Poems That Tell A Story

[JUDO]

I like reading poetry for the beauty, the pain, the imagery and the passion they possess, but sometimes the stories they tell are worth more than the words.

Like telling stories? Like a twist, a setup or a ruse? Then think of one that happened to you and put it here with your poetry muse.

I'll start with one that based on a story that I heard in college --

-------------------------------------------------

Like a Deer in my Headlights

Just before I knock on the door,
My nipples I pinch for good measure.
Tingled nerves raise crinkled tips
And I enter at my own leisure.

A glance, a smile, a whispered hiss
Play before me on my mind's screen,
But few see the color of these eyes for
A jiggle and sway planned obscene.

They're weapons of mass destruction
Full and lifted, a magnificent pair.
As I casually assess the targets,
I smile wryly and toss my hair.

There in the corner, I spot him
With two or three of his herd,
Carousing and drinking too much.
I probably won't need a word.

Surrounded by suitors I pose -
Place my hands on my hips as I coo.
He's seen me, but I just ignore him
As his gaze tracks my tits just like glue.

Slowly, I raise my right hand
Past my waist and over my breast.
Its finger extends to my lips.
They surround it like a bird in a nest.

In seconds, he's by my side
Introducing… His name I forget.
My mind is quite distracted
By a target that he won't regret.

I steer him up the stairs in dark,
Entering a room, shut so quick
On my knees, I rip down his jeans
And suck up his stiffening prick.

He babbles as I stand and push him
On his back, he falls on the bed.
I straddle and pantie-less fuck him
'Til my cervix touches the head.

Quite suddenly, he yells exploding
And sticky, I pull down my skirt.
Out the door, I whisper "Nineteen tonight!"
As I begin to hunt and flirt.

It's a game my sorority started
Freshman year at the Grecian Fest.
The most conquests becomes our new leader
And gets a scholarship from the Alumni chest.

I report to a girl near the kitchen
And give her a sample of cum.
Verification is part of the game -
We may be blondes, but we're not so dumb.



- Judo

 

[Star At Sunrise]

Thank You

Thanks Judo, a great idea. I was going to not do it, but I read the other thread about 9-11 and got an idea. Hopefully it works as a story with a "twist" as well as (gulp) maybe actually being meaningful, too!

DATELINE: TOMORROW

The mother holds her daughter
In her arms to protect her

The dogs of war
have come to their door

Leaving politics aside
to find a place to hide

How can she explain
their countries pain

touched by the fingers of hate
she prays it is not too late

The buildings stood tall
then they burn and fall

Even after the last dying ember
we must always remember

Someone’s mother, and someone’s daughter, were attacked
when the United States invaded Iraq.

 

[Rybka]

I Liked It until. . .

. . . the last three stanzas? It brought back too many mammeries - er. . . memories. Were you a a Kappa Alpha Theta or an Alpha Chi Omega?

Yours in Minerva, Rybka

 

[JUDO]

Re: I Liked It until. . .

. . . the last three stanzas? It brought back too many mammeries - er. . . memories. Were you a a Kappa Alpha Theta or an Alpha Chi Omega?

Yours in Minerva, Rybka

So, you saw us, too, huh?

 

[Rybka]

So, you saw us, too, huh?

"So, you saw us, too, huh?"

"Saw you?" Heck I "HAD" you all!

 

[Senna Jawa]

Shopping

 



Shopping







                                I may have sounded
                                to my girlfriend
                                like I had somethin'
                                to explain

                                No way,
                                I just said:


        You were not around
        so I went
        to buy me a pair
        of shorts

        There was that woman, you know
        She was looking for a pair of hot shorts too
        She asked me to look closely how they fit her
        Her cheeks were rosy like yours
        I took her measurements for you

        Then we carefully
        chose a pair for me
        She said
        that you'll love to look at them
        from certain angles


                                To this my girl replies:


        You were not around
        so I went
        to buy us a bed
        There was that fellow, you know
        He was bigger than you, you know
        We tried that bed and he said
        I love this springy bed

        An so will you
        I took his measurements for you.


                        This were the last words
                        that we have exchanged
                        We keep shopping
                        our separate ways





wlodzimierz holsztynski ©
1992-04-18

 

[karmadog]

SJ, do you think in English? Polish? German? Whatever? Does it vary? What language do you dream in?

Lauren? How about you?

Any other of us who are multiglot?

Drake?

This is something that really interests me.

so I went
to buy me a pair
of shorts

This is the line that made me curious.

 

[Senna Jawa]

SJ, do you think in English? Polish? German? Whatever? Does it vary? What language do you dream in?

A language is a vehicle for communication (even between you now and you in a year, via notes) and an obstacle to thinking. If I do real thinking then I don't use any language. Efficient thinking about a true problem is based on building a model (of the problem) in your brain, and on simulation. Then you can study it day and night even for months.

For tens of years I don't notice that I dream. I do, as I am made aware when a phone call wakes me up. If I sleep deep than again I dream in no language, but if the dream is shallow than rather in English. That's because I imagine conversations or that someone or me is explaining something. On one occasion I was laughing in my dream so hard that I was waking myself up, then getting back to the same dream. I dreamt that I just had written a poor poem, and it was in my dream very funny to me.

This is the line that made me curious.:

        so I went
        to buy me a pair
        of shorts

Why this one?

Regards,

 

[Lauren Hynde]

I like reading poetry for the beauty, the pain, the imagery and the passion they possess, but sometimes the stories they tell are worth more than the words.

Like telling stories? Like a twist, a setup or a ruse? Then think of one that happened to you and put it here with your poetry muse.

I'll start with one that based on a story that I heard in college --

-------------------------------------------------

Like a Deer in my Headlights



- Judo

Oh that's a wonderful idea, Judo. I've been meaning to write a story-poem, but with a little twist of wickedness. I though of maybe even making it a chalenge...

I'll be back with something.


(And what an interesting tale... Where did you go to college? Are there any foreign exchange opportunities? )



k-dog
I'm a visual artist. Most times I only visualize an image without any conectivity to language. Even when writing, especially poetry, I don't think I can tell you in which language I think. The process is just too fast for me to be able to keep track of. My prose always starts with a plot line thought in Portuguese, but if I'm writing it in English or whatever language, I'm visualizing these words in English, the way they look, sound and interconnect among them, and not their Portuguese counterparts...

 

[Angeline]

Spanish

when i studied spanish, which i did for some years, i would dream in it. guess i just didn't dream anything too profound or beyond simple tenses, lol. i think i am very visually oriented--like lauren said--if i was thinking or dreaming of spanish there was no sense of a translation process. if i saw words in my mind's eye, they were spanish. every once in a while, i dream in yiddish--i lived with my grandparents for a while when i was very little and they spoke it at home almost exclusively. i have almost no conscious memory of yiddish--well not enough to string sentences together anyway. weird, huh?

what i find even stranger though is that my dreams almost always have musical accompaniment--like a soundtrack, lol. and er, no, not necessarily jazz haha! does that happen to anyone else?

 

[Raquel_Hell]

Re: Spanish

what i find even stranger though is that my dreams almost always have musical accompaniment--like a soundtrack, lol. and er, no, not necessarily jazz haha! does that happen to anyone else?

This is my first post on the Lit Boards. (mmm...new member scent!)

Wow! My dreams are almost always filled with music. In fact, I seem to have my own little "mind radio" going. Some songs or scores play over and over in different dreams. All are original, never a song or score I've heard outside the dream world. Some play enough for me to remember the lyrics, they seem to lose something when they are strictly text though.


Interesting, I try to explain this to people, but have never heard from anyone who experiences the same thing.



-Raquel

 

[Angeline]

maybe we're related!

or something. that's exactly how it works for me, although one time i had this dream where i thought i was writing a musical masterpiece--a feat in itself since i can't read or write music. i was so excited about this, even as i slept, that i willed myself awake so i could sing to record it. turned out what i was dreaming was "bluebird," an old buffalo springfield song. oh well. it was a good song, anyway.

 

[Guest]

A poem that tells a naughty story . . .

Oh, No, Not There (An Ode to Anal Sex) by sweetsubsarahh

Does it sometimes seem to you that men will often crave
to breach that small tight portal that we women wish to save?

We guard our crinkled apertures so carefully, it seems.
We won’t allow a touch or poke not even in our dreams.

My husband has been interested in probing that new ground.
He gently teases, begs and pleads, in hopes I’ll come around.

I clench my cheeks in self-defense and wonder, won’t it sting?
We share so many sexual games, why does he want this thing?

It’s never been my fantasy, to let a cock back there
Me on my knees, with him behind, holding to my hair?

Well actually, that sounds quite nice, I muse with chin in hand.
I need some time to think this through, do I misunderstand?

I ask my husband, “Honestly, is this a vital need?
Or is it merely just a kick to do the sexual deed?”

He strokes my hair and kisses me. “I’ll never cause you pain.
But I have a feeling once we start you’ll love it just the same

as I do,” he continues on, his love bright in his eyes.
“How will you ever know for sure if this we never try?”

Of course, he’s right, my mind agrees, and though I have some fear,
I love him and our sex life, so I offer him my rear.

Late that evening we begin to practice new techniques.
He nuzzles and embraces me, then gently spreads my cheeks.

I feel his tongue upon my ass and shiver in desire.
He licks and nips and nibbles me, awakening my fire.

Lubed digits penetrate me now, my hips pump in reply.
I’m gasping, squirming, begging him to give my ass a try.

So on my knees, my ass held high, I open up to him.
He fits his cock behind me now and slowly pushes in.

I close my eyes in worry as my tender hole submits.
His velvet steel is entering, the head and more he fits.

He pushes further, sliding, while I grip the sheets and moan.
Then all his member fits inside. We’ve done it; yes, he’s home.

And now he waits, caressing me, his murmured words of love
cause me to clench upon his cock. He fits me like a glove.

And then he gently starts to move his hardness out and in.
I love it, I think happily. How can this be a sin?

My eyes are open wide now as the pleasure makes me soar,
I whimper in surrender, wanting more, oh give me more.

His strokes increase in power and I want him to be rough.
I love to be fucked in my ass; I’ll never get enough.

He reaches under me to tease my nipples, then my clit.
I rock back to him wanting more; I’m so close, this is it!

I cum so hard, I think I’m blind, the feeling is intense.
I notice he’s not far behind, his cock becomes immense.

He growls and empties in my ass, his big hands grip my hips.
His perspiration joins mine as I turn to meet his lips.

Hearts beating fast and breathing hard as if a race we’d run,
we share the satisfaction of a new job that’s well done.

We spoon together on the bed, my favorite place to be.
We fall asleep so happily, sweet husband, smiling me.

Ladies: the moral of this story is to listen to your men.
Though it may be tongue in cheek to say, you’ll love it in the end.



I've already posted this poem, but I thought it fit the story thread! Thanks!

 

[TheDR4KE]

SJ, do you think in English? Polish? German? Whatever? Does it vary? What language do you dream in?

Lauren? How about you?

Any other of us who are multiglot?

Drake?

This is something that really interests me.

I'm a scientist, so I work in the conceptual models SJ mentions. However constructs also need labels, and these I tend to think of in English mostly because that is the language I mostly communicate in currently.

When I play music my expression focuses on feeling rhythms and harmonies, on the trajectories of tone and tones. English, German, models all disappear.

When I read or speak German for a little while (it varies how long, it may be 15 minutes or less than 5) I will switch to thinking in German, although that is usually a mix with English blended in where the words work better. I do less blending in of German into my English, but that does happen also.

Dreams vary, but are probably more English than any other language. I have been known to speak in tongues in my sleep. Quite a spooky effect, apparently

Drake

 

[Senna Jawa]

wordless poems

I'm a visual artist. Most times I only visualize an image without any conectivity to language. Even when writing, especially poetry, I don't think I can tell you in which language I think

(As long as you think... ).

At one time I would come up with poems, whatever it means, without any words, and then I would write them virtually simultaneously both in English and in Polish. I got a few poems this way.

The question of connection between creating poetry (or even poetry as such), words and thinking, transcends the issue of being multilingual. I would be interested in what anybody has to say about their experience in this regard.

Regards ,

 

[Senna Jawa]

time on your hands

I asked about this poem here, how you interpret it, a longer time ago, with no response (it was discussed on two other lists and I was curious about Literotica's reaction, I wanted to compare). So now I will only ask you: how do you understand the title of my poem (after reading the damn poem )?

Regards,

  Senna Jawa

============================================




time on your hands



                I

John set down the pot of hot soup
in front of the bum the fly
floating on the surface

hi my name is John
i do social research
what is your name
i'll call you george
you are george number four

John wrote in his notebook
i said hi my name is John...
and dated friday september 13 1996

day after day John brought
a fresh pot of soup with a fresh fly

after each session he emptied
the untouched pot into the gutter
and left with
see you tomorrow george

the bum's gaze
gave meaning
to the word
horizon
in the context of a downtown sidewalk


                II

on the third day
John came with a stone
tucked into his pocket

after a practice session alone
John was able to get the stone from the pocket
swiftly

on the fifth day
John replaced the stone with a pistol

otherwise his routine didn't change
the pot the fly his monologue


                III

on september 24 the bum has uttered
his first word
please...

John came still closer to the other man
and bent the man continued
sir please take your pot and leave
why george
my name is not george
this tuesday is my weekend

the bum's head slumped resting on his sternum
his closed eyes
gave a new
meaning
to the word
horizon

John entered into his notebook
tuesday september 24 1996
george4 said
this tuesday is my weekend


END


Wlodzimierz Holsztynski ©
1996-11-09

 

[TheDR4KE]

Re: time on your hands

So now I will only ask you: how do you understand the title of my poem (after reading the damn poem )?

Regards,

  Senna Jawa


time on your hands

...
END

The initial impression is of the image of idleness, both for the researcher and the 'bum'. However that conflicts for me with the message of the poem, at least in terms of the not-George, who isn't so much idle as lost. There is a big difference, and somehow that gets to me, i.e. I find it important realise that usually it is not about laziness but direction.

So then the meaning of the title is that there are things in his past that he is working through, that the time on his hands is time he is currently doing, sort of like a jail sentence but somehow self imposed.

Quack

the D

 

[Senna Jawa]

Re: Re: time on your hands

The initial impression [...]

What about an impression after reading the poem?

Regards,

 

[Guest]

Senna, are you an indian?

 

[Rybka]

Judo wrote:

I like reading poetry for the beauty, the pain, the imagery and the passion they possess, but sometimes the stories they tell are worth more than the words.

Like telling stories? Like a twist, a setup or a ruse? Then think of one that happened to you and put it here with your poetry muse.

Do these count? Both are poems about actual experiences.

This one was about a day of still hunting in northern New Hampshire.


THE WET TRAIL

Still hunting along the wet trail
Checking the snow for tracks
North of the swamp
Amidst the flurries

A deer came slabing down the slope
Leaving the ridge for the lowland
Crossing the trail an hour ago

A large deer by the track
A smart deer by the sign
Stopping and checking the back trail

Half an hour into the spruce
He left his bed, big buck that he was
Antler breaking the alder swale

Following the track a rod at a time
Through pine thicket and bog
A small clearing ahead

Two runnels in the snow on a deadfall
Moving to the west
Small fir to the south and east
Stepping onto the pine trunk

Buck snort and flying deer

Fleeting sight
Filling the back lit sky
Flag high and antler heavy
Disappearing behind the firs
Deeper into the swamp

Enough for the day

For both of us



This one was based on a dispute I had with an e-friend about where the sun stood at the equinox.
The Equinox Experiment

I tramped the fields of spring today
to catch the sun's first scarlet ray
and while awaiting day to grow
heard psalm in voice of dove and crow

I drove my stakes in frozen clay
to fix the sun with solar stay
and watched as morning brightness grew
till spring's first rays a shadow threw

Out in my field of last year's hay
where summer boys and calves will play
I measured lines and angles straight
and now for spring's first sunset wait


Both are posted and awaiting views and votes.

Regards, Rybka

 

[TheDR4KE]

Re: Re: Re: time on your hands

What about an impression after reading the poem?

Regards,

The subsequent impression was the last paragraph, i.e. about working through things.

D