Night's Definition
breasts and pelvis
hands and lips and
butts and asses.
on the other hand
some have fingers
clasped in prayers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Cut a Long Story Short
Your lips like cherries fresh
from the garden
Your breasts enough to fill
my palms
My hands tremble when I picture
your breasts
The way our lips merged together
without space between us while
our tongues played hide and seek
Your eyes i miss to drown inside
I miss your fingers caressing my body
The scent of your detailed body and
the fragrance of your smile
I miss the two of us
poem by Moffat Mbuzi
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I Stick To My Point Darling
i stick to my point my darling
love and lust go hand in hand together
one cannot exist without the other
one cannot just love and not lust
for love will always like to last with lust
for what is this deep silence without the
noise of fire
the tongues of the sun
the pelvis of the moon
the fingers of tickling tiny cinders of stars
to the heavens of course, we heave, we bend,
show me what is kept inside your skirt
show me those breasts that enclose the
true beatings of the heart
i will love you and i cannot help but lust with you.
for i am both air and leaf, river and rock,
for i am both bird and sky, i am both mortar and pestle,
i am both sun and moon
pond and pebble
snake and grass
let me hold you then with the gentleness of my soft hands
let my tongue lick every corner of your skin
let me love you and eat you and swallow you
for by then, you become truly a part of me
immersed, flowing, running all over my mouth and veins.
my throat, my lips, to my finger tips.
let me love you and let me have you. let no part be absent.
let the meeting and tasting be so sweet and enduring.
i love you, and it is not enough.
there is more to the bursting
of a star. it is endless, it is kind and brutal.
like this big bang of creation.
the pain of darkness
and the gentleness
of light.
silence cannot lose itself within the calmness of the waters.
deep inside, we partake, the lust of our beings.
we drink this cup, we die and live.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Between Two Moons
dusk
between two moons
fingers of twilight
early morning
plant a kiss on the lips
coffee and
conversation
we look at the same
love
for the sea
hands on your breasts
nipples of pleasures
openness
horizons without end
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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My prayers
I touched your cold hands
hands that worked the land
caressed your tousled hair
hair that had known flair
kissed your silent lips
lips that sweet secrets keep
My prayers in vain
tears leaving stain
Your words lodged themselves
deep in the crevices and shelves
awaiting the moment of freedom
to shine in the kingdom
I touched her little hands
hands that hold no plan
caressed her soft hair
hair that dances in the air
kissed her sweet lips
lips that smile at the tips
My prayers in pain
soul bare lain
Her laughter clear as bells
chasing away spells
dispersing shadows with her light
casting wrongs putting them right
Your words came flying back
Have faith tho thee lack
it will sustain thee
in life without plea
My prayers in gratitude
love in servitude
A Cry
Oh, there are eyes that he can see,
And hands to make his hands rejoice,
But to my lover I must be
Only a voice.
Oh, there are breasts to bear his head,
And lips whereon his lips can lie,
But I must be till I am dead
Only a cry.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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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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To An Ingrate
This is to-day, a golden summer's day
And yet--and yet
My vengeful soul will not forget
The past, forever now forgot, you say.
From that half height where I had sadly climbed,
I stretched my hand,
I lone in all that land,
Down there, where, helpless, you were limed.
Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace,
You struggled up.
It is a bitter Cup,
That now for naught, you turn away your face.
I shall remember this for aye and aye.
Whate'er may come,
Although my lips are dumb,
My spirit holds you to that yesterday.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Thanks!
Thanks for the farts
And thanks for the butts
Thanks for the sharts
And thanks for the nuts
When our lips kiss
Or our butts touch
It reminds me of Bugs Bunny
Or maybe Daffy Duck
Cuz, man, are they funny
You know what I mean
When you fall over laughing
Scene after scene
It's kind of like you
When I see your dumb face
I'll take you to school
Put you in your place
I Shall Have These Hands That Shall Write About Hands....
must have i forgotten
from where all these come?
ah, i have read about your hands
and now i shall have to mind about mine
once i had these hands
whose name is
work and struggle and
sacrifice
they lifted rocks
outlined by Sisyphus
and roll them from
atop the hill
and put them again there
in senseless
labor
when i got reason
my hands began to think
as though they have brains
under their nails
these hands begin the
questions
grapple for answers
and got
no satisfaction
they dabble in poetry
trembling and tense and
looking for
a compromise for some
fetish
must have i forgotten from where
these hands come?
someone says these hands are from
the hands of God
whose hands hand what we do not have
in hand yet
these hands did what was wrong then
and covered the face of the
penitent and the remorseful
these hands that slap a face that
triggered a gunfire
that lay upon the hardened breasts
and held breaths
these hands that write now for you
face upside down not asking for anything in return
these hands that speak for you
as you turn your head for someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On the bed she lies stretched out almost naked,
On the bed she lies stretched out almost naked,
in a transparent night-gown
with her breasts and large nipples
immediately drawing my attention,
her love triangle
with dark pubic hair shines through
when passion causes her
to rip the front buttons of my shirt off
that falls like raindrops
pattering on the wooden floor
when my body is hot against mine,
with my hands finding her soft supple breasts
with her lips smouldering on mine,
with her hand leading me to her boiling point
and we are both shivering
caught in moments of lust
while she has difficulty
to unbuckle my belt,
to zip it down
and we both melt into each other nakedly.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Fistfight
which side of the fist do you side with?
the left
or the right
there are no other choices?
there is actually.
fistlessness, the man without fists
and the watchers who do not shout for victory the moment one loses his game
or that which
where no one grieves when somebody dies
fistlessness
a world without a winner or loser
a world without the cheerers of death
a world where each is equal
man to man and woman to woman
where to eat one does not have to maim
or kill
or swindle
another man
fistlessness
an open hand, a palm asking for rain,
hands clasped in prayer
hands gripping love
fingers caressing the body of his beloved
in the theatre of war
not the fighters, not them lose and win
it is you, the spectator counted as nothing but
a collateral damage
they say and will always say, it was not intended to be.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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in the plane
the woman next to me
her lips fly away with prayers
her fingers dance
twisting her prayer beads
tanka by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Beyond These Hands
something that i cannot touch
beyond these hands
more of them are invincible
though far from the fingers
yet still close to the heart
like the way i will always love you
kissed only by my dream
lips to lips with nothing but air
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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DEFEATS OF THE FLESH by emma z.
my eyes stare at
your body
my hair falls down
freely
my hands hold unto
a bar
my breasts shake
my lips all wet with
your lips all wet
my tongue moans
for your name
i am on top of you
in this struggle for
freedom
this revolution of
love
we come at the apex of this climb
we surrender
all in defeat to the powers of our flesh
you & i
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Sonnet 128: How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Dreaming The Breasts
Mother,
strange goddess face
above my milk home,
that delicate asylum,
I ate you up.
All my need took
you down like a meal.
What you gave
I remember in a dream:
the freckled arms binding me,
the laugh somewhere over my woolly hat,
the blood fingers tying my shoe,
the breasts hanging like two bats
and then darting at me,
bending me down.
The breasts I knew at midnight
beat like the sea in me now.
Mother, I put bees in my mouth
to keep from eating
yet it did no good.
In the end they cut off your breasts
and milk poured from them
into the surgeon's hand
and he embraced them.
I took them from him
and planted them.
I have put a padlock
on you, Mother, dear dead human,
so that your great bells,
those dear white ponies,
can go galloping, galloping,
wherever you are.
poem by Anne Sexton
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For Home
your lips
my door to our
tryst
your breasts
my my
hands to your
warm, sweet home
where my bone
shall be.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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