"touchable" poems
The voice of an angel,
that is sunset.
Clouds dancing with the sky,
that is sunset.
Nothing touchable by man,
that is sunset
sweet, completely pure,
that is sunset
A lover of music,
is my sunset.
A life full of friends,
is my sunset.
Never judging,
always loving.
That is my sunset.
What is yours?
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
The distance ever so touchable
Yet you're still far afield
The glimmering glitter in your blissful
Translucent almond irises
Waiting to deviate from them
Yet they have imprinted themselves
Now affiliated with my heart
Seeing your lips brimming brightly
Rejuvenating your flawless visage
Embodying my love
Not even half your beauty
Inwardly made you mine
Realistically destined for another
Drastic jaundiced waves
Crashing the shores of heartbreak
Sentiments
Thus the eminent work of
Patience
Silence
Benevolence
Enshrouds my blooming admiration
For you
Unfastening my feigned ethos
For you
I comprehend the significance of dignity and family
But my love
Ceaseless and eternal
But my love
Yours only
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Love is a word
Love is an emotion
Love is a noun
Love is a feeling
Love is an adjective
Love is visible
Love is a verb
Love is a word
Look to the hills-
Ocean waves float by
Veering to the right
Ever so slightly.
Listen! There it is!
Oh, how the waves turn,
Visiting one another
Evacuating below the tide.
Love is a word.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 12:50 PM UTC
For Sam Cook and Michael Lee
While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.
When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.
The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches
and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on
Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
*A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world*
So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination
those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.
I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.
And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
A friendly face.
From another place.
With such gentle eyes.
Words are spoken.
Conversations so delightful.
I can almost see you here.
Sitting next to me so touchable.
Always finding time
to talk to each other online.
So far away and still close by.
This beautiful friend.
I love his open mind.
No matter our long distance.
Just caring and sharing.
My thoughts of this moment.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
she warned me she was a handful
thank God I have two hands
I couldn't unhook her bra with one
she apologized
the first time I saw her naked
she said sorry for every stretch mark
said she hated her thighs,
*******
hips
I kissed them all until it hurt my lips
and every place between
tried to make her love her body like I did
she apologized
as I watched her dress again
she wore vulnerability like an orange jumpsuit,
a bit too square for her structure,
I apologized
for knowing she is not as untouchable as she likes to think
her body,
as tattered and fallible as the heart clinging to it
is touchable
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
What is it to be righteous? To walk in godliness and purity? To hold the heart of God like the bride?
I'll admit I've felt complacent, disbelief, and traitorous. My own efforts alone have not filled my cup. But as I've fallen, as I've grown in mercy and understanding.
I recognize the shell of this existence. The temporal wasting of my eyes. I feel my lovers heart and still I want more. Not from selfish desire but because I've felt the inner working of the spirit!
The everlasting father. The bridegrooms love. And the Kings will for my life. After that, there is emptiness. A quaint shadow in the smile of beauty and passion.
All this rest inside my brain, my reasoning mind ticks with thoughtfulness. Reaching with my words to the universal will untouchable. Touchable. Touch me.
Show me. Move in me. Speak to me in my heart. God I want to know that love again. The infinity of your fire burning away my sin.
And it's odd, as I pull my bible out of its cold box. Plastered to Fear And loathing in Las Vegas. I guess I am afraid of what I'll learn. I can't keep ignoring this turbulent hope. But the promise that you are always with me. Gives me strength.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
In the dark mirror of my mind,
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee,
It was never meant to be,
Misty mornings by the lake,
Standing alone, looking at the sky,
Holding a glass of rye whiskey,
It was never the way I planned my life,
You're a mystery in my life,
Not my intention,
I got very brave, these last days,
Bold enough, to capture your gaze in my heart,
Lost my discretion,
It's not what, I'm used to,
Just wanna try you on,
I'm curious to know if we will fit together,
Your sunrise reflection caught my affection,
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee,
The taste of your **** pouty lips,
Steamy mists rising in my mind,
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee just to try it
I hope my princess you don't mind it,
It felt so wrong,
It felt so right,
Don't mean anything, right?
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee,
No, I don't even know what's real,
It doesn't matter,
You're my alternative to life,
Just human nature, right?
Those sweet Korean girls they are so magical,
**** dark eyes, steamy silk hair, so kissable,
Hard to resist so touchable,
Too good to deny it,
Ain't no big deal, it's innocent,
It's not what,
Proper people do,
Not how they should behave,
My head gets so confused,
Hard to obey,
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee,
The fragrance of your shiny black silk hair,
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee in the rising mists of my mind,
I hope my princess you don't mind it,
It seemed so wrong,
It felt so right,
Don't mean anything, right?
Touching your reflection Choon-Hee,
The sound of your passionate heart,
The feel of your exquisite neck,
Touching your misty reflection Choon-Hee,
I hope my princess you don't mind it.
Copyright © 2016 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
He was fun
But not the ONE
His lies made everything come undone
It is OK, I will be fine
It was too soon for a relationship
However it sure was Rebound time
He was fun, we had a blast
But the time for that is OVER
Now I can be free at last~
I know I am lovable, touchable and funny as hell
So dwelling on not being good enough is gone as well
I enjoyed my rebound guy
..I have already said goodbye...
Rebound down...
I cannot lie..he were my rebound
Had he not lied to me so much oh the relationship we could have had
So long rebound..so long Chad
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
I love waves.
I can touch them but I can't catch them.
Maybe that's why I love them, they are so touchable but so unreachable at the same time.
It's a crazy feeling you get when you love something like that,
something that's not concrete but it's not abstract,
something you can point to but you can't actually see.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
momentary tangibility, momentously touchable.
voluptuous experience, an explosion of love
or *****
no rhyme nor reason.
stuck behind glass doors,eternally hoping for
more more more.
locked in and passed around.
visible from hot air balloons, indecipherable under microscopes.
morse code, even to myself.
im on this red painted shelf.
of course, red, but still unread.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
The hollow truth carried on the wind
Budding asphodels wilted upon the pyre of paradise
Erst the rusted gates of Heaven
Deleing corrupt realm deliverance salting
The rivers of Eden,
Ananta, contemner of dawn
Stealing Levannah breaking Sol.
Without brethren kith, treading the tide
Of redemption thitherto
A tear in the fabric of the universe
Another drop in the ocean aflame
So that that fire humanity could be set
Broken vessels as like sunken ships
Eclipsing their own elan;
Fraying equilibrium averred officers of Hell
No more angels standing yet ranked still
In offices most high despairing
Purities ruination conjunctively
As with the same stride sought in
Pitched battle- touchable caste
Derelict of kin.
ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
~
**it is a poignant thought...
that in this life
we often know more of a thing
by its absence
than by its presence;
that we do not know,
yes,
truly know…
love,
in all
its ins,
its outs
until life
ends…**
for they who pass over yet for they who remain
to the other side, on this other side,
love to them becomes love to them becomes
a love transforming a love of mourning
an all-surrounding, an all-surrounding,
unconditional, pained condition,
a love ever-warming a love ever-wanting
and more perfectly and more palpably,
touchable, immutable, touchable, immutable,
and in its presence is and in its absence is
more contentment more torment
and happiness and distress
a one belonging an ever-longing
love love
than any than any
theretofore heretofore
known; known.
~
*post script.
this musing is the result of reading your beautiful poetry
this morning and seeing how many wrote of heartbreak…
whether through death, divorce, break-up or misunderstanding,
each lends to the knowledge of what love is not
and therefore to what love is.
this plain is such a broken place, it is truly a wonder
any of us ever experience any love at all…
and yet thankfully we do.*
(creating columns on HP is at best a difficult proposition. of course the format changes from device to device. after much work this looks acceptable on my laptop, my ipad, and on my smartphone in landscape view only. my smartphone in portrait view... not so much! :) however you choose to view it, enjoy!)
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Once again, I am not only alive;
But newborn-alive.
Antoine de-Saint Exupery tried to tell us
That besides having the solution to every riddle,
Snakes can also teach us
That we have always been the better creatures
For we shed our insides,
The only touchable things our souls produce;
Instead of our outsides,
And they come out of our only way in
To another soul,
And everytime they do,
We run after our breaths
Like the first time we learned
We actually need it.
We will really always meet ourselves here,
In this middle darkness where we first saw light
And made that womb-to-tomb pact of companionship
With what we came with to this world,
The same thing we'd leave with
Or leave because of,
And leave behind to cause a whole lot more
Shedding of insides
When we finally go the only way,
Which, all along,
Is back...
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
I know that face
That chiseled,
Rugged,
August,
Attractive face.
I know those eyes
Those deep,
Alluring,
Chestnut-colored,
Playful,
Romantic eyes.
I know those lips
Those full,
Inviting,
Indulgent,
Kissable,
Sensual,
Warm lips.
I know that smile
That genuine,
Broad,
****
Friendly,
Gorgeous,
Delightful,
Charming smile.
I know that voice
That intoxicating,
Soothing,
Gentle,
Silvering,
Admirable,
Enticing,
Witty,
Smoky voice.
I know that skin
That olive colored,
Tough,
Smooth,
Hot,
Touchable skin.
I know that body
That masculine,
Appealing,
Divine,
Fine,
Magnificent,
Ravishing,
Hard body.
I know those hands
Those strong,
Pleasing,
Gentle,
Captivating
Protecting,
Hard working hands.
I know that mind
That imaginative,
Creative,
Fun,
Beautiful,
Intelligent,
Always thinking mind.
I know that heart
That heroic,
Passionate,
True,
Faithful,
Strong,
Undying heart,
That loves mine
© Ashley Rodden. All rights reserved
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
reverse engineering:
tomorrow
i will know still your voice,
how your silence splits words
into pieces, as you break me
with your collared sweaters and polka dot
socks: tell me i am floating,
question my Gods, forbid me
from touching your church elders; your parents’
Lord.
today
i will know your laughter, a tad frail:
the voice of an unsteady
deity - your fingers - never stilling a pen,
nor sketching a hand - whittling
my own: your chin trembling as you chide me
for their largeness; i show you their erasures:
your lack of wayward lines; your work
of an artist.
yesterday
i tell you to sing, you tell me not to -
you arm yourself and lock away in your room,
say your poetry terrible,
wrong, un-joyful, cross-averted; they cracks
in all the wrong places like your flimsy
hands, like your hopes massive-disintegrating
like the feebleness in your dust-allergic bodies; your lack
of lungs: brittled long by heavy-handed
words and thin brushes: you with death -
the un-wayward stroke: You
who are sickly, whose quiet breaths reach
where we cannot find
and find the places where
our gods long to be touchable.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
I am a tin can.
The most average tin can
Your eyes did ever see.
But leave me in the sun
and, baby, I'll glow
You better believe
I'll be 1E10K
Burning
Some more about me,
Because honey,
You should know:
I'm curvy
Easily grippable
Touchable
Gropeable
The perfect size
For your hands
To wander in so tight
To find..
I'm not tin,
I'm soup.
And baby,
I spill easily
If you hold me upsidedown
Like that.
I dent easily
When you press me
Like that.
And baby,
I grow cold
When you forget
I'm soup
And I need a heat source
To taste right.
No one likes cold soup.
But when I'm hot
I'm sure if I asked
You would eat me all day.
Mmm baby,
Its so bittersweet
That a can could love the sun.
Your dawn
Captivated me
Intrigued me
As much more welcoming
Than the microwave.
And honey,
When you lay your head
Just above the horizon,
Illuminating every white flower
With your breathtaking red-orange haze
You are the most beautiful thing
I've ever seen
And I am the luckiest can
In the whole **** world
And I try to pinch myself
But I don't have arms.
I wish I did.
Because the way
You, so quickly,
Drop below the horizon
Vanish from my sight
Leave me warm for a moment
Until the cold seeps in
Makes me wonder
If maybe I'd be better off
With the stability of
A microwave.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
to stare at wonder is no mistake
in this too large universe
where breath lies below the surface
vision, heartbeat, all the same
it is no great effort to live
time to end the search for design
there is a tingling that calls for change
so now the freedom exists
what to do, where to go
all these questions remain
I bang my hand on the table wood
just to feel, to circulate, to digest
the great mask of the collective world
will fool me no longer, buying time
will envelope a soul, un-touchable
an uncomfortable visitor
many of these ideas lead nowhere
you can scratch at meaning
claw at understanding
in so little time, a blue screen backdrop
accounting for variation
measuring the drift apparent
the suns angles creep lower
the mountains accept their lengthening shadows
certain, wise beyond words such as these
Friday, November 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
My imagination
is the all-encompassing *****
Composed of touchable red curves,
she speaks
in dark, melted tones that drip
& cool to harden at their destination.
She’s the sort of insatiable pursuit
most boys are taught to desire.
She’s the well-spoken lady
most gentlemen deserve.
She transfigures into
the most verboten temptations
& acts as the pair of arms
that will suddenly slam you up against a wall.
She eases into you with her starved gaze
& examines your every possible inch.
She leaves you with nothing to hide.
Scrupulous? Undeniably so.
She touches whatever she wishes
with gloveless fingertips
& ***** your mouth dry
of all bitter objection.
She leaves you speechless--
but smiling.
My imagination?
She is a bombshell,
& I think I like her better than me.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Poor runaway girl
Packed bags in the corner by her table
Burnt out cigarette butts in the ashtray
Another day, another man, another broken dream
Another town, another time, another try
Always was daddy’s favourite little girl
Doe eyed, round cheeked, silent and touchable
He would never let any harm come to her
The apple of his eye, sweet as cherry pie
But at night there was a monster
In her most private place he would haunt her
Never good enough for others, only he wanted her
Silent words from silent lips, that’s he taught her
***** needles, high heels and red lipstick
Choice of an entire catalogue of monsters
Some rich, some loving, some loud, all looking for the same thing
Used and ***** abused and shake
New monster, same fate
Packed bags in the corner by her table
Burnt out cigarette butts in the ashtray
Another day, another man, another broken dream
Another town, another time, another try
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
We need more pens
Why do we need more pens?
Because with these pens
We will write cool things
We can write poems:
Poem: Not Tangible
Space can't be ****** with
What is tangible
Humans are tangible
We can touch,
We can take
We don't need; we want
We want because we are
attached to the touchable beings
Being is hard; letting things be is hard
Being me means free
Free me
Please let me be
I don't feel tangible.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC