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The poem is not the world.
It isn’t even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

Mary Oliver, section 8 of “Flare” in The Leaf and the Cloud: A Poem

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A Dirge

 

Rough wind, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,--
Wail, for the world’s wrong!

~ P. B. Shelley ~

Edited by arana
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The Oral Caress - Robert W. Birch


Cradled between your tender thighs

I lift you to my mouth.

The abundance of your wetness greets me

and my mouth overflows with your warm essence.

Your sweet taste is on my tongue

and your fragrance delights my senses.

No gentle lick this visit.

No bashful cautious approach

For I wish to consume you.


Push against my hungry mouth

As the tip of my tongue slides up the slippery furrow

that welcomes me between rows of delicate pink petals.

Thrust against my generous tongue.


Show me the power of your desire

for my oral caress.

My exploring tongue lifts the hood

and finds your smooth firm pearl.

You squeal in that unique way,

signaling that I have found your special spot.

I harden in response.


My jaws protests what my open mouth provides

but I am unrelenting in my gift,

intent only on your fulfillment.

I feel your body tense,

and you are quiet now...

Concentrating... bearing down.

Soon now my love,

ecstasy approaches.


You push hard and fast against my tongue,

shameless in using me

and I so willingly comply

until you cry out...

and in your satisfaction,

I will find mine,

But mine will be the greater.

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Soul mate - Robert W. Birch

 

We met but once as though by chance,
we didn't date, or did we dance.
We looked into each other's eyes
without deception or disguise.
A silent message passed between
your hungry heart was plainly seen.
You saw desire I could not hide,
you looked at me and saw inside.
How could a glance have said so much,
and cause a chill without a touch?
What was that chemistry that night,
that promised what we felt was right?
What satisfaction we'd have missed,
If we had not reached out and kissed.
I do not know if it was you,
or was it I who said, "Let's do."
But on that night our souls were bare
as surely as our bodies there.
Our bodies moved in harmony,
I couldn't tell the you from me.
And locked in passion as we were,
my sense of time began to blur.
I must have known you from before,
how else could you have reached my core?
In life perhaps before this one
what had we shared? What had we done?
With what I felt, emotions vast,
I must have loved you in the past.
But now we go our separate ways,
to different lives throughout our days.
I keep you though within my dreams,
Eternal soul mate, so it seems.
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Insignificance

A road stretches toward the horizon
past the moon’s silver disk
past that darkness of the soul
where eternity dwells
Warm summer breezes seeking only beauty
barely ripple vast pale yellow prairielands filled with life
where slender fingers of small green plants
reach tentatively for the road.
Beyond this serene place of timeless sleep
distant stars whisper of our insignificance
in this world ravaged by wars 
beneath a sky awash in deep colors of death.

© July 29, 2014 Jane Lynahan Karklin

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The Blue-Eyed Giant, the Miniature Woman
and the Honeysuckle

He was a blue-eyed giant,
He loved a miniature woman.
The woman's dream was of a miniature house
with a garden where honeysuckle grows
in a riot of colours
that sort of house.

The giant loved like a giant,
and his hands were used to such big things
that the giant could not
make the building,
could not knock on the door
of the garden where the honeysuckle grows
in a riot of colours
at that house.

He was a blue-eyed giant,
he loved a miniature woman,
a mini miniature woman.
The woman was hungry for comfort
and tired of the giant's long strides.
And bye bye off she went to the embraces of a rich dwarf with a garden where the honeysuckle grows
in a riot of colours
that sort of house.

Now the blue-eyed giant realizes,
a giant isn't even a graveyard for love:
in the garden where the honeysuckle grows
in a riot of colours
that sort of house...

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Her modern hip casanova
arrived midnight hour.
Bringing his playful style.
Capturing her with his magic,
with all his intense charm.
His presence filled the night.

The old house rocked loud,
under his tuneful beat.
Romance and lust strode,
behind her bedroom door.
As she was made bare,
filled in body and spirit.

While above stars gleamed,
seductive wind blew hot.
Outside shadowy figures melted.
whole world disappeared away.
Only casanova and her heart,
remained to feed upon experience.

Tomorrow will be changed.
Her lover shall be invisible.
Leave her only with memory,
meditating alone upon his face.
While sun and dream shall shine,
her lover gone jetted again away.

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"Love’s Language" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

 

How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye —
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift force —
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek —
The sudden silence and reserve when near —
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear —
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmèd heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its godlike guest —
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek—
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one belovèd face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble—
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed in silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss—
Thus doth Love speak.

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“I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you
are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. 
You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she 
will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes
that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back
to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name.

I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me
You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you.
You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own.
But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless.
and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone
and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.”

—  Clementine von Radics

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