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Best Famous Bend Over Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Bend Over poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bend Over poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bend Over poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bend over poems.

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Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Please Master

 Please master can I touch your cheeck
please master can I kneel at your feet
please master can I loosen your blue pants
please master can I gaze at your golden haired belly
please master can I have your thighs bare to my eyes
please master can I take off my clothes below your chair
please master can I can I kiss your ankles and soul
please master can I touch lips to your hard muscle hairless thigh
please master can I lay my ear pressed to your stomach
please master can I wrap my arms around your white ass
please master can I lick your groin gurled with blond soft fur
please master can I touch my tongue to your rosy *******
please master may I pass my face to your balls,
please master order me down on the floor,
please master tell me to lick your thick shaft
please master put your rough hands on my bald hairy skull
please master press my mouth to your prick-heart
please master press my face into your belly, pull me slowly strong thumbed
till your dumb hardness fills my throat to the base
till I swallow and taste your delicate flesh-hot prick barrel veined Please
Mater push my shoulders away and stare in my eyes, & make me bend over 
 the table
please master grab my thighs and lift my ass to your waist
please master your hand's rough stroke on my neck your palm down to my
please master push me, my feet on chairs, till my hole feels the breath of 
 your spit and your thumb stroke
please master make my say Please Master **** me now Please
Master grease my balls and hairmouth with sweet vaselines
please master stroke your shaft with white creams
please master touch your cock head to my wrinkled self-hole
please master push it in gently, your elbows enwrapped round my breast
your arms passing down to my belly, my ***** you touch w/ your fingers
please master shove it in me a little, a little, a little,
please master sink your droor thing down my behind
& please master make me wiggle my rear to eat up the prick trunk
till my asshalfs cuddle your thighs, my back bent over,
till I'm alone sticking out, your sword stuck throbbing in me
please master pull out and slowly roll onto the bottom
please master lunge it again, and withdraw the tip
please please master **** me again with your self, please **** me Please
Master drive down till it hurts me the softness the
Softness please master make love to my ass, give body to center, & **** me
 for good like a girl,
tenderly clasp me please master I take me to thee,
& drive in my belly your selfsame sweet heat-rood
you fingered in solitude Denver or Brooklyn or fucked in a maiden in Paris
please master drive me thy vehicle, body of love drops, sweat ****
body of tenderness, Give me your dogh **** faster
please master make me go moan on the table
Go moan O please master do **** me like that
in your rhythm thrill-plunge & pull-back-bounce & push down
till I loosen my ******* a dog on the table yelping with terror delight to be
Please master call me a dog, an ass beast, a wet *******, 
& **** me more violent, my eyes hid with your palms round my skull
& plunge down in a brutal hard lash thru soft drip-fish
& throb thru five seconds to spurt out your semen heat
over & over, bamming it in while I cry out your name I do love you
please Master.
May 1968

Written by Laure-Anne Bosselaar | Create an image from this poem

Community Garden

  I watch the man bend over his patch,   
a fat gunny sack at his feet.
He combs the earth with his fingers, picks up pebbles around tiny heads of sorrel.
Clouds bruise in, clog the sky, the first fat drops pock-mark the dust.
The man wipes his hands on his chest, opens the sack, pulls out top halves of broken bottles, and plants them, firmly, over each head of sorrel — tilting the necks toward the rain.
His back is drenched, so am I, his careful gestures clench my throat, wrench a hunger out of me I don't understand, can't turn away from.
The last plant sheltered, the man straightens his back, swings the sack over his shouler, looks at the sky, then at me and — as if to end a conversation — says: I know they'd survive without the bottles, I know.
He leaves the garden, plods downhill, blurs away.
I hear myself say it to no one: I never had a father.
Written by Edward Thomas | Create an image from this poem

The Cherry Trees

 The cherry trees bend over and are shedding,
On the old road where all that passed are dead,
Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding
This early May morn when there is none to wed.
Written by Naomi Shihab Nye | Create an image from this poem


 You can't be, says a Palestinian Christian
on the first feast day after Ramadan.
So, half-and-half and half-and-half.
He sells glass.
He knows about broken bits, chips.
If you love Jesus you can't love anyone else.
Says he.
At his stall of blue pitchers on the Via Dolorosa, he's sweeping.
The rubbed stones feel holy.
Dusting of powdered sugar across faces of date-stuffed mamool.
This morning we lit the slim white candles which bend over at the waist by noon.
For once the priests weren't fighting in the church for the best spots to stand.
As a boy, my father listened to them fight.
This is partly why he prays in no language but his own.
Why I press my lips to every exception.
A woman opens a window—here and here and here— placing a vase of blue flowers on an orange cloth.
I follow her.
She is making a soup from what she had left in the bowl, the shriveled garlic and bent bean.
She is leaving nothing out.
Written by Alain Bosquet | Create an image from this poem

No Need

 The elephant's trunk
is for picking up pistachios:
no need to bend over.
The giraffe's neck is for grazing on stars: no need to fly.
The chameleon's skin, green, blue, lavender, white, as it wishes, is for hiding from ravenous animals: no need to flee.
The turtle's shell, is for sleeping inside, even in winter: no need for a house.
The poet's poem, is for saying all of that and a thousand thousand thousand other things: no need to understand.
© 2001 translated by F.

Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

Lalila, to the Ferengi Lover

   Kama the Indian Eros

   The daylight is dying,
   The Flying fox flying,
         Amber and amethyst burn in the sky.
   See, the sun throws a late,
   Lingering, roseate
         Kiss to the landscape to bid it good-bye.

   The time of our Trysting!
   Oh, come, unresisting,
         Lovely, expectant, on tentative feet.
   Shadow shall cover us,
   Roses bend over us,
         Making a bride chamber, sacred and sweet.

   We know not life's reason,
   The length of its season,
         Know not if they know, the great Ones above.
   We none of us sought it,
   And few could support it,
         Were it not gilt with the glamour of love.

   But much is forgiven
   To Gods who have given,
         If but for an hour, the Rapture of Youth.
   You do not yet know it,
   But Kama shall show it,
         Changing your dreams to his Exquisite Truth.

   The Fireflies shall light you,
   And naught shall afright you,
         Nothing shall trouble the Flight of the Hours.
   Come, for I wait for you,
   Night is too late for you,
         Come, while the twilight is closing the flowers.

   Every breeze still is,
   And, scented with lilies,
         Cooled by the twilight, refreshed by the dew,
   The garden lies breathless,
   Where Kama, the Deathless,
         In the hushed starlight, is waiting for you.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

Town and Country

 Here, where love's stuff is body, arm and side
Are stabbing-sweet 'gainst chair and lamp and wall.
In every touch more intimate meanings hide; And flaming brains are the white heart of all.
Here, million pulses to one centre beat: Closed in by men's vast friendliness, alone, Two can be drunk with solitude, and meet On the sheer point where sense with knowing's one.
Here the green-purple clanging royal night, And the straight lines and silent walls of town, And roar, and glare, and dust, and myriad white Undying passers, pinnacle and crown Intensest heavens between close-lying faces By the lamp's airless fierce ecstatic fire; And we've found love in little hidden places, Under great shades, between the mist and mire.
Stay! though the woods are quiet, and you've heard Night creep along the hedges.
Never go Where tangled foliage shrouds the crying bird, And the remote winds sigh, and waters flow! Lest -- as our words fall dumb on windless noons, Or hearts grow hushed and solitary, beneath Unheeding stars and unfamiliar moons, Or boughs bend over, close and quiet as death, -- Unconscious and unpassionate and still, Cloud-like we lean and stare as bright leaves stare, And gradually along the stranger hill Our unwalled loves thin out on vacuous air, And suddenly there's no meaning in our kiss, And your lit upward face grows, where we lie, Lonelier and dreadfuller than sunlight is, And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky.
Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem


 At the open door of the room I stand and look at the night,
Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight,
Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light of the room.
I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light, And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.
I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the shore To draw his net through the surf’s thin line, at the dawn before The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide.
I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.
I will catch in my eyes’ quick net The faces of all the women as they go past, Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: “Is it you?” Looking earnestly under the dark umbrellas, held fast Against the wind; and if, where the lamplight blew Its rainy swill about us, she answered me With a laugh and a merry wildness that it was she Who was seeking me, and had found me at last to free Me now from the stunting bonds of my chastity, How glad I should be! Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night Pass the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool; Why don’t they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight? Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool? I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls, Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves, Always kneel in courtship to the shelves in the doorways, where falls The shadow, always offer myself to one mistress, who always receives.
But oh, it is not enough, it is all no good.
There is something I want to feel in my running blood, Something I want to touch; I must hold my face to the rain, I must hold my face to the wind, and let it explain Me its life as it hurries in secret.
I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves, Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.
Written by Ezra Pound | Create an image from this poem

Ione Dead the Long Year

 Empty are the ways, 
Empty are the ways of this land 
And the flowers 
Bend over with heavy heads.
They bend in vain.
Empty are the ways of this land Where Ione Walked once, and now does not walk But seems like a person just gone.