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all of a sudden passion suddenly

I have been wondering
if this miracle is dipped
in reality or if my physical
response is something
slipped through the pixel
curtain into my coffee.
 
six years
has it already been that long?
when fingers angle bent creaking
like rusted hinges reached out to touch my arm
eyes grey blue dimmed cataract worn
blurred the world in watery droplets

I whispered you a promise
to succeed
to be more than the gutter people we seemed bred to be
generations of violent fuelled alcohol
rage insensate and handed on as a family heirloom
the make the man some fucking eggs
or regret it people
the, we fell down the stairs cliché
paid with blood and tears
drunk in beer and inhaled nicotine
addictions of flesh
that pierced injections

happiness was
some zombie starved xylophone rib walking
stump dragging cripple
but he was there smiling his gap toothed grin
dry breath that smelled of carrion

you were too weak to talk
but the grip on my hand tightened
the grey focus of your eyes sharpened
and for a moment before
the cancer eating your insides
finished it off like slurping broth
you smiled pride and affection
a moment of heat before the cold
I lifted you as less than a child
the creak of bones
and slump of carcass meat
I cradled you as you used to cradle me
and washed your face in tears

rope pullies lowered you into your rectangle
open sky view the earths sod dusted your bed
before we closed the door
I blew you a kiss
with my promise attached along with the wish
that you would see me become the man
one of us eventually had to be
 
Do you remember when our love
was reckless like thunderstorms
in tinder grass
it blew on a gale
of passion that screamed raw
unedited poetry full of mess and wordiness
each kiss mashed teeth to lips
a blur of copper tangs taste
the scent of musk
the husky way you begged to be taken

now we are the rain of autumn
that quenches the thirst of summer
light, gentle
we pour like syrup drizzled
indulgence in familiarity a favourite meal
the smudge thumbed pages of a favourite book
or sipped like berry cider
smile at silent directions
that lead to nirvana

where sex isn't just about copulation
but where we are one
I can touch you on the inside
you can feel my caress
we know each others crests and peaks
and when I hold you tight
as the shivers subside
I trace your curves
soft as petals
I don't need to say I love you
because you can feel it still
I trace it on your spine
whisper it anyway.
 
todski28 said:
Do you remember when our love
was reckless like thunderstorms
in tinder grass
it blew on a gale
of passion that screamed raw
unedited poetry full of mess and wordiness
each kiss mashed teeth to lips
a blur of copper tangs taste
the scent of musk
the husky way you begged to be taken

now we are the rain of autumn
that quenches the thirst of summer
light, gentle
we pour like syrup drizzled
indulgence in familiarity a favourite meal
the smudge thumbed pages of a favourite book
or sipped like berry cider
smile at silent directions
that lead to nirvana

where sex isn't just about copulation
but where we are one
I can touch you on the inside
you can feel my caress
we know each others crests and peaks
and when I hold you tight
as the shivers subside
I trace your curves
soft as petals
I don't need to say I love you
because you can feel it still
I trace it on your spine
whisper it anyway.
Click to expand...

a beautiful love poem, tod.

Great lines:

"unedited poetry full of mess and wordiness"

"I can touch you on the inside"
 
Last edited:
The Snake River S's through
Idaho over prairies as the wind
blows a green stink. It's the
manure miracle that grows gardens
while the cows stand hoof deep
in shit for your vine ripe tomatoes.
 
Its spin is the right sound
of vinyl, rich and warm
music filling my ears, my heart.
Some songs re-arrange
inflicted thinking, changing
mood and attitude
in the nick of time, forgo the
endless supply of antidepressants,
disarming a revolver in a fist.
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round¹.



¹Dead Or Alive - You Spin Me Round
 
the burn
the pit in my belly
a dog toy without stuffing
no longer a writer
but a wrong
long road
i'll ravel it up like yarn
something warm
little dog, on top
you love me so
i'm out alone
i'm out alone
rock and roll,
where have you been
all my life?

disconnected i remember
all the muse lust did engender
the smells of seasons
falling shadows, falling snow
a thousand reasons
to carry on
a thousand needles
in my arm
little dog, still be my warm
my monkey's gone
and underground
my heart besieged
un-sacred ground
the days click by
and gray i turn
all things i love
become unlearned.
 
Real green horseradish burns my nose
and stings my eyes but I eat
it up with spicy tuna rolls, chasing
it all with an icy sake.
Okay,
truthfully,
it's more than one, but the rice
wine never quenches a wasabi burn
 
Fingers interlocked
Passion twists and constricts
Like wild vines
They squeeze us together
Your skin becomes mine
As a black rain falls
You breathe the love song
The one my mind has blundered
Clamored for and nearly
Wept into exhaustion
As your lips move the
Stars above disintegrate
Disrupting my dream
Returning me to
Ruthless, loveless
Solitude
 
Just another for you
I don't care
Let you play me
like a violin
Strings tight
waiting for your bow
to make me sing
Masterful musician
One night only
An encore
before you go
 
He held me lightly
as a chocolate bar, as if worrying
that his overeager fingertips
would melt my molded form.
 
The lightness of my grasp
testament to an inability
to believe you are real
but when you melt I will
lick you greedily from my
fingers
 
The Why
(I Could Not Backspace Fast Enough
When I Found The Answer)

Casual not-so casual snooping
fetched something I didn't want
to know. I liked knowing your life
went on and everything was
all right. The guilt was gone like me.
(But really it wasn't)

I should've left it as is
as that's how you've wanted it to be,
you not talking to me not talking
to you. I've been back for years
and I know you've known it. It's OK
I really do understand it's better
this way for you (maybe for me too).

I just wanted to tell you now,
I've missed you, loved you
all the while through this silence.
I didn't know, I didn't know
(and it's no excuse) but I didn't know.
Though it's been years since he passed,
I feel it today, reading your pain.

I will not look for you, hoping to cross
internet paths. That time with me has
been archived. I'll stay silent,
but I will regret it say nothing, holding
remorse and grieve your loss
along with our loss. You're happier
without me (maybe I'll take your cue).
 
Last edited:
I say I love you
because this moment
feels unfinished.

How does lust
transmute to proper
emotion without words?

The catalyst needs
to be spoken aloud
to cause a reaction.

Whether an explosion
or a slow burn,
exothermic or endothermic -

I want heat
and only your heart
will do as the crucible.
 
It's not the cup but the coffee within.

It's not the cup but the coffee within.
Arabica beans ,fair trade
organic and shade grown
often from a woman's cooperative in Peru
then roasted in small batches
by a local roaster.
I like mine dark
but the wife likes medium
so we alternate
or sometime mix the two.
The beans ground
medium-course
with a burr grinder
are placed in our
pre-warmed press pot
just before we brew,
and covered with
our non-chlorinated well water
which has been brought
just to the boil
then left for 45 seconds.
A pause, three minutes is best
but sometimes we can't wait,
before the plunger is pressed
and our morning elixir poured
into our waiting cups.
And by the way,
mine was thrown
by a local potter
many years ago.

Sometimes we worry
that climate change
may ruin the source
of our morning addiction,
but we do our best
to tread lightly.​
 
Piscator said:
It's not the cup but the coffee within.
Arabica beans ,fair trade
organic and shade grown
often from a woman's cooperative in Peru
then roasted in small batches
by a local roaster.
I like mine dark
but the wife likes medium
so we alternate
or sometime mix the two.
The beans ground
medium-course
with a burr grinder
are placed in our
pre-warmed press pot
just before we brew,
and covered with
our non-chlorinated well water
which has been brought
just to the boil
then left for 45 seconds.
A pause, three minutes is best
but sometimes we can't wait,
before the plunger is pressed
and our morning elixir poured
into our waiting cups.
And by the way,
mine was thrown
by a local potter
many years ago.

Sometimes we worry
that climate change
may ruin the source
of our morning addiction,
but we do our best
to tread lightly.​
Click to expand...

I liked this, Piscator, because I thought it has so much potential. It raised for me the question, however, am I misinterpreting the poet's intention?

The cup of coffee was a wonderful metaphor for intimacy between you and your wife. The first line is great and grabs your attention. I saw it as a love poem. If that's true, I suggest you pare back some of the directions because I think too many detract from that image of intimacy and instead make you think of, well, a cup of coffee, and not so much that special moment.

There are great sensual images in "the directions." Arabica, shade grown, I like mine dark the wife (why not use her proper name? More sensual) Pre-warmed...just before we brew a pause 3 minutes is best.....I think you get my point. (I'm getting excited just typing these lines.LOL)

Of course, in this thread, no edits allowed. I'd love to read it in some other thread sometime, but only if you agree. If not, that's OK too. All in all, an enjoyable sensual read.
 
Across The International Dateline

go ahead a day and explain
how I can live in a moment
that doesn't exist on this side
of the globe, across an ocean
of potential instants swelling
possibilities never dreamed,
or difficulties denial still keeps
hiding in corners too dark
to look in and too sharp to close
in on for better examination.
How do I turn them around
and make them anticipation?
 
greenmountaineer said:
I liked this, Piscator, because I thought it has so much potential. It raised for me the question, however, am I misinterpreting the poet's intention?

The cup of coffee was a wonderful metaphor for intimacy between you and your wife. The first line is great and grabs your attention. I saw it as a love poem. If that's true, I suggest you pare back some of the directions because I think too many detract from that image of intimacy and instead make you think of, well, a cup of coffee, and not so much that special moment.

There are great sensual images in "the directions." Arabica, shade grown, I like mine dark the wife (why not use her proper name? More sensual) Pre-warmed...just before we brew a pause 3 minutes is best.....I think you get my point. (I'm getting excited just typing these lines.LOL)

Of course, in this thread, no edits allowed. I'd love to read it in some other thread sometime, but only if you agree. If not, that's OK too. All in all, an enjoyable sensual read.
Click to expand...

Thanks GM. To paraphrase Freud "Sometimes a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee" and that was really what I was writing about. but I like your approach of using it as a love poem and will let it brew for a bit before coming back to it.
 
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