Poetry for killing time

[poppy1963]

One of my favorite poems by my favorite Lit poet--the late, but ever marvelous, smithpeter.

Spending Time Near Her Face
by smithpeter ©

On the porch during storms
in late afternoon
with electricity inspires poems
for mathematics and ants.
All those lines and symbols in order
of chaos. Marching.

Waking next to your pucker
is more stirring.
You look sweet and sour.
There must be a bug in your nose.
The cure for that twitch is soft kiss of cheeks
and smoothing night ruffled hair.
My breakfast of sliced pears with sorbet and candle
does not dim from streaming morn.
We share licorice end to end.

You don a pair of smiles, dimples
and all the trimmings.
Good morning my lover's, lovely face.

Very nice...sensations of "familiar contented delights & days & nights" between lovers

 

[Angeline]

Very nice...sensations of "familiar contented delights & days & nights" between lovers

Yep. He had such a gift. He was my good friend and taught me a lot about writing. I miss him muchly, but I have his poems to read when I do.

 

[poppy1963]

Yep. He had such a gift. He was my good friend and taught me a lot about writing. I miss him muchly, but I have his poems to read when I do.

Oh......I didn't catch it at first read. I am sorry for your loss of him but am glad his essence lingers with you in his writings. And that you share some with us here.

 

[atmas]

Angeline, your contributions are moving and beautiful.
Poppy, you have a refreshing spontaneity.

 

[atmas]

Love, when it stays, is traceless.
Whose hand stretched first offering, doesn't matter
the bodies press together in their many ways.

The one rough piece of cloth drapes us both
and softens on the curves of our bodies
and our lives fit well.

When two people walk far enough into the distance
they merge.

 

[paganangel]

there are distances
between us
location not withstanding
there are places
yes
but then there is interval
and thoughts
and feelings
and the lack

next to me but at work
or a friend's house
some far off country
or kneeling at a coffin

other moments
brewed
over a humid sticky night
seem more present

but the distance between meeting
this is the killing time

 

[Angeline]

i have found what you are like
ee cummings

i have found what you are like
the rain

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep.) Wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned
new fragile yellows

lurch and press
--in the woods
which
stutter
and
sing

And the coolness of your smile is
stirring of birds between my arms; but
i should rather than anything
have (almost when hugeness will shut
quietly) almost,
your kiss

 

[Angeline]

Mine

The little boy in the kiddie car
is gleeful, abandoned to all
but moment. The sun is shining
in that photograph and later

on a concentration of fingers
knit to a Louisville Slugger.
Sometimes they lay languid
on the edge of an inner tube
adrift on the Russian River.

He has grandfather's arms,
grandfather's smile married
to resolve, innocent his tongue
pressed on a corner of lip.

He is unprepared for the crash
that will end childyears and later
a fall from the roof of belief,
Icarus stilled. It would seem

only the trace of tears remain,
empty bottles, hope swallowed
like broken glass.

Who is this motherless boy huddled
in a tangled cage, whose treasure
now reduced to a fractional shadow
curled in the corner of expectation?

He asks why I love him.
When he says it's like finding
a diamond in a mudpuddle,
he thinks we're talking about me.

 

[Byron In Exile]

Emily

Yep. He had such a gift. He was my good friend and taught me a lot about writing. I miss him muchly, but I have his poems to read when I do.

Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little Workmanships
In Crayon, or in Wool,
With "This was last Her fingers did" —
Industrious until —

The Thimble weighed too heavy —
The stitches stopped — themselves —
And then 'twas put among the Dust
Upon the Closet shelves —

A Book I have — a friend gave —
Whose Pencil — here and there —
Had notched the place that pleased Him —
At Rest — His fingers are —

Now — when I read — I read not —
For interrupting Tears —
Obliterate the Etchings
Too Costly for Repairs.

 

[Angeline]

Death sets a Thing significant
The Eye had hurried by
Except a perished Creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little Workmanships
In Crayon, or in Wool,
With "This was last Her fingers did" —
Industrious until —

The Thimble weighed too heavy —
The stitches stopped — themselves —
And then 'twas put among the Dust
Upon the Closet shelves —

A Book I have — a friend gave —
Whose Pencil — here and there —
Had notched the place that pleased Him —
At Rest — His fingers are —

Now — when I read — I read not —
For interrupting Tears —
Obliterate the Etchings
Too Costly for Repairs.

backatcha

Thank you Byron. That's lovely. I know you remember smithpeter. I wrote this after he died.

Sergeant Bunny's Last Stand

A trenchcoat-wearing bunny
listens intently for clues
in the waves of jazz chuckled
by nutty squirrels who also
tend gardens. They grow
the sweetest red peppers.
When you bite into one, blues
spill all over your mouth,

which is why the bunny suspects foul play.

He asks the Radon Daughters,
who sing fine as Supremes,
Where Did Our Love Go?

Whatever happened to the man in the red canoe?

That man wrote every song
the squirrels ever played.
He wasn't the politest stallion
in the stable, but awful handy
to have around, and when he danced
he could knock the Earth
from its axis. However briefly.

The bunny would rather
interrogate Liz with her long legs,
black sheath, and cowboy boots.
She only came for the second set,
but as she entered the woods,
she saw him paddling upsteam
with Mona Spice, the kitchen sink,
and one slender dogwood twig
dreaming in a Bud Light can.

Every butterfly in the forest
surrounded that canoe,
fireflies glowed its path
into the end of twilight,
and cicadas sang along
with daughters and squirrels.

Somewhere around that bend
Mingus is laughing, knocking back
brandy and milk, and Rashaan sees
the reeds and whistles he plays
in thick Van Gogh layers.

That's where he went, Liz says,
pointing past five little stars,

and the bunny writes down
every word and twitches over
to the squirrels playing
love songs on saxophones.

 

[poppy1963]

.....

 

[atmas]

From Fairground Attraction

Orchestra of tiny hearts
It’s like pepper sprinkled on our hearts
We’re threading a needle with boxing gloves
When we try and talk about love

Words are unable to speak of love
like a smile in a whisper does

 

[poppy1963]

.....

 

[poppy1963]

.....

 

[atmas]

Will the layers of your defenses
become thinner, fragile so I could break through them
completely
With a word
Or just the slight pressure of my kiss?

I choose not to.
My wish is not to conquer, but to share.
The key to you remains always with you.
Any door you open
I shall gladly walk through.
As for myself...
my locks grow weaker.

 

[sexualbeing]

"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.



by Mya Angelou...


love this poem...

 

[poppy1963]

"Phenomenal Woman"

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.



by Mya Angelou...


love this poem...

Me, too.

 

[sexualbeing]

Me, too.

you got taste

 

[poppy1963]

you got taste

You, too! Maya has a great cookbook as well...

 

[poppy1963]

The Best Poem ever Written...lol

From Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean buyer,
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in, come in.
*******************************************************

Isn't that just IT? Isn't it?

Yes, it is. It is us.

 

[Angeline]

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled
ee Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

 

[poppy1963]

.....

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

My fingers remind my mouth of you

My fingers remind my mouth of you

I can’t keep my fingers away from my mouth.
They linger there, look there.
Tap, pinch and pet there.
They kiss me, cover me.
Learn, lead and love me.
My fingers remind my mouth of you.
They comfort and cure me.
Teach, taste, concern me.
I find them there and realize.
They come when you can’t.

 

[atmas]

The day after a storm the leaves gleam,
the world is clear as a just washed picture window.
The air whips its fine silk through the hands.
Every last bird has an idea to insist on.

I am trying to work and instead
I drip love for you like a honeycomb.
I am devoid of fantasies clean as rainwater
waiting to flow all over your skin.

 

[poppy1963]

The day after a storm the leaves gleam,
the world is clear as a just washed picture window.
The air whips its fine silk through the hands.
Every last bird has an idea to insist on.

I am trying to work and instead
I drip love for you like a honeycomb.
I am devoid of fantasies clean as rainwater
waiting to flow all over your skin.

*sighs*...damn atmas....