her plaits) let her course long hair flow back and forward across his chest. And she did this because she knew he would later need the loneliness of his own space, need to put her aside, whereas she loved the scent of him in the room in which she worked, with his discarded clothes, the neck-tie on the door hanger he only reluctantly wore.

Back to epic poetry and its possibility. Even on its own, as a single, focused activity it seems to me, unadventurous poet that I am, an impossibility. But then, had I lived in the 1860s, it would probably not have seemed so difficult. There was no Radio 4 blathering on, no bleeb of arriving texts on the mobile. There were servants to see to supper, a nanny to keep the children at bay. At Kelmscott there was glorious Gloucestershire silence - only the roll and squeak of the wagon in the road and the rooks roosting. So, in the early mornings Morris could kneel at his vertical loom and, with a Burne-Jones cartoon to follow set behind the warp. With his yarns ready to hand, it would be like a modern child’s painting by numbers, his mind would be free to explore the fairy domain, the Icelandic sagas, the Welsh Mabinogion, the Kalevara from Finland, and write (in his head) an epic poem. These were often elaborations and retellings in his epic verse style of Norse and Icelandic sagas with titles like Sigurd the Volsung. Paul Thompson once said of Morris  ‘his method was to think out a poem in his head while he was busy at some other work.  He would sit at an easel, charcoal or brush in hand, working away at a design while he muttered to himself, 'bumble-beeing' as his family called it; then, when he thought he had got the lines, he would get up from the easel, prowl round the room still muttering, returning occasionally to add a touch to the design; then suddenly he would dash to the table and write out twenty or so lines.  As his pen slowed down, he would be looking around, and in a moment would be at work on another design.  Later, Morris would look at what he had written, and if he did not like it he would put it aside and try again.  But this way of working meant that he never submitted a draft to the painful evaluation which poetry requires’.

Let’s try a little of Sigurd

There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its floors,

And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle down the bickering blast.
There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate:
There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men,

Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again
Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's Praise.

Oh dear. And to think he sustained such poetry for another 340 lines, and that’s just book 1 of 4. So what dear reader, dear sender of that text image encouraging me to weave and write, just what would epic poetry be now? Where must one go for inspiration? Somewhere in the realms of sci-fi, something after Star-Wars or Ninja Warriors. It could be post-apocalyptic, a tale of mutants and a world damaged by chemicals or economic melt-down. Maybe a rich adventure of travel on a distant planet (with Sigourney Weaver of course), featuring brave deeds and the selfless heroism of saving companions from deadly encounters with amazing animals, monsters even. Or is ‘epic’ something else, something altogether beyond the Pixar Studios or James Cameron’s imagination? Is the  ‘epic’ now the province of AI boldly generating the computer game in 4D?  

And the epic poem? People once bought and read such published romances as they now buy and engage with on-line games. This is where the epic now belongs. On the tablet, PlayStation3, the X-Box. But, but . . . Poetry is so alive and well as a performance phenomenon, and with that oh so vigorous and relentless beat. Hell, look who won the T.S.Eliot prize this year! Story-telling lives and there are tales to be told, even if they are set in housing estates and not the ice caves of the frozen planet Golp. Just think of children’s literature, so rich and often so wild. This is word invention that revisits unashamedly those myths and sagas Morris loved, but in a different guise, with different names, in worlds that still bring together the incredible geographies of mountains and deserts and wilderness places, with fortresses and walled cities, and the startling, still unknown, yet to be discovered ocean depths.

                                    And so let my tale begin . . . My epic poem.

                                                 THE SEAGASP OF ENNLI.
       A TALE IN VERSE OF EARTHQUAKE, ISLAND FASTNESS, MALEVOLENT SPIRITS,
                                                AND REDEMPTIVE LOVE.
Cné May 2017
My Dad was a unique person
too little understood.
I do not sing his praises
as often as I should.

This day I will remember
my Daddy as he was
holding me when I was little
tickling me, just because.

He would tell me not to worry
or have no fears, or tears.
He's in a place of warmth and comfort
where there are no days, or years

I won't think of him as gone away
his journey's just begun.
For life holds so many facets
this earth is only one.

I'll remember not his fight for breath
nor remember not the strife
I'll not dwell upon his death
but celebrate his life.

Today I celebrate his birthday.
He would be eighty~four.
Though a woman now of many years,
I'm still my Daddy's little girl.
May 10, 1933 ~ December 23, 2013
Here he lies
with his two wives
his wife and her twin sister
between the two
who really knew
identical, they were also tricksters
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
Royalty
She dwells in the sea- green palace of her father
The mermaid swam alone on blustery days
The seed of the water god Neptune and a river nymph
Her beauty blind the sun and his morning rays

On days of boredom
She swam with the white dolphins
Riding high on heaving rolling waves
Other times with Omura's whales dive deep
Or play in a red coral reef bay
Tickling blue ***** that walked on the sandy bottom
Exploring the dark octopus caves

Floating often with the deadly jellyfish
Keeping her scaled tail very still
Or wiggling through the raging currents of the ocean
With the graceful ribbon eels

The day passed passed
She became weary
Came time to rest her head
Returned to the flowing green kelp palace
And did sleep on a starfish bed



All Rights Reserved @Tammy M Darby August 2013.
All Material Stored in Author Base
admire me
the way I brush paint on canvas
before the purpose finds a footing
before the colors melt together
and the scenery is lifeless
admire how I read books
for hours on end
the expressions that read on a dull face
otherwise marred by furrowed eyebrows
admire the lilt in my voice
and the uncontrollable pitch
that gives away my every intention unwillingly
admire my great feats of prose
my plump, woman body
my awkward hands and pretty clothes
admire me when I don't even come close
to tickling your fancy
admire me because I exist
dote on me and give me your wishes
admire me as I grant what I can with kisses
admire my nymphet desires
admire my candy coated lips
admire me and want me
admire me
Sy Lilang Jul 2014
Thin and transluscent
Fabricated sheet
Clumsy piece
Tickling with every groove
Of the winter's breeze.

Its flow was a mirror of her aura
Of her external beauty
Of how fierce she was
Every time she exposes her curves.

Her fake smile was a frown
She was tore apart from her soul
For who she was
A manequin by herself.

(7/2/14 @xirlleelang)
May manequin kasi sa Rengel, napapaisip ako pag nakikita ko sila.
Brycical Nov 2013
Time flies like a baby fruit fly to a banana
buzzing through a brand new day through the fractal lakes
cleansing my body in peppermint amethyst vibrations
as the gyrations of the water ripple and drip down my back and waist
tickling the skin into submission--
I'm on a love mission feeling the splish-splash nefelibata mind
within my glowing gold-hazel eyes as I realize my potential.
The world isn't simply my oyster
my voice can make a difference
if I wish and believe me I've kissed Aladdin's lamp
but my mind is filled with vagary so I plant the seeds
in my magic garden and watch them grow--
burst through the ground and glowing
some like emerald embers
and others like electric chalcopyrite
as my third-eye shines and pops calico corn
crackling in the back the ideas simmer on the grill
near the chilled ZuZu Juju honeydew wine
while the electric blue hip panther cat croons
away on her guitar in ancient star languages saeng
when we were all just haranguing through the ONE-light
all bright sun's right to shine a vine of fire rays
into our future past selves
now aligned with burning designs of moons, suns and AUMS.
The animal pixie band manipulates the sounds around us--
the cicadas sing a lotus chorus while the tiger-painted rabbits rapidly
strum rainbow hieroglyphs on their magic harps
while the jazz sax racoons all dressed in jasper suede jackets
and backwards newsboy caps
play a theta vibration so meditatively
we dance in digambara dream catcher trance
of enhanced meraki enchanted atoms
and cells boiling in passionate blood.

After all the eating and dancing we play in the clay mud
recreating our animal forms and budding faces blooming
and swooning as our winged auras sling us
into the dusk sky
to sway and zoom in the rain.
later we enter Father Sky's cloud castle
for a peaceful night curled up by the azurite lightning fireplace
roasting marmalade maple marshmallows
with those rasta angel fellows token
on the diviner's sage sippin mugwort tea.
And as we third eye-gaze into and through each other
seeing our past and future time tubes
aligning into a sacred golden flower sphere,
we giggle like silly fox children
we've forgotten hours have left our pockets
cause to us it only seems like seconds have gone by...
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled

get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling,  breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?

skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-****-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the

absent women

no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms,  non-differentiating
just  humanism-isms

and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Songs of Oregon  No. 4
See them standing on the podium of promises
Tickling us to wed them into power
As we stand under the burning sun, sweaty as ever
All ears to their flowered words of which they caress
And powdered our minds with.
They donate maggi, salt, wears and the root of all evil,
To further blind our minds and instinct.
Like goats following a hand with a palm fruit,
We chased them with high hopes to the polls,
Like Esau of old we repay their donation with our votes.

Their desires were met, now in power
At serious battle against their promises,
Our faith getting lean, our hopes bleed in response to their policies.
The opposition jubilant for the failure of the electorates.
Soon, they awoke into reality, spur to abort incumbent reign.
Some took to bombs, guns, cutlasses, few to the streets.
The opposition soldiers are thugs, always hungry to ****.
The masses weapons are their mouth, placards,
And solidarity songs, they walk and sing.
They say when elephants fight the grasses suffer
I wonder who are the elephants or the grasses indeed.
A  place that suppose to be our home now a battle field
Where everyone fights for self survival
Forgetting the unborn, our toddlers, our heroes past.

It is high time we talked and sack the thugs
But who will moderate
Who will faithfully give audience, who will sincerely talk?
The elite, the elected seems like they are war ready
They have well set up their political troops
A war they won't stand to fight
But escape through thinning air off our sight.

In a molding  state
Pigs dare to preach sanity
In a world of questions, ignorance remain the worst cancer
And the apex poverty.
Let not fold our hands and live to die in this doom
If your lips are scared, let your pen speak.
Let not throw in the towel
Until we justfully elapse the reign of the unwanted in one peace.
The inspiration for this poem came from the power struggle in my country and how  we have been very unlucky in getting a leader that all can fully accept. Our leaders here barely keep their promises.
Cecilie Andersen Apr 2014
The grass is speaking
The sound comes tickling me in my ears
just like his voice
When he touches the grass, it slips through
his beautiful fingers and
it touches his fingertips
in such a perfect way

We don't say a word

He lies down in the summer grass
it shapes his perfect body
and strokes his defined cheekbones

It's only him, me
and the speaking grass
Nicole Nov 2011
Sunflowers can be compared to everything. Hope, love, life, happiness.

Here, let me show you.

           Imagine each petal
Gracefully touching your lips, traveling all over your
Face, stopping at your twinkling blue eyes.
                            Love.

  The Yellow of the petals is the sweltering sun,
Beating down. Warming your insides and tanning your skin.
The seeds being Laughter, Tickling the insides of your mouth.
        Happiness.

           The long green stems growing too mountainous
Heights, spilling over running children and smiling adults.
Life.

The scent filling your vivacious lungs,
Propelling you forward,
Content with this.
             **Hope.
Emma Hill Sep 2015
BPD
Borderline personality disorder Unseen people unseen energies tickling my back Distrust paranoia Longing for love unwilling to accept Dreaming of self harm of boys in all black Who am I to you Trust no one not even your best friend especially not them Avert your eyes don’t look at me I don’t see you I hear things that aren’t there I hear things they whisper my name want me to follow Casual *** casually falling in love Relapse around the corner need to see my blood I smell blood I taste it Close my eyes move to music become a ghost Crying in my bedroom crying in public No one sees I am invisible Think horrible things think about killing A certainty that I will end up alone This sounds like a suicide note Want to be art want to be in the ground burned to ash Who AM I ******* daily In love with love In love with being on my own I can’t belong to anyone I want to belong to someone Can’t be a girlfriend can’t be a best friend Can’t lose me that’s all I have in the end I sound ******* nuts Borderline personality Don’t smile Won’t smile Bitterness bitterness Too afraid to hang myself Punch myself in the face Spit on me Respect me Degrade me Take me away take me in What the **** is wrong with me
patty m May 2014
Turn out the lights

and let me drown

in passion's darkness.

Play blind

and read my body's braille;

find me in pieces

letting fingers

paint designs.

Crawl beneath my skin and

fill my hunger.

Mold me, make me

malleable and melting

as you permeate my senses.  

. . . And l will trace you too,

traveling across your uncharted map.


Darling you are my ocean

my new country, each inch of you

touched and tasted as new routes

are discovered and pinnacles climbed.

Close your eyes

and feel the tickling of my unseen hand

through the darkness

of this forever night.
Ottar Jul 2014
The wet sand, cools my
bare feet, my eyes look-
out as the sun sets
into the west, wresting
my tension, as small
waves lap at my toes,
tickling taking me
back to childhood day-
dreams.

A ship silhouettes
in the sinking sun,
I am sure, I see
the funeral pyre
boats, of every
warrior ancestor,
lit burning brighter
as sunlight becomes
night, and I am left
scenting smoke, my open
arms reach over the
present sea and great
ocean that is the
past,
asking,

am I worthy?
Patricia Drake Feb 2013
It all begins
With pronouns
I becomes the subject
Of my project
Adding you
And collectively we
I choose you and me
And I exclude the he and the she
Until I am certain of we

You and I pick verbs
actions

Inflect them to match
fit
begin narratives

Transitive verbs take objects

You touch
tickle
tease
taste
take skin
*******
lips
me with words

Words have become a clause
But still a simple construction
So, you tickle me where?

For this you need a preposition
To position your tickling ammunition
Do you touch
tickle
tease me ON my *******
*******
thighs
buttocks
****?

Do you feel me INSIDE my mouth
****
soul?
Positioning is envisioning.

Then you use adjectives
To modify descriptions of
Sensory inscriptions
So, gentle complements touch
Soft and passionate kiss
And you become superlative

And adverbs elaborate experience
expression
exploration

You fill me deeply
thoroughly
violently with all that is you

But adverbs can also mean time
Not sweet or cursed time
Or time denoting age
But timing is always important
And grammar dictates
That
Time adverbs are placed
As a beginning or an end
Like a lover's embrace

Thus,
This morning, you woke me with
A demanding "here and now! " and I will reciprocate this, tonight, I vow.

Conjunctions are sentence connectors
And sentences behave like detectors
Bodies balancing with and, but, or
Otherwise subordinate
And the scale tips towards
Conditioning hypotaxis
Making actions a complicated praxis

(before my mind can connect, you will have to pursuade it /pursue it)

But we coordinate conjunctions
Equally
I touch you
You touch me
Exploring
Exploding sensory functions

So, together we cry imperatives
Completing our ****** narratives

Moaning
Whimpering
Begging
Yelling: Please... bind me!
touch me!
bite me!
take me!
come!

Oh! Please, come!

I love the English language... ;)
MysteryBear May 2015
I woke up one day
The end of my bed,
A jewelry box
Pink as the ribbon they used to represent her;
I traced over her disappearing fingertips
The rim of the box clicked open,
It clicked to life
The music tickling my ears;
A plastic ballerina stands as a guardian
Hands in the air
Waiting for someone to join her,
Twirling around like my eyes that follow her,
To see we are all alone
gee i like to think of dead it means nearer because deeper firmer
since darker than little round water at one end of the well   it’s
too cool to be crooked and it’s too firm to be hard but it’s sharp
and thick and it loves,   every old thing falls in rosebugs and
jackknives and kittens and pennies they all sit there looking at
each other having the fastest time because they’ve never met before

dead’s more even than how many ways of sitting on your head your
unnatural hair has in the morning

dead’s clever too like POF goes the alarm off and the little striker
having the best time tickling away everybody’s brain so everybody
just puts out their finger and they stuff the poor thing all full
of fingers

dead has a smile like the nicest man you’ve never met who maybe winks
at you in a streetcar and you pretend you don’t but really you do
see and you are My how glad he winked and hope he’ll do it again

or if it talks about you somewhere behind your back it makes your neck
feel pleasant and stoopid    and if dead says may i have this one and
was never introduced you say Yes because you know you want it to dance
with you and it wants to and it can dance and Whocares

dead’s fine like hands do you see that water flowerpots in windows but
they live higher in their house than you so that’s all you see but you
don’t want to

dead’s happy like the way underclothes All so differently solemn and
inti and sitting on one string

dead never says my dear,Time for your musiclesson and you like music and
to have somebody play who can but you know you never can and why have to?

dead’s nice like a dance where you danced simple hours and you take all
your prickly-clothes off and squeeze-into-largeness without one word  and
you lie still as anything    in largeness and this largeness begins to give
you,the dance all over again and you,feel all again all over the way men
you liked made you feel when they touched you(but that’s not all)because
largeness tells you so you can feel what you made,men feel when,you touched,
them

dead’s sorry like a thistlefluff-thing which goes landing away all by
himself on somebody’s roof or something where who-ever-heard-of-growing
and nobody expects you to anyway

dead says come with me he says(andwhyevernot)into the round well and
see the kitten and the penny and the jackknife and the rosebug
                                                                      and you
say Sure you say    (like that)    sure i’ll come with you you say for i
like kittens i do and jackknives i do and pennies i do and rosebugs i do
Chris Twyford Feb 2012
Today the winter is not as chill, nor as gray.  An azure depth backdrops the "fade"-to-white and the eyes remember what to see beneath patterns that shift and flow.  You hear your footsteps and ...feel the silence leave your mind.

"Inside A Snowdrop..."

Driplets - droplets
pitter and pat
echo and float
...and the sun is here
its touching
tracing
edging patterns smooth and
flowing.

Feel the air
- its fingertips grasping
finding each bit of you all at once
...teasing and tickling your cheek,
nose THEN down the throat
filling and growing 'til
becoming an exhale
becoming you out and upon the world.

Feel as each hair lifts and spreads,
gathers and becomes waves eddying and rising free
freefalling and floating and rising again -
riding the unseen exhales as the world
- your world - flows by-and-by
grasping and tasting life
grasping and BEING life for all the other exhales
to find and feel and be felt in turn.

Reach - palm up...
wait
...wait
then
     catch a miracle!
- a world within worlds within -
a snowdrop
a single glass to gaze in-and-in
to focus - deep
deeper still
... 'til
I see you
...behind my eyes
and the shadows and shades
surround and enfold
tightening
tighter still...
holding me
gentling me
becoming ...me.

I am lavender ghosting in the air
the taste and sweetness of your skin
the softness of each lil hair flowing by
the lips that found their home on mine.

Breathing is one long purr
and life is gently kneading into the softness
...of you.

Chris
Some Person Dec 2014
Tickling in ****, huh?
Is that there
to remind me
someone else
has this kind of fun
playful
cute
even sensitive
and to remind me
of what's gone?
O It’s Nice To Get Up In,the slipshod mucous kiss
of her riant belly’s fooling bore
—When The Sun Begins To(with a phrasing crease
of hot subliminal lips,as if a score
of youngest angels suddenly should stretch neat necks
just to see how always squirms
the skilful mystery of Hell)me suddenly

grips in chuckles of supreme ***.

In The Good Old Summer Time.
My gorgeous bullet in tickling intuitive flight
aches,just,simply,into,her.  Thirsty
stirring.  (Must be summer.  Hush.  Worms.)

But It’s Nicer To Lie In Bed
                                  —eh? I’m

not.  Again.  Hush.  God.  Please hold.  Tight
Freddy S Zalta Feb 2015
There is a frozen lake with a grand piano in the center of it.
There is an older man playing songs from our childhood as we stand around him and sing the words to his music.
The cool breeze is getting cooler and snow is threatening to fall at any second...
But there is soup on the stove and warm couch for us to sit together and lay down.
Drink a glass of wine, raise a glass for all our times.
Smiles, tears, dances and doors slammed.
Children born, parents gone, friends say hello and just as quickly say goodbye...
The old man is tickling the ivory and the ebony keys - songs like brown eyed girl and I guess that's why they call it the blues. He plays Cole Porter and Ira Gershwin tunes too...
We hold hands and I want to take you in my arms and sweep you off your feet, fly away to another world...another time...
But the lake is frozen, the snow is beginning to fall and the soup is on the stove...I can smell it from here...
So say goodbye to the sadness, say goodbye to that old man, playing Fire and Rain...maybe tomorrow we can do this all again.
Not a day goes by
patty m Dec 2014
Clarity
is never ecstasy
at least when one
thinks they're in love
the violin sings sweetly still
and the heart gathers
stars from the heavens above.
.
Will the Gods confess
that they made a mess
of this man and woman thing?
The angels just laugh and pour the wine
and cupid puts arrow to string .

Then penitence's stance
does a ***** dance
and all patience flies away
as wantonness and lustfulness
raise their heads and bray.
Yet there's no remorse
as they stay the course
bickering as they play,
things once crass, now beat an ***
as they hide behind a hedge.
A trounce in the hay on
a summer's day beats
walking a slippery ledge.


Young man
whose hands cannot constrain
the lust that inflames
when bosoms bounce
as the young girls flounce
about their wares.
He takes delight from maiden fair
with long curls of auburn hair
lifting her skirt as she quickly runs
the brisk country air blows
the skirt higher still and the lad
gets a peek at her buns.  

Hot and brisk he takes a risk
as he chases the maiden down.  
then runs a hand up the inside of thigh
and smiles at the treasure he's found
Oh glorious when hot and sweet
the salt a lick away,
the pleasure spot makes her scream with delight
as he slowly makes his way.  

Then ******* pink
harden tight
and stand up on their own,
so he bends his head and takes a bite
and ***** them till she moans

She's his for the taking
and this her first awakening
yet virginity be ******
she'll give it up easily enough
for a taste of this hot blooded man.


Regret is something that
that later rears it's head
it's too late now to cry
or bury face in featherbed
trying to remember why.  

Thinking again how he made her feel
she laughs and cries and simply sighs,
the lad had so much appeal.
She thought she might touch the sky
and melt in the sweet by and by
her feet never touching the ground
but then the 10th of never arose
and her monthly didn't come round.

Nine months along the age old song
is not quite a lullaby
as legs again are splayed
and she thinks that she might die
struggling to birth this burly babe,
swaddled now, in her arms he's laid.

I wonder if the lad comes back again
tossing in the air a shilling,
if the pretty maid with auburn hair
would be so very willing.  

Who knows when cupid
strings his bow,
when and where his arrows go,
is it love or merely lust
this musky craving need
I'm sure if the lad comes around again
she'll be willing to do the deed.

Sandy bottom ocean's core
sending waves upon the shore
tickling tides that ebb and wane
desire's urges are to blame,
yet wondrous sweet is melting kiss
as bodies joined throb with bliss,
how can one turn their back on this?
If it's wrong then I'm remiss.
Srishty Mittal Nov 2014
At the break of dawn,
I turn, mumble, wake and yawn;
And turn to see
You, in our blanket castle.

The dainty sunshine bathes your face;
Of your matted hair, the breeze makes a menace.
I play with shadows of you-
And them I hold captive, in our blanket castle.

Now, the garden swallows twitter on the sill
A familiar longing, in me they instill.
The pillow feathers, the tickling toes, the warm giggles-
I realize- are but memories of you- in our blanket castle.
Suggestions are welcome!
III Oct 2014
And here's how I see it:

We lay hand in hand
Until the dam far, far away
Cracks,

Until the blades of grass
Tickling your nose
Wither,

Until the clouds above
Rain inky substance like
Oceans,

And when the sun shines
Memories mellow on
Wavering waves waving
Willows in the wind,

Up to our nostrils,
Your eyes like the moon
Straining to see those last
Blades of grass curl in on themselves,

Here's how I see it:

**We drown.
Tongues Dec 2014
<><><><><><>
Suicide is so hip
What's with that?
You know what's not -
Talking it out
Forgiving
And (sin of sins)
Believing it will be okay
Living for the moments
Your soul craves

If a surgeon pulled your heart apart
She'd stitch it back together
But healing will take time
It's the same with being lonely

Physiologically, being dumped
Activates the same part of your brain
As physical burns
(And did you know that
Harmless game of "tickling"
Activates the same part of your brain
As torture? Dude.)

Anyways, what should be hip
Is finding a way to develop
Strong character,
A kind and gentle heart
And encouraging words
sash sriganesh Feb 2015
As winter dawns,
United they come,
All at once
Coating the ground
With a perfect layer
Of feathery icing sugar.
Tickling our necks
As they swirl around us
They flutter in the wind                                              
Like graceful butterflies
Thrilled to be free at last.
A simple exterior,
But as we dig deeper
We discover
That on the inside it seems,
Like a spider has woven in each one
The most intricate of patterns
All unique individuals
Different and proud
Like dust from the stars
They glisten in the moonlight
fragile diamonds
That melt at your touch
Thus we can say,
That snowflakes are,
A symbol of purity
Like innocent childlren
To be destroyed by reality.
They put us to sleep,
Singing hushed melodies
As they pass by
Like floating feathers,
Following the wind
In our eyelashes
When we blink
Serene and untouched
Falling from the heavens
God’s children
Blessing the earth.
the poem her belly marched through me as
one army.   From her nostrils to her feet

she smelled of silence.   The inspired cleat

of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
                            her hair was like a gas
evil to feel.   Unwieldy….

                                        the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has

—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off).   It was spring

sun-stirring.   sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered.   a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
                                              the killed

world wriggled like a twitched string.

— The End —