Poetry: There are good things about my writing
- Thread starter CharleyH
- Start date
bronzeage
I am a river to my people
- Joined
- Jun 20, 2005
- Posts
- 49,685
Let me be your Stud Buckly
and you can be my Scooter Pie.
Hang your love on my neck
and I can kick the sky.
Spread the blanket on the grass
and feed me what I eat.
Smear jelly on the biscuits
and mustard on the meat.
When lovers roll in the grass
and laugh like lovers do
kiss me with your sweet lips
and I will roll with you.
Let me be your Pup Lover
and you can be my Mindy Moll
I'll carry you in my arms
and toss you like a doll
I'll hold the string in my teeth
and you can fly me like a kite
or hang me in the apple tree
and pull me down for a bite.
Pour wine in my open mouth
and feed me bits of bread
Make a pillow of your lap
and let me rest my head.
Let me be your Bottom Dollar
and you can be my Shiney Dime
I'll drop you in my piggy bank
and keep you for all time.
Spend me like a sailor
or steal me like a thief
I can be a millionaire
or a bankrupt on relief
Pin me to your shirt
and wear me like a pearl
And I will shine like all day light
Riding on my sweetest girl
and you can be my Scooter Pie.
Hang your love on my neck
and I can kick the sky.
Spread the blanket on the grass
and feed me what I eat.
Smear jelly on the biscuits
and mustard on the meat.
When lovers roll in the grass
and laugh like lovers do
kiss me with your sweet lips
and I will roll with you.
Let me be your Pup Lover
and you can be my Mindy Moll
I'll carry you in my arms
and toss you like a doll
I'll hold the string in my teeth
and you can fly me like a kite
or hang me in the apple tree
and pull me down for a bite.
Pour wine in my open mouth
and feed me bits of bread
Make a pillow of your lap
and let me rest my head.
Let me be your Bottom Dollar
and you can be my Shiney Dime
I'll drop you in my piggy bank
and keep you for all time.
Spend me like a sailor
or steal me like a thief
I can be a millionaire
or a bankrupt on relief
Pin me to your shirt
and wear me like a pearl
And I will shine like all day light
Riding on my sweetest girl
scriptordelecto
Ethereal Girl
- Joined
- Jul 27, 2006
- Posts
- 2,918
Fabulous Bronze!!! 
amicus
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2003
- Posts
- 14,812
Something for you Charley, rather than just a 'bump'...
I had an idea for a poem...but it would not condense or be managed and thus it rather became a 'prose poem' and I have never known quite what to do with it, hope you enjoy...
~~~~~~~~~~
Slow Dancing all by herself…
When one sees a gentle wind caress an unending field of tall wheat into undulating regular and natural waves of movement, one can sense the rhythm of earth’s natural laws and the beauty displayed
Another aspect is the easy and regular rise and fall of small wind waves on a sandy beach in moonlight or sunlight in mist and fog, rising and falling according to the pull of gravity and the push of the warm wind.
Both added to by the scent of sea and plant, the sounds of wind and wave, the colors of ocean and field combined into a total greater than the sum of the parts; a feeling, an emotion from within, natural, fulfilling, quietly awe inspiring causing breath to change and comingle with the elements....
The room was muted with laughter and tinkles, and a piano, bass and guitar. The room was lovely with the ebony Grand with the yawning top pegged open. The carpet was thick and luxurious and color matched to compliment mahogany and cherry bookshelves and framed mirrors surrounded by similar warm polished woods.
Those present were dark coat and tie and formal dresses, long and short and multi-color scattered in two’s and three’s, like tall and short movable obelisk's with appendages slightly out of focus and impressionistic to the eye.
And there she was.
A single focalization in an alcove out of sight of most; behind a formal leather chair of deep dull black leather and arms.
It seemed she did not move at all by any human means but swayed and undulated like the field of grass or the bosom of the sea.
Her eyes were closed as I silently and slowly moved closer; her head swayed from side to side and her chin lifted in silent response to chord changes and notes in the high range of the instrument.
I felt I was watching a woman in a bath, unclothed, face raised to cascading liquid that caressed her body as it coursed around and down and away.
The white satin silk of her blouse stretched and relaxed across her breasts and beneath her arms down to her wrists and tightly to her throat as the slow sinuous movement consumed her body oblivious to me; to all but the music and her thoughts.
Her dress was dark blue and belted, tight across the front and back halfway down the marvelous surge of hip, clinging to the slow thrust of thigh against the willing material that swirled and shifted as she swayed.
Barefooted, she fondled with her feet the texture beneath with toes splayed and flexing with sensual intent.
Her face was delicate and dreamlike to my eyes, with high cheekbones and a clear forehead touched by tendrils of dark hair that joined the dance and lovingly soothed her skin. Her lightly colored lips slightly parted and I could feel her breath in rhythm to the rise and fall of her chest and the beating of her heart in her neck, and of course I could not, but I did.
From side to side in slow motion her hair fell thus and thus in gentle waves of softness and scent I could sense from afar, though I yearned my face to know.
Her shoulders, as if being caressed, moved to unseen hands, responded to unknown thoughts of amorous content; or so I imagined through my eyes and into my thoughts.
I felt myself matching her moves in miniature, in micro movements of my body complimenting the ebb and flow, the rise and fall of her celebration of movement.
A final sustained resolving chord and the final thump of the Bass; the music stopped, her eyes opened, green and warm.
“I felt you arrive, inside the music.” She said, and smiled, and lowered her eyes.
(inspired by a film, The Competition, starring Richard Dreyfuss and Amy Irving)
ami...
I had an idea for a poem...but it would not condense or be managed and thus it rather became a 'prose poem' and I have never known quite what to do with it, hope you enjoy...
~~~~~~~~~~
Slow Dancing all by herself…
When one sees a gentle wind caress an unending field of tall wheat into undulating regular and natural waves of movement, one can sense the rhythm of earth’s natural laws and the beauty displayed
Another aspect is the easy and regular rise and fall of small wind waves on a sandy beach in moonlight or sunlight in mist and fog, rising and falling according to the pull of gravity and the push of the warm wind.
Both added to by the scent of sea and plant, the sounds of wind and wave, the colors of ocean and field combined into a total greater than the sum of the parts; a feeling, an emotion from within, natural, fulfilling, quietly awe inspiring causing breath to change and comingle with the elements....
The room was muted with laughter and tinkles, and a piano, bass and guitar. The room was lovely with the ebony Grand with the yawning top pegged open. The carpet was thick and luxurious and color matched to compliment mahogany and cherry bookshelves and framed mirrors surrounded by similar warm polished woods.
Those present were dark coat and tie and formal dresses, long and short and multi-color scattered in two’s and three’s, like tall and short movable obelisk's with appendages slightly out of focus and impressionistic to the eye.
And there she was.
A single focalization in an alcove out of sight of most; behind a formal leather chair of deep dull black leather and arms.
It seemed she did not move at all by any human means but swayed and undulated like the field of grass or the bosom of the sea.
Her eyes were closed as I silently and slowly moved closer; her head swayed from side to side and her chin lifted in silent response to chord changes and notes in the high range of the instrument.
I felt I was watching a woman in a bath, unclothed, face raised to cascading liquid that caressed her body as it coursed around and down and away.
The white satin silk of her blouse stretched and relaxed across her breasts and beneath her arms down to her wrists and tightly to her throat as the slow sinuous movement consumed her body oblivious to me; to all but the music and her thoughts.
Her dress was dark blue and belted, tight across the front and back halfway down the marvelous surge of hip, clinging to the slow thrust of thigh against the willing material that swirled and shifted as she swayed.
Barefooted, she fondled with her feet the texture beneath with toes splayed and flexing with sensual intent.
Her face was delicate and dreamlike to my eyes, with high cheekbones and a clear forehead touched by tendrils of dark hair that joined the dance and lovingly soothed her skin. Her lightly colored lips slightly parted and I could feel her breath in rhythm to the rise and fall of her chest and the beating of her heart in her neck, and of course I could not, but I did.
From side to side in slow motion her hair fell thus and thus in gentle waves of softness and scent I could sense from afar, though I yearned my face to know.
Her shoulders, as if being caressed, moved to unseen hands, responded to unknown thoughts of amorous content; or so I imagined through my eyes and into my thoughts.
I felt myself matching her moves in miniature, in micro movements of my body complimenting the ebb and flow, the rise and fall of her celebration of movement.
A final sustained resolving chord and the final thump of the Bass; the music stopped, her eyes opened, green and warm.
“I felt you arrive, inside the music.” She said, and smiled, and lowered her eyes.
(inspired by a film, The Competition, starring Richard Dreyfuss and Amy Irving)
ami...
Liar
now with 17% more class
- Joined
- Dec 4, 2003
- Posts
- 43,715
Damned if I know
what goes where and why
and how to weld words together,
to make deep trenches
bleed and black rocks cry,
like titans do, like the paths
on which I stumble.
Legs too short to stretch to footsteps,
breath too short to catch up
to their zen diamond
pens, to paper cut words
and ink formations stuck
like tattoos to paper and mind.
Damned if I know
what goes where and why,
and how to make my spark of muse
glow a little longer
than the time it takes for me
to exhale it's heat.
what goes where and why
and how to weld words together,
to make deep trenches
bleed and black rocks cry,
like titans do, like the paths
on which I stumble.
Legs too short to stretch to footsteps,
breath too short to catch up
to their zen diamond
pens, to paper cut words
and ink formations stuck
like tattoos to paper and mind.
Damned if I know
what goes where and why,
and how to make my spark of muse
glow a little longer
than the time it takes for me
to exhale it's heat.
FallingToFly
Political Stance: Porn
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2006
- Posts
- 7,677
From yesterday's stream of consciousness flood...
Fair warning- there has been no clean-up, it's just SOC. The music I was listening to threw an idea at my head, and I didn't duck in time. There are probably a couple decent poems in there somewhere, but nothing more than that.
Fair warning- there has been no clean-up, it's just SOC. The music I was listening to threw an idea at my head, and I didn't duck in time. There are probably a couple decent poems in there somewhere, but nothing more than that.
H
hmmnmm
Guest
CharleyH said:and I am damn fucking proud of them.
I suck and am proud
I do not NEED a mark from grade school,
or a star beside my name
I am quite confident
when many say I'm lame ....
Any poets here? Lets get something
Well, I gotta be careful here, because I'm no writer of poetry or of prose
I just wandered into this place a couple years ago, wondering, curious.
Just a speck of dust on the earth, that's all.
But in the process I met minds and connected with a few souls who have become as much a part of my world as the scenery outside and all that is inside.
And of course I haven't the brain power to judge what others do,
BUT... if I was a professor and the universe my classroom
CharleyH, you'd get all A's from me. Big Bold ones.
Damn straight.
Okay, I'll get out of here, shouldn't even be here...
sorry.
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