20 Questions: A Confessional Poetry Challenge

The first girl I kissed was very naughty. She started playing with my cock. I came in probably less than a minute. Forest Gump moment. She just giggled. I wouldn't call her submissive but she was up for any kind of sex at any time except for anal.
 
ha! I found da place :)



COME UPPANCE

Once upon a time I used bedroom eyes,
long lashes and rose-colored contacts, for effect
--while my warm hand might part a barmaid's thighs,
I used Time in her bed, made a roomful of eyes.
Ego is Time's keyhole, transmitting voyeurs' sighs.
Years go by, eyes betray. Maids arrive, to collect:
"There's a price to pay," they say, "for bedroom lies."
Oh, their insistent lashes, --long, rosy contact. Affect.

And you should be glad you did because just look at that gorgeous poemy. Write more, please?

:kiss:
 
The first girl I kissed was very naughty. She started playing with my cock. I came in probably less than a minute. Forest Gump moment. She just giggled. I wouldn't call her submissive but she was up for any kind of sex at any time except for anal.

good story. poem it :)
 
damn girl you keep getting better and better

They walked Daytona sand,
with Papa behind
every beach umbrella, in waves
around their feet, hidden in pails
and shoveled castles.
The kiss

happened in mid step and she never missed
a step -- onward girl,
with summer moth on her lips.
He planted moths

on the mouth of a flame,
flickering. Then she burned
her way home, with seashell-
shocked Papa
and moist wings on her skin.
 
first question:

QUESTION #1 Whats the closest thing to you that's red?:kiss:)
67933-32201-p01p-ca

If you put the white rings
on the centre
of your sunglasses lenses
you look a little goofy
and feel rebellious
because that's not what Avery
reinforcements are for.
 
Question #2: Given the chance to go back again, would you still kiss the first person you kissed?
He Tasted Like Juicy Fruit

I feared that he would flinch
away and never look like I could be
the only girl he'd take on a hike

ever again

and sit on the girders of the bridge
as we threw stones into the water
as it swept beyond the pilings
as he swept me off my feet
so that I couldn't even say...
 
Originally Posted by annaswirls View Post
Question #2: Given the chance to go back again, would you still kiss the first person you kissed?



He stole that kiss
with a first-grade pucker
at Daddy's softball game.
I was looking for Venus
as his freckled face neared mine
but the smack of a bat
pulled us back and he pushed me
on the old chain swing
into that summer night.
 
Question #2: Given the chance to go back again, would you still kiss the first person you kissed?
Perched
on the top steps,
where nobody ever climbed,
we made a throne for many
coronations,

the old bannister
I nudged her against to crown her a princess
left a rust brown seal on the back
of regal white cotton, embracing things
I had no hymns for,
yet.

She had powder sugar in her breath. I licked a stray sprinkle
from the corner of her mouth.

"You taste sweet."
"Well duh. Donuts."

The stain lasted bleach and chlorine and fairy godmother spells
ten fold before she gave up and threw the shirt away.

Going back
to once upon a time,
I would have chosen the wall
over the banister.
 
What counts?
A halfhearted peck
from Gary's pallid libido
because his true lust
was for a buffalo nickel
from Daddy's store?

Kenny Muccarelli
was one helluva dancer;
we did the stroll, the slop
and kissed behind a tree
so the lifeguard wouldn't see
while Levi sang sugar pie,
honeybunch.

Harmon's was a man's
kiss, a hungry mouth
and tongue insistent
that moved my body,
but not my heart.

Kisses from men
who missed me by a mile.
Swimclub kisses
and concert kisses,
a disaster of a prom kiss,
marriage kisses that sparked
and flamed and lied.

That first slow commotion
kiss in the airport
stopped the world
while we spun and burned
in each other's arms,
and I said oh I knew
I'd love your mouth.
 
Question 2

into woods

new bra ready in case
in case its tonight

we switch tents
liquid rush brazen
hands pinned sleeping bag
slick you wonder
how you got us here
so easy

two skinny cousins
pressing two girls
secret woods sleep over
you were not my first kiss
just the first time I had to say No
so many times to hands and hardness,
your awkward aching
for some sort of opening,
anything
to quiet nature's pressure

cousin and his girl
giggle at our rustling
from next tent over

fuck it
beer works well to cool things
by fire rock crackle
"I hate my father"
you confess. "He fucks them all,
from the bar or wherever. Doesn't
even care if I hear or if they stay.
Doesn't care. I am going to run away, I swear it, I am."

cradled in behind me we settle
I fall asleep to desperate
pressing against my satin sleep shorts
too tired, drunk, too achingly connected
to shove you off me again
like a dog on my leg
rocking, hands on hips rocking
into slow sobs, we kissed again.
God, Donnie, where else
was I going to sleep?
 
67933-32201-p01p-ca

If you put the white rings
on the centre
of your sunglasses lenses
you look a little goofy
and feel rebellious
because that's not what Avery
reinforcements are for.

BTW, this poem totally cracked me up. Well done, Champie. I will now picture you in sunglasses with those little reinforcement rings in the center of the lenses. :D
 
QUESTION #3: Have you ever prayed?
First, I've written poems that are prayers. I don't know who I pray to, but I know I send them through my mind and often, through my lips to become whispers to the force that keeps me breathing.

It seems I often ask
and rarely thank
I offer my life as ransom
for my beloveds' happiness

If I could live their pain
I know I have better tools
to get through
to wake up
to continue and have faith

Sometimes, it isn't easy to breathe,

but that I do today
brings gratitude to my tongue
and I can hope tomorrow
I will still give thanks.
 
BTW, this poem totally cracked me up. Well done, Champie. I will now picture you in sunglasses with those little reinforcement rings in the center of the lenses. :D
I but live to crack people up. ... or is that to up the cracked people? Heaven forbid I people up the cracks :eek:.

The truth in poetry:

0503091228-1-1.jpg
 
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I but live to crack people up. ... or is that to up the cracked people? Heaven forbid I people up the cracks :eek:.

Well I am surely cracked so that must explain why I like it so much.

Up the cracks sounds like a call to arms. For lit. Vive la revolution. Up the cracks!
 
QUESTION #3: Have you ever prayed?

I wrote a letter, sealed
with glue and curses.

But this was before faxes
or packages streamed on wires,
and I didn't know the correct postage
to Forever. So I tore the envelope,

let the ink requests flee back
up the tip of the ball point,
and folded the blank sheet
into the origami phantom
of an imaginary answer.
 
Well I am surely cracked so that must explain why I like it so much.

Up the cracks sounds like a call to arms. For lit. Vive la revolution. Up the cracks!
I think there's a poemie here for the May Survivor Challenge Bonus Round.
 
QUESTION #3: Have you ever prayed?

a chair

ninety nine rivets
and a red horn,
though she would not place herself
until he nailed

the back of the chair. then she leaned
on jeweled golgotha,
words pressed between her palms.

"have you ever prayed?"

her prayers are a deep drug,
barbed, brutal,
addictive.
 
Question #2: Given the chance to go back again, would you still kiss the first person you kissed?
First and Only Kiss

Drunk, I finally did it –
kissed you and told you I loved you.
You had by then given up and moved on.
I saw you as hopefully mine for life,
waiting patiently for the right moment.
I didn’t fight my fears and let you know.
Now I wish I’d kissed you sooner.
The whole world laughs at my foolishness.
 
This is a very old poem, but it's topical and I've been wanting to edit it for a long time, so the editing is new. I hope I'm not breaking any rules. :)

Holy

I.
They say Jesus is holy
I don't know why
He matters more than you
or me. Don't we all die
for our sins? It is wholly amazing
to part a sea, but what if
that's a fiction? I can't even
say G_d.

Crucifix, Vestments, Incense, Priest
Sacrament, Holy Water, All-Saints Feast
Kaddish Cup, Shofar, Tallis Fringe,
Rebbe in the Temple, Mezzuzah on the Hinge.

All these accoutrements.
All that hypocrisy.

II.
Elvis wasn’t holy
though he lived and died
in a state of Grace.

Lenny Bruce wasn't holy,
he was just honest.

Lennon wasn't holy,
but we crucified him.

Kennedy, Kennedy, King:
all too human.

Ginsberg was holy, holy, holy.
Just ask any poet.
Beard and pate, belly and beads,
drums and chant, the thunder
of his patriarch voice.
Schitzophrenic mothers
sometimes bear prophets.

Holy hell.
Holy shit.
Holy mackerel.

III.
Funerals aren't holy,
but death is sacred
and forever still.

Weddings aren't holy.
Look at the tiny ersatz couple
grinning on a mammouth cake:
they're made of plastic.

They say for every rule
there's an exception,
but love is a word.

IV.
Sex is holy
at my moment of release,
animal and spiritual,
shattering then calm.

Nature is holy
in a snowflake, twig, a leaf.
Think of butterfly, starfish,
seasons, oceans, shell

Children are holy
late at night they sleep
in damp translucent skin
and gentle hushing breath.

Writing is holy
when the words pour
and crash together
in meaning and sound.

When I'm writing
I feel holy,
powerful, aware.

(This poem may not be holy,
but it might be a prayer.)
 
Ang, such a glorious and angry prayer. Can anyone understand someone else's conversation with the ether?

Remember this one? Anshul led me to think I'm of a Unitarian bent. I made a tiny edit to encompass all the elements and one other important sphere in our galaxy ...

A Hymn Of The Spheres

I live a prayer;
each step, each breath
a psalm of praise
to existence in this sphere.

My passage bends a blade
of grass beneath my feet
in a dance of glory and fire
to radiate heat for today

I breathe in supplication
to the need for oxygen.
I drink in acceptance
that my thirst must slake
with elements tied together

and arranged for my use.
It moves me amongst the life
gravity holds to this sphere,
this earth, my life, a prayer.

eta: A special prayer written for friends in a time of deep sorrow... It was an honour to have a passing acquaintance with Doug, I only wish I'd known him, too.

I only pray that a poet's heaven,
Is simpler than here on earth.
Where joy in beauty, trust and faith
Is all that measures worth.
A poet walks but a short time,
Upon the worldly shore,
But if his words are meaningful,
He'll be remembered evermore.

Adieu Smithpeter.
 
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Thanks for the idea EO. I don't know if I've let you know how much I appreciated the input. Now you know though. I do.
 
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