"yearnings" poems
Fingers sinking deep
below your surface;
seeping into your *****
caressing your crevices.
leaving their mark; baring pleasure.
coursing ecstasy through your veins.
searching for the highest of peeks beyond measure
scorching heat, blood boiling, the pleasure pains
soothing your aching flesh
in relentless pursuit; of higher depths
guilty yearnings, urges run rampant
as your ecstasy starts to progress
heavy breathing your hands held abreast
pungent liquids; drenched with desire
a seeping puddle stains the mattress
gingerly leaking, outlining your canvas
a mist in the air, cooling your skin;
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
Decipher the beautiful
Intricacies
Woven with simplicity
To create the
Most elegant taffeta
Striking hues
And softer feel
Silken moments
Souls glide merrily
Enchanting tales
Laced with yearnings
Shimmering covers
Overzealous hearts
Lustrous symphony
Of rhythmic hearts
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
for Nick and Kaitie
1.
Yesterday, right when our call got dropped,
I was going to tell you something about marriage.
I was going to tell you something gnomic,
a maxim worth getting engraved.
I've since forgotten,
but I believe it was akin to saying that, like Truth,
marriage is impossible to define in verbal space.
So, I guess I'm glad I forgot. The words
would've seemed either too hastily conceived for their subject matter
or else weightless, enigmatic – without impact.
I think it was Auden who whined, “Marriage is rarely bliss,”
though he lightened the phrase by encapsulating it in the context of modern physics –
namely, at least it has the ability to take place,
and that should be enough to bring bliss equal to Buddha’s Emptiness.
So, I'm happy our call got
dropped,
for the dial tone was
the pithiest aphorism on marriage any sentient life could've produced.
The key word is “produced.”
2.
This is what marriage is not:
Socrates gurgling hemlock
on his dusty prison cot,
giggling as he glimpsed a dikast’s deformed ****
Nietzsche tenured for philology
at Basel; Nietzsche feverishly etching
Fick diese scheiße! on a Jena clinic's wall; biology
predetermining the team for which he was pitching;
a poem; a hotdog; *******
a discharged Kalashnikov
engendering generational pain
somewhere in Saratov
circa 1942;
this is what marriage is not:
hatred, jealousy, ballyhoo,
obsessive yearnings for a yacht;
this is what marriage is not:
anything one pair of hands has wrought.
August 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
I fall to my knees,
Kneeling before you,
My Master,
Groveling at your glorious feet,
To reveal the chains of submission,
Weighing down my delicate form.
You gaze upon me,
Beholding soft skin shimmering,
As my body is folded over;
Viewing my tantalizing beauty,
As I bestow myself,
To fulfill your deepest desires,
Conjuring the darkest yearnings,
Manifesting within.
“Rise, Baby Girl’’,
Your deep voice commands,
Reverberating within this crimson colored chamber,
As your figure towers over me,
Beckoning my legs to stand,
Obliging to please you,
As my hazel eyes encounter,
The blazing intensity of your own,
Sending flames to burn,
Down to the small of my back.
Fear is the armor I allow to fall,
Tumbling to the ground,
Cloaking myself in trust,
As I allow my body to be,
Touched by dominant hands,
Trussed up by ropes and chains,
To restrain to me.
Willingly becoming prey,
To the sweet, antagonizing caress,
Before your hand aggressively strikes,
My behind,
Sending me into a realm,
Of pleasure and pain,
Morphing into one sensation.
Free is the response I experience,
As you bounds my wrists,
With your tie,
Pinning me down,
Straddling my body.
Placed between your thighs,
With your heated lips,
Conquering every inch of my body.
The Sting of the flogger,
Is a bite against the skin I crave,
As silence is the language,
I choose to speak,
Feeling your fingertips claim me,
As your territory to reign over,
As you please.
I yearn to satisfy the hunger,
Starving to be your nourishment;
For Sadism to feed,
Upon masochism,
As a balance of power is established,
As we lose ourselves in fiery passion.
Dominance and Submission,
Forces meant to bond to the other,
In a marriage of infliction and reception,
Of blissful agony,
Accepting the temptations you direct,
Towards me as guide,
To obtain our darkest of fantasies.
Submission speaks out within,
The silence as I give you,
A proffered hand,
Succumbing to the sensual dreams,
You promise to me,
Allowing you to possess me in any way,
You wish in accordance to our terms.
May you indulge upon my form,
Like decadent candy you crave,
To devour,
Savoring every taste,
Sound, smell, and touch,
In this licentious dance between you,
My Master,
And me, your fervent lady,
Of submission.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
*Hungered for a taste
of your elixir's essence,
drunken inhalations
of your poetry
a splendiferous whirl
of time & space 'tween
darkly scented moons
and sun's adoration,
blithe starry nights
amidst meditative new
dawn's effervesce,
spirited of the heart,
gleaned in the soul,
yearnings of another
chapter's paradise
universal experiences
etched of hourglass sand,
written upon endlessly
chimerical verses
wildflower gardens drenched
of dandelion's plum wine
swooning under a
hypnotic scripted spell,
intoxicating power
of unchained symphonies
dancing amongst skies'
released euphoria
resonating in a song's
reprised melodies,
breathlessness of delirium's
celestial pauses
in vaporous breezes'
unfurling undulation,
captivated by rhythmic
destiny reverberating in
loins' pleasurable calling
quenched of sacred
offering's quell
transcending earthly
persuasions' rhyme,
let me lick the nectar from
your poesy's insatiable lips,
sweet mercy's healing
captured in rapturous
surrender's reawakening ~*
*Je veux que vous tous,
tu me manques*
Ce que vous manquez de moi?
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
the cold enfolds fingers and soul with a freeze that makes trees scream
as winds of loneliness sting eyes like a gut inflamed with poisoned thorns
more time slips pass and less joy comes forth and the yearnings overflow
as timid fingers ache for a hand to grasp, for a chance to hope for more
true love lies deep and only body heat from a fellow man can thaw; thus,
trust dwindles in the act of giving up much for a love that cannot touch,
this distress contrives tired romantic traumas which decimate a heart
and so sadness buries a lonely soul while quiet snow fall frames the tomb
joy delights in shared body warmth of restless minds on dreamy nights,
joy well-wrought craves close companions' unbridled streams of thought
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 9:35 PM UTC
this swifter's grift -
lifting loosely
fitted accoutrement
lourden fruit
carelessly held
silkened, gimlet lit
shamelessly rivened
to a paler shade
of need.
solitude's
enchanting seed
may confer
a grander banquet’s call
but, this tug of
grandiloquent oblige
and politesse . . .
master and slave consort
black and scarlet
swift of tongue and fingertip
unbound so neatly
and leather blind
tell me muse of the anger flesh on fire
is there really dignity in defeat
that eludes the victor
tell me muse of the truth in nature
ill-graced tail-lamp broken
is destiny all ways ordained in contradiction
tell me muse do hearts all times submit
to the beacon call
shyness long forgotten
narrative so harshly written
as ne'er before
with an insistence
ageless yearnings bellow
as but glazened shadow
if reason sleeps
there will be no learning
no refuge
only to each
for their crimes
a four-chambered riddle
All Rights Reserved
James R. Morse, NYC 2013.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
Light melts across the gilded field
sunbeams through holes in a cloud
silently across your face, rays yield
shadows cast off their shroud
A dewy kiss warms morning thoughts
of a lover's raw embrace
desires twisted up in knots
yearnings will unlace
Lay me down on a clover sea
and a honeysuckle bed
gentle breezes wash over me
flowing like water instead
Wet lips entwined with hunger
gives way to beating hearts
our fingertips do linger
panting breaths depart
So lay with me on this bed of gold
blowing kisses in my ear
a golden field for my love to hold
darling, let's stay right here
Nov 5, 2022
Nov 5, 2022 at 6:07 AM UTC
The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.
The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.
One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.
I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
I dare not look too closely inside
where lurking, darkest feelings hide
behind the shards of glass pretending to be mirrors
they threaten to sever all my emotions
Instead I drift with aimless thoughts
kept neat and tidy, as in a box
tied up with strings crafted by the years
of endless sorrow
never to see the light of day
where my deepest yearnings lie
too fragile for to give away
and risk losing myself forever
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
and were the ears so pleased when:
the iciclic needles dug into our skins,
fleshy cloths that, sewn together,
made the mask to hide the whole.
we wore them like the cheapest of trophies,
the basest of glories and the simplest of stories.
we wore them to contrast to the whiteness of space,
the empty black white gray of life's living littleness
with the reddened hardwork of claymade shells.
they glowed with the rusty red of millions of faces
free to make their mark as they see best fit.
we had found these skins
forgotten on the floor,
and so we picked them up
with our biglittle hands
and opened the door
to newmade makings and
brand new beings.
it was empty within us--
the beings of old
and the yearnings of yore
had retreated far beneath the surface,
burrowed deep below mountains and meadows and
hills pushed up like sand in a box,
crushed against the sides of our enclosure.
it was silent within us--
the screech-making moon
sang in time to chest-beatings
and the barking of stray dogs;
the melody of moments lost in time.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
When in dark despair drowned
I was thinking, joy was nowhere around
A gentle breeze from the upland peaks
Came and patted on my cheeks
Softly whispering- ‘joy is here’
When the last ray of hope had been snuffed out
From the vapid plane of my arid heart,
A cluster of orchids, beautiful and gay
Smilingly nodding their heads on my way
Sweetly murmured- ‘joy is here
When I feared the earth was caving in
Under my feet with no chance to win
A butterfly with rainbow colors
Alighting on a bunch of flowers
Euphoniously hummed- ‘joy is here’
When all my yearnings got shattered
And sustenance alone was what mattered
The blazing sun from behind the hills
Wiping away all morbid chills
Affirmed beaming-‘joy is here
When I thought I was drifting afloat
Without any moorings on my boat
A crystal drop precariously balancing
On the serrated edge of a leaf dancing
Confidently chimed-‘joy is here’
When darkness settles on the scene
When life loses all tinge of green
When days seem inert and grey
Don’t be in a hurry to say
“Joy is nowhere around”
Before you jump to conclusions dismal
And write off life as abysmal
Wait to see the cycle of seasons change
From winter’s haze to spring’s lovesome range!
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
Uss Ne Kaha Kaun ** Tum
Main Ne Kaha Hasrat Teri
She asked: Who are you?
I said: Yearnings of your heart
Uss Ne Kaha Takta Hai Kya
Main Ne Kaha Surat Teri
She asked: What do you see?
I said: Beauty of your art
Uss Ne Kaha Chahta Hai Kya
Main Ne Kaha Khidmat Teri
She asked: What do you desire?
I said: To forever serve you
Uss Ne Kaha Pachtaega
Main Ne Kaha Qismat Meri
She said: You might regret
I replied: That’s my luck for you
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
From whips and chains
To whips and chains,
Earned by pigmentation.
Suffered through tribulation
Caused by the need for **********
Lead to the names of elders confusion
The game of deception
Lead to liberation.
A work for works sake,
Where all currency we make
Is born for the government to take.
A cycle of earnings and yearnings
Where earnings go to learnings,
And learnings go to younglings,
Younglings go to work,
And from work they live to buy things
And from these things come the taxings
Of all things to come.
With housing comes heating where water is needed.
These things to provide for the one to be marrying,
And a child she may be carrying which leads to more taxing,
And when this child grows and they don't need your waxing
So begins your pension and time for relaxing.
Living without fear of receiving the axing,
And your wrinkles now potent define all your moods
You may wish you had done what little other men could,
Stand tall where some other pioneer may have once stood,
But instead around the stump no room for a branch,
Locked in by the cycle
Left to pedal with no brakes.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
~~~
Quivering horizons
A palette of picturesque love
stipples weary seascapes
in amethyst ribbons,
pink carnation reflections
blush upon lip glossed beaches
caressing blue skies' gaze
and flip flop yearnings,
quivering horizons
of bougainvillea blooms
drench our hearts,
so we pause silently
as a poetic sunset
paints a masterpiece
in twilight brushstrokes
inspired by our
euphoric daydreams
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Who said
sound is a vibration
that travels at a bizarre speed?
I saw it softly floating
ensconced in bubbles
to a celestial gravity
that pulls them up
to the realm of idyllic bliss.
Bubbles exude the
brilliant hues of my yearnings,
wrap me inside
their merino fleece warmth,
hold me to their *****
with the tenderness
I ever cherish in my soul.
Sound nestles in its heart
a mesmeric glow of music
ordained to play
the salute note
to augur the birth of a
new hankering.
The woeful flute
of the gypsy maiden
soulfully sings
a melancholy melody
for her lost love
to get a phoenix’s wings
under the silver mist of the
new moon’s splendour.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
I wonder
how many moons shall pass
before you breathe in
the fragrance of Jasmine,
as you unbraid my tresses
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
I know why Vincent Van Gogh Cut off his own ear
We are a mad bunch, you see
Poets and painters and playwrights
On the prowl for something to
jump start our perpetual yearnings,
our keen senses and cravings,
on the quest for so much more
than the status quo,
of merely checking off just another day
from our calendars
We are those kinds of people
Who wish to reinvent the world
Often cursing at our failings and insecurites
While obsessively working to shape and sculpt
our view of this planet
To fit our own brand of imagination
To satisfy our starving hopes
and desperate dreams
To foster vivid visions
from the views that are vague
And to wipe away
The nightmares of old
that cry out in us
We believe in make-believe
We who are misfits to "normalcy"
We rarely seem to fit into
The "real world"
Yet we know that this world is
Pure insanity
Stark madness
Sheer perplexion
Yet we are the ones
suffering for the sake
of our art
Often misunderstood
Many times branded as "weirdos"
I can understand the pain
Of not getting my art right
Of not seeing its worth
Because someone sniffed at it
Or scoffed at it
Or blindly passed it by
Many times, we want to break through
And join the world of our works of art
But we can't
We're stuck in the middle of its beauty
And nothingness
Yes
I know why Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 8:04 PM UTC
Tensions high,
like broken kite strings,
reaching further away,
escaping the empty earth
in your arms.
Creeping chatter,
pouring inky letters,
in runny messes
all over my hands,
feeling bruised by you;
the sting, the slap
as leaking words
drip drip drip
from your mouth,
the broken tap.
I’m tired.
I’m so tired of hearing
soft
whispered yearnings
scratching the back of your throat.
Desperation, loneliness?
You beg with the croon in your tone,
you play along like the gentle little
sweetling,
a songful, humming love,
all warm in cupped hands.
In all this time,
this achingly long time
I’ve played as your neat little trick;
the showman’s trusty pet,
small dove flying
as soon and only when you release me.
String caught up around my waist,
I’ll never fly too far.
As I walked away,
that night with the moon trailing my form,
and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,
you watched my back
stretch lean and tall and
stand
away from you.
You looked back,
it was the moon shifting through my hair,
when I turned to notice
a head shake,
a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.
….Drip….drip….drip,
you leak all those notions I wished you
would one day say,
those heart-melting flatteries,
desirable admissions,
I’m the only one you want,
to keep you satisfied,
keep you going and touching and loving
and exploring and breaking,
until your other girl comes home.
You ask and plead and return,
lapping and licking in my arms,
wanting my form so bad again;
you cry for all the fun in the world,
but this time, it just can’t.
You’re just my broken tap.
You’d need to stop dripping ***** water one day.
You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,
cradling myself to keep my strength enough
to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.
But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.
I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,
intoxicating and breathtaking
as you made me so.
You showed me so.
But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.
Pull me round with you, wait for you,
tossed like an empty drink because of you.
Maybe
I just need to let you
let me go.
Like I cried to let you go first.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
SHIVA
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
The silence of night scares you
With its eerie thoughts
Ever azar with doors wide open
To give vent to unrestrained dreams,
Never letting you to rise above
The mundane laws of existence.
Do you ever think of SHIVA
The eternal principle of the Sublime?
Sitting alone on the peaks of the Himalayan silence,
Speaking to you in His divine muse-
Of ineffable ecstasy.
The body is not all.
That obeys the physical laws,
The mind is not all.
That listens to odd yearnings.
And the spirit too is not your limit.
You have to go beyond
Far beyond life's petty limitations
To reach Truth, Consciousness and Bliss.
SHIVA, the enlightened.
Which translates human dialects
Into an indefinable divine hieroglyphic.
SHIVA, the Supreme
Creates the Universe,
Rules it too,
Annihilates when Harmony loses its identity.
The universal principle of Love
Gets bewildered in empirical rules of earthly existence,
And Spirit fails to rise above,
SHIVA opens His Third Eye,
In its piercing gaze
All lights fade and
The fugitive human mind finds no sojourn
He warns you.
Arise, awake
To reach your goal
Beyond the earthly ken.
(Bijoylakshmi Das Haridwar)
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC
Come you lovers make the leap,
Take the cup drink long and deep,
For it is the cup of love,
Press firmly to your lips,
Hold it very close.
Pick the fruit and taste it well,
Savour and adore the spell,
For it is the love apple,
Bite it with delight,
You have it made.
Tie the binds and make them tight,
Keep your heart and pledge alight,
For it is the love knot,
Intertwine your parts,
They do not slip.
Wear the lock around your neck,
Keep your head and heart in check,
For it is the love lock,
The token shared,
Love eternal.
Rejoice it is a feast so fine,
A feast to last the end of time,
For it is the love game,
You play so pure,
So certain to win.
Release the birds of shining fire,
Their paradise in the sky much higher,
They are the love birds,
Born to fly above,
They fly together.
Appreciate and delight your emotion,
Take your love and swallow the potion,
For it is love nectar,
Manner from heaven,
Ambrosia of gods.
Crave your possession with your part,
Bathe your lover's swollen heart,
For it is the love caress,
Breathe tender regard,
Give any consideration.
Take all circumstance and dance all night,
Eat the cherries and lose the fight,
For love is letting go,
Let things be,
Thrive and free.
Hold them in your arms an atmosphere not bland,
Take all burnings as willows love wet land,
For the love of life,
Let all things grow,
Nurture and fulfil.
Take all your desires and all your yearnings,
Discover your lover through all of their burnings,
For you are the love birds,
Born to fly above,
You fly together.
Look out at the world in the same direction,
Hold your love in deep affection,
For love is a passage,
Through the storm,
Breathe it in.
Ride high on the tidal wave of boundless ocean,
Swelling the seas with all your emotion,
For love overflows,
Feel the heat in your veins,
Sit in the seat of love.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
And still I dream of stepping back into yesterday
Where time flowed so freely golden with serenity
We would sit in pine scented grove and sip lemonade
Our talk tranquil as sun dappled creek murmuring in quiet wood
Never arguing or complaining but flooded with blissful reverie
A time bygone and peaceful, learning to know each other again
Listening to the background symphony of cicadas and katydids
Poignantly nostalgic with yearnings of bygone days
Watching velvety dusk deepen into shades of whispering night
Relishing each breeze laden with moss and murmuring pine
Anticipating the dawn awakened by drowsy robins and wood thrush
Skies east to west stained with strawberry hues and dreams renewed
And still I shall dream on
~Hilda~
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
When she whispers in your ear,
*Do you think of me?*
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC