Child Ego
i push you
you pull me
we laugh
we lay on
the grass
we see clouds
our hands hold
fingers to fingers
more than flesh
and bones
we gaze
deep into our
eyes
we are more than
oceans
more than lips
and tips
it is getting dark
and mothers are
calling us home.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Push Me, Pull Me
I had a false belief
I thought I came here to stay
Were all just visiting
All just breaking like waves
The oceans made me, but who came up with love?
Push me, pull me, push me, or pull me out
Push me, pull me, or pull me out {2x}
So if there were no angels, would there be no sin?
You better stop me before I begin
But let me say: if I behave, can you arrange a spacious hole in the ground
Somewhere nice, make it nice
Where the land meets high tide
Push me, pull me, or pull me out
Push me, pull me {2x}
Like a cloud dropping rain
Im discarding all thought
Ill dry up, leaving puddles on the ground
Im like an opening band for the sun
Push me, pull me {6x}
Ive had enough, said enough, felt enough, Im fine, still in it
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Push and Pull
It is hard to keep it clean,
When you push and pull.
Or acting happy when feeling mean,
When you push and pull.
And people stand around just to see one weep.
When you push and pull.
And when you say 'hello' they don't even speak.
When you push and pull.
You might see Bo Peep having some trouble with her sheep,
When you push and pull.
You might see Mary and her lambs giving Bo Peep creeps.
When you push and pull.
You might see Humpty Dumpty crawling up a wall.
When you push and pull.
You might see Perter and The Wolf eating chips at a local mall.
When you push and pull.
Ain't nothing easy,
When you try to keep your feet from sinking...
Deep!
And with no sleep.
It is hard to keep it clean,
When you push and pull.
Or acting happy when feeling mean,
When you push and pull.
And people stand around just to see one weep.
When you push and pull.
And when you say 'hello' they don't even speak.
When you push and pull.
And they push bull,
When you push and pull.
And they push bull,
When you push and pull.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Read My Lips
verbal silence. read my lips.
if you see them.
read the words. read it here.
these words. read them like
flowers in the garden.
these words speak a little.
tips of the iceberg. They are less
compared to the color of my eyes
the warmth of my fingers
the suppressed beatings of my heart.
these words that you read.
if only you can see my lips.
if only you can see my face.
and body, naked on the flowing sheet of
pure paper. IF only you know
what silence means, how emptiness
eats it, if only you know how inferior
verbs and adjectives are
compared to the caresses of the hands
and the tenderness of the fingers,
touch.
read the lines silently.
these words do not shape my lips.
they come to your eyes.
in the silence of your understanding.
never shall they speak
about me. they only talk about
the hands that write sometimes
without any meaning at all.
infinitives are not infinite.
neither do verbs know what is it to be still.
and adjectives talk only about the surface.
deep under, the noise begins.
and silence of the verbs move to another side.
now, the mountains of ideas collapse
and bury the casualties of silence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I See You in Your Fingers
I see your fingers
I see you in your fingers
I see your history from your fingers
I feel your touch from your fingers
They don't tell a lie to me
They don't give me a fake smile
Or promising kiss
But they give me a warm hold
and tickling touch
I see you from your fingers
I see the truth from your fingers
I see you in your fingers
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Opening A New Window
come to my room
let us open a new window
that opens to another window
look at my face
and hold the side of my body
i will caress your hair with my hands
hold your body softly as a wind holds a feather
my fingers shall travel from the tips of your hair
down to the last tips of the toes of your feet
let us be happy, let us try opening another window
let us see the other windows hidden from our eyes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bianca
Her cheeks are hot, her cheeks are white;
The white girl hardly breathes to-night,
So faint the pulses come and go,
That waken to a smouldering glow
The morbid faintness of her white.
What drowsing heats of sense, desire
Longing and languorous, the fire
Of what white ashes, subtly mesh
The fascination of her flesh
Into a breathing web of fire?
Only her eyes, only her mouth,
Live, in the agony of drouth,
Athirst for that which may not be:
The desert of virginity
Aches in the hotness of her mouth.
I take her hands into my hands,
Silently, and she understands;
I set my lips upon her lips;
Shuddering to her finger-tips
She strains my hands within her hands.
I set my lips on hers; they close
Into a false and phantom rose;
Upon her thirsting lips I rain
A flood of kisses, and in vain;
Her lips inexorably close.
Through her closed lips that cling to mine,
Her hands that hold me and entwine,
Her body that abondoned lies,
Rigid with sterile ecstasies,
A shiver knits her flesh to mine.
Life sucks into a mist remote
Her fainting lips, her throbbing throat;
Her lips that open to my lips,
And, hot against her finger-tips,
The pulses leaping in her throat.
poem by Arthur Symons
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When you
When are so beautiful
and lie and look at me
and your fingers play
through my hair,
I wonder what
happens deep in your thoughts
and soul?
When you lie so softly against me
and your fingers
twist through mine,
I wonder what makes you
so wonderful
and what destiny
or God made you for me?
When you keep teasing
and play with me
and I hear you laugh
with gladness,
and I see joy
burn deep in your eyes
I know that I will die;
in a life without you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Girl with the Croissant.
You watch the way the girl
Pulls apart the croissant with
Her slim fingers and licks each
Finger in turn sucking on each
With the passion of one making
Love and yet as she pulls it apart
There is that slowness oh that
Deliberate tearing open as if she
Were now opening herself for her
Latest lover as her fingers pull and
Her eyes gaze and her tongue licks
The corners of her soft mouth to
Catch escaping crumbs as if they
Were the juices of her lover’s sperm
Then she turns her head and sees
Your stare and you just wishing you
Was the croissant in her fingers there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Women Sometimes
women sometimes
are a handful, a breastful,
a body beautiful,
you think they are so easy
to handle,
cutie pie, sweetie pie,
pity pie?
sure. they're a handful
of pretty pretty breastful
pretty, pretty petty bodies..
fondle, coddle, and
lots of doodles...
but oh, without them,
what will this world of mine be?
a desert. a dry pond.
a well without water.
drought the whole year round.
cracking lips.
labyrinths without an exit.
tunnels without light.
dogs without a master.
birds unfed and dead.
skulls without a skin.
bones without flesh.
blood without veins.
nails without fingers.
pen without a paper.
milk without water.
bed without blankets and pillows.
hands without fingers.
face without eyes.
and so on and so forth.
let me have them all
in my crowded room.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Fingers
In that photo of yours
I saw you –
Your face, your shoulders,
Your hands, and then
Your fingers…
My lips quivered
So did my hands
And I felt like touching you,
With my quivering lips
And unsure hands,
Those very beautiful
Exquisite fingers…
Reading your poems of love
And pondering over your letters…
Sometimes I imagine
You writing to me
With those very same
Slender and artistic
Adept fingers…
Very often I feel
And wonder…
If your fingers
Ever do ache
Writing so long,
So nice,
And so very endless,
Day after day…
And if they do, my Love
I feel like pampering them
With tender, loving care
A kiss here, a kiss there…
Holding them,
Caressing them,
Sucking them slow…
Your fingers in my mouth
Taking turns to go
One by one,
I feel them,
Nibble them,
Suckle them,
Make love to them,
Within the deep recesses
Of my oral crevice…
Till they feel pampered
And satiated
And I feel the same too…
Contented and happy
Making love to you
With your fingers
In my mouth…
A wonderful tryst
Of love and lust,
Warmth and arousal,
And then if you wish…
And if I'm also willing,
We can play this game
All night long…
Where you don’t win
And I don’t lose
We both win over together
And lose ourselves
To each other…
I give free rein to
Your fingers…
To touch, feel
And explore
The inner crevices
And every pore
Of my body…
The mouth has had its turn
Now, do you wish to go
Further down..?
And see how it feels
To caress my breasts,
My derriere and my
Yoni,
With those seeking,
Exploring fingers of yours…
You’ve penned a lot of poetry
And your letters intoxicate me…
How about writing
Some letters of love
And a few lines of love ballads
On the spaces and margins
Of my body…
Dipping your fingers,
And drinking into
The juice of my
Dripping Yoni…
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Tips
The Tips of your Body
Need my Fingers...
As much as
My Fingers
Need the Touch
of your Lips,
The Brush of your
Nipples,
And the Caresses of
Love, Pain and Pleasure
Down There...
In the Creases and Folds
of your Throbbing Tip
And the Invigorating
Sweaty Smell of your
Derriere.
Wanna Make Wild Love To You
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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For Papa
the wind this month of
september
blows the leaves
towards the
hidden mountain.
they are scattered
and cannot continue holding
their tips
they have lost the hands of
the stems that
give them the sense of holding
i raise my fingers
to touch the old tree
on top of the hill
where our old house stands
the clouds have since
drifted towards the sea
and i never had
the chance to hold them
for you papa
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Love Poem
Yours is the face that the earth turns to me,
Continuous beyond its human features lie
The mountain forms that rest against the sky.
With your eyes, the reflecting rainbow, the sun's light
Sees me; forest and flower, bird and beast
Know and hold me forever in the world's thought,
Creation's deep untroubled retrospect.
When your hand touches mine it is the earth
That takes me--the green grass,
And rocks and rivers; the green graves,
And children still unborn, and ancestors,
In love passed down from hand to hand from God.
Your love comes from the creation of the world,
From those paternal fingers, streaming through the clouds
That break with light the surface of the sea.
Here, where I trace your body with my hand,
Love's presence has no end;
For these, your arms that hold me, are the world's.
In us, the continents, clouds and oceans meet
Our arbitrary selves, extensive with the night,
Lost, in the heart's worship, and the body's sleep.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Geraldine's Bus Ride to Work
Geraldine rides the bus to work.
She sways side to side with the
motion of the bus, sitting in the
compact human zoo, faces, limbs,
bodies, eyes, mouths. The sky
outside is an early morning icy blue.
A man opposite stares, his eyes
moving over her, his hands in his
lap, fingers playing with each other.
His eyes settle on her legs, drink
them in. She feels as if he were
undressing her, taking each item of
clothing off one by one. His eyes
are dark, deep set. She stares back
at him, takes in his lips, parted, thick
and saliva sits there. Her thoughts
move to Holly and the night before,
the game they played, the role plays,
the pre-sex drama. The man shifts
in his seat, wrinkles his nose, moves
his eyes to her breasts. She looks away,
senses his eyes fondling her tits, his
imaginary fingers groping. Holly would
have said something to the creep opposite,
would have shown him up, but she
doesn't have that way with her, she sits
it out, pushing thoughts of him away,
focuses on Holly's tongue licking the
inside of her thighs, sensation electrifying.
The man looks away, no doubt to masturbate
in his dark mind with his imaginary fingers.
Geraldine lets the thoughts of Holly and
her deeds linger, sucks in the hotness,
the scents, the sighs, the smells. She stares
at the man. He looks at his hands, his fingernails.
There is dirt beneath the nails, black as soot
as if he'd rooted in dark soil. She looks away;
Holly has set her (with her deeds) to sexual boil.
poem by Terry Collett
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Ad Manus Puellae
I was always a lover of ladies' hands!
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.
I remember an hand like a _fleur-de-lys_
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?
They are pale with the pallor of ivories;
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell?
I know not the way from your finger-tips,
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Turmoil
Your mind so tired, I can tell
we rant and we rave and feel the need to yell
I pull up a stool
you think I'm a fool
Opposite you I sit
and look at you for a bit
take hold of your hands
note the missing bands
Your fingers I twirl
My minds in a whirl
to tell you what I feel
and let you know its real
feelings and emotions
am I just going through the motions?
In your eyes I stare so deep
for the secrets that you keep
for the times I deny
I say with a sigh
I LOVE YOU
RG/RR
poem by Robert Green
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I Was There
She grasped my fingers so tightly
as she took slow deep breaths.
A feeling of inadequacy came over me,
while she endured the pain and stress.
I couldn't believe her fortitude
as my fingers turned ghostly white.
Her courage never faltered for a moment,
and she remained a beautiful sight.
During a respite she eased on my fingers,
as I wiped the beads from her brow.
Her eye watering smile said more in that instant
than could be spoken at any hour.
Once more she pressured my fingers,
as the ordeal quickly resumed.
Timing and breathing were now essential
with more movement from the womb.
The time was now perfect for the delivery,
as instructions were called to push.
Then stop… then push once again,
then a head with a hand, and swoosh.
What a remarkable, beautiful baby,
my feet weren't touching the ground.
Mother and baby were truly incredible,
and I was there for every sight and sound.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Beneath the Blue.
You both walked along
the narrow country lane
to the small church
and lay in the overgrown grass
in the churchyard
looking up
at the summer sky
and Jane said
It's so peaceful here
I feel as if part of me
were mixed
with the whole
of nature
you listened to her
looking at her
sideways on
seeing her profile
laying amidst
the green grass
her head facing
the blueness of sky
her hands resting
upon her breasts
with one leg straight
the other lifted upwards
with the knee bent
Do you feel that?
she asked
looking at you side wards
her eyes leaving the sky
and resting on you
Yes
you replied
but not thinking
of what she had
but of the beauty of her
and you being there
and taking note
of her eyes and hair
and moving lips
and hands at rest
and her soft youthful breast
and that glimpse
of thigh capturing
your eye
Yes
you repeated
I feel a part of that
feel almost drowned
in its beauty
and she turned
and you saw her smile
and heard birdsong
and felt the sun on skin
and the saw the expanse
of sky and clouds
white chariots moving
across the blue
and wanted that moment
for always and forever
and you reached out a hand
and touched her shoulder
and would had touched
and felt her more
had you been bolder
and she said
We lay here with the dead
but our bones and flesh
are filled with life and love
unlike theirs
wasted away
Yes
you whispered
feeling her bones
beneath the flesh
Just like us some day.
poem by Terry Collett
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I Read Some Poems Today
i read some poems
today, and these are
poems about the flesh
touching another flesh
like the lips touching
another lips, a kiss to
another kiss, like a
body rubbing another
body, and then it went
higher than that, a
spirit touching another
spirit, ablaze, like some
flints catching fire, like
that desolate house
of bukowski where parents
forbid the children to see
that man with beautiful
eyes, on his pajama
wet with his sweat and
carrying a rhum on his
right hand and a cigarette
between his mouth.
i see, this is all about
isolation, a man's way
of getting away from
the maddening crowd
his way of loving himself
and making a part of
himself grow and glow.
the door bell rings
someone is calling
'anybody home? '
i am pressing my fingers
on some letters
my left hand rests and
touches my crouch
the woman with a shrill
voice finally stops and
leaves and i hear her
footsteps departing
i am silent, i am awake
finally i find my way home.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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