Best Cupping Poems
.
please
fill please
in you
my would
heart
by
cupping
your
right
hand
over
the
right
side
of
the
poem
and
pray
for
healing
Half of my heart is not well
Please cup your hand to complete it..
Categories:
cupping, health, heart,
Form:
Concrete
We Are One
Dear Ancient Sister
I hear your distant calls finding me on a gentle breeze
You have lived in my dreams for many seasons
My voice
Your voice
My soul
Your soul
And our Coming of Age
I have always known you...
I have heard your
Quiet whispers echoing in
The night coming close to me
I call to you ...
Let me be a part of your breath
I have always known your wounds and sorrow
I see the light and magic in your eyes...
The pain you carry so eloquently
I see your reflection in the clouds above
Carrying your soul wound on your sleeve
I see the deep crevasses and lines
In your grandmother’s hands
I hear the secrets beneath the earth of
Your grandfather’s footsteps
I see your reflection in the twilight
Of the evening... against pink watermelon hills
Your voice beckoning me onward closer to you
I see you in the moon and stars
Your buckskin dress adorned with
Ceremonial beads
Abalone shell against your forehead
The dirt beneath your moccasins
Grateful for the kiss of your dancing feet
I hear the echo in the distance of songs
The Elders sang...
During their passage here
You are born into a woman
Before my eyes and heart
Before your tribe
Before nature
A wise new feline
A mystical power with endless allure
A force that lifts and unites us all
As one
Your rays blessing us and leaving
A welcome imprint on our hearts
My Ancient sister
I drink in your wisdom and grace
I fly on your wings
You have shown me your world
Watching you dance
Becoming you for moments in time
Your silhouette etched by
The wild flames behind you
A glow radiating into
The night sky
The stories of your Ancestors
Filling the air with
Words and lessons and song
Notes sung into clenched fists
With bloodstained hands
The children and animals
Sensing all that was
And all that will ever be...
The call of a distant bird
The thumping of your cane on
The hungry earth
Keeping time with
The movements of your body
You will look back on this
Day as you walk with the
Same cane down the path of
Old Age...
Your wisdom
Cupping your heart gently
Ancient Sister of mine
I am in gratitude for
Your strength and courage
The kiss of your words and
The teardrops of your loss
Susan Lawrence
Copyright 2020
Original Artwork
Susan Lawrence
Categories:
cupping, blessing, celebration, community, courage,
Form:
Free verse
When I close my eyes I hear the sound of your voice floating in the
air like dandelion fur, catching the breeze and dancing upward.
I remember the day when we camped in the rain and wrapped
ourselves in blankets to keep warm, hearing the acorn size
drops pelting the tent and feeling the rain vibrations explore
our coupled bodies.
How could I have known then what I know now …. the ancient
wisdom that you have carried with you since the beginning of time.
You speak to me …
Your words rise up in my soul
filling my being. I feel you gently
cupping my heart in your hands,
caressing it tenderly. Lifting your
arms above your head I feel the
warmth of the sunlight on my
heart. With eyes closed I bask in
the moment.
I am transported to flight as a white hawk
stretching my arms out into my new wings and alighting
on the warm current that lifts me higher.
I am surrounded ……
It is quiet as I glide. Looking downward
I dip one wing and then another. I let
myself be enveloped, conscious of the wind
on my feathers. I am free. Free to fly. Free
to take in all that surrounds me, all that is above me,
below me, the scents, the sounds, the silence, the
memories of past, and the vision of the future.
I am one with you.
Below winding rivers and streams make S shapes
and figure 8’s, dancing, curving and rolling
with winking glitter on their surfaces.
Dry red rocks dot their shores and a heat ….
A heat rushes by.
Onward, upward past towering pines reaching to
the sky whose tips call me with their green beauty.
They call. They sing. I hear their ancient voices, as
their seeds fall silently on the ground.
Leaning into a turn I dip one wing and
see water before me falling in the distance.
I am being called… beckoned onward.
There are answers ahead.
The mist clings to my feathers and
moisture coats me as I fly closer. The
water is my soul, my heart, my life.
Whiteness and sound thunder around
me and yet a peace resides within.
I am home.
Categories:
cupping, adventure, bird, dream, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
On the south-western side of the old mission school,
near the corner of First Street, where blackberries grew
a field claimed by youngsters was crosshatched with tracks.
It was riddled by gophers and, nettled with fox-tails
and the children's bare feet had constructed thin trails,
cupping deep paths that were littered with smiles,
deep in the amber of tall weeds and dry grass.
It wasn't too far from the patched wire fence
that hemmed the backyard of my Grandmother's house.
Westerly whirlwinds would rattle the ragweed,
while seeds of the bull-thorns, that prickled our toes,
would spread with the tumbleweeds, now tossed into rows
like last winter's snowmen, worn to the bone
There were traces of honeysuckle mixed with wild rose
from Grandma's old arbor, that loomed in the distance
A rusty old weather vane like a merry-go round
would spin like a top that might never stop
The ivy was overgrown, and a sleepy old hound
would snooze by the clothesline, in shade he had found
But, deep in the field, was a land of our own
A place we called 'Neverland', a loft in this poem
In the yoke of one tree, with the help of our dad
was a fort built of scrap wood, from piles by the shed.
And by hook or by crook, I would take all commands
While my brother's brewed brainstorms, and his black plastic hook,
assigned him the Captain, while I was the crew
of a ramshackle galleon, brought to life from our books
While I dangled in air, from a tired old swing
"Tinker", my name...in this masculine game..
I would push off, while he pulled me, right up to the sky
and into the branches, with leaves in my eyes......
I would fly to the depth's of a steel gray-blue sky
I would grovel, and shovel, to have his approval........
for he was much older, much wiser than me
I would play like a tomboy,.....shove doll-drums away
Such sweet summer days,......while bright splintered rays
of hot summer sun, would spotlight our play.
We would stay until twilight, to watch the sun die
Defying all gravity.......I could see to eternity
Tootsie Pops clung to the tip of our tongues
while the sun of the twilight, dipped over the dunes
and the call of our mother, slipped over the moon
____________________________________________________________
Categories:
cupping, childhood, nostalgia, places, western,
Form:
Narrative
When pebbles knead the holes in my shoes
These torn eyes writhe from my orphan blues,
A lost soul quivering in the cold...
I feel alone, a birth date untold
No parents cupping my sullen face;
While time grates in this runaway place.
They say that I was darn negated,
Like a package, somehow, quite hated
Thrown quickly in an old garbage truck..
But why, why, did I run out of luck?
Oh time, I no longer wish to mourn;
To be nestled and family- born…
Still, nights cut pain; my wishes decay
In foster homes where I briefly stay.
But rags comfort me,” kid, you’ll be fine,
When adoption brings love’s true sunshine!”
-------------------
Dated 11/6/2015
For the Contest, Trashed #4,
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Written by: nette onclaud
Categories:
cupping, absence, child, home,
Form:
Couplet
Elevating Heart
Sweat of Life
Piercing pain of Sorrow
Pendulum of gratitude in motion
How fortunate to experience
To Feel
To delight in the depths of emotion
I burst knowing I am capable of such workings of the
Heart, mind and soul
I am you
You are me
We are we
We are one with each other, with nature,
With the sky, the stars, the moon,
With the creatures of the ocean blue depths,
With the feather tips of ancient falcons,
With the wind whistling through the towering singing trees,
With the lonely roads stretched out on the horizon,
With the melting icicles of change
I am a teardrop on the petal of your eternal flower
I feel the whisper of your breath
Graze across my lips
A gentle imprint left behind
A kiss on my eyelashes
And I am yours
I am honored to be a part of you
Of us
Of now
Of distant past lives
And of
Unrevealed futures
I wear you like my favorite oversized cotton shirt
Threadbare at the elbows
You inhabit my body
Tracing the shapes of my ankles
With your fingertips
Massaging my toes
Following the curves of my hips
Kissing my eyes
And cupping my heart gently
I am in flight ... I am your messenger.
We are one. The radiant glow follows us
Light energy, a tribal dance,
A halo of flickering beauty
Blazing
A flame
Let us be beacons of light together
Fingertips touching, melding
Becoming one beating heart together
For all eternity
Elevating others around us in gratitude
From above in the silent air
I see a fire flickering in the darkness below
Shadows sway on the towering rock walls
A steady drumming in the distance
A drum of ancient hide
Thrumb - thrumb - thrumb
A father watching his newborn suckle at
Its Mother’s breast
A peace resides within
How glorious to be a piece, a part of, a fiber, a color
In this magnificent tapestry of life
That we have all woven together
I fly to the highest snow-covered peak with you and
Dive to the darkness on the ocean floor as
Mysteries reveal themselves
My tears are sweet with magic
And salty with memories
Of time gone by
You are my gift
My hands are warm
My heart is full
A silent smile fills my soul
And wraps me in its embrace
Categories:
cupping, appreciation, devotion, heart, inspirational
Form:
Free verse
By
The back
Door I find
Her chipped red bowl
Sunk into cold mud
Cupping my hands, I hold
Gently, my last piece of her
I think she knew, that gray morning
Putting her nose on my lap to say
Goodbye - but I, distracted by jobs and
Chores, left her asleep on her frayed blanket
I returned too late and she was gone
A decade past, but I still cry
Dusty tears for yesterday
Yet when I lift my face
Through silver cracked clouds
I can glimpse her
Paw prints on
Heaven's
Grass
2/18/22
E Forms - Etheree contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
First Place
Categories:
cupping, death of a friend,
Form:
Etheree
Summer returns, reigning in glory
tempting my beanstalk to climb
and tiny fairies to faithfully fly,
laughing out loud all the while.
With lush trees twirling in full skirts,
and tulips trumpeting their joyful greetings,
sunrays parade in triumphant procession
of season’s enchanting magic.
I planted seeds of magic beans
in the garden and waited,
restless through spring’s fateful days
of warming soil and nurturing rain,
blushing with excitement in thoughts
of summer’s storybook adventures
vividly coming to life, hoping to wake
to the surprise of a beanstalk climbing miles high.
Then, May turned to June, June to a steamy
July, and I one morning dressed in the smiles
of a carefree little girl who could charm the bees
and listen closely to the melodies of songbirds,
knowing somehow this would be the day
to frolic free in the laughter of a forever sky
and bathe in my rippling mirage above
white, drifting clouds…where heavenly
breezes would cool my body and soul.
Summer magic created my climbing vine
while I slept dreamily through a stormy night,
cupping her hands to catch every drop of rain,
and she grew with the beanstalk from a lazy
day’s warm embrace to a magical kiss amongst
the brightest sun and sparkling stars. My fairytale
came to life until July turned to a feverish day
in August, and I, burning from within, woke to the end
of my storybook dream…
Then, as quickly as she came, summer’s magic was gone
with one strong gust of arctic air.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
for PD's Magic Beans Contest, 1/5/15
Categories:
cupping, dream, magic, summer,
Form:
Personification
My verse has been chosen as Poem of the Month at Sherborne Abbey!
The curious offerings of sacristans
Are given in obscure humility
The symbol of the cupping of the hands
Enshrines the essence of this mystery
The dawn unlocked; the turning of a key
The mystic world behind the little door
The mourning weepers, watching, silently
The quiet foot upon uneven floor
The layered shadowed centuries; the pass
Of long dead worshippers before the throne
Slow shifts of coloured pools of stains of glass
Soft drift of latticed light on pillar stone
The empty candle, thirsting for new oil
Unscrewed and filled, screwed up again and lit
The hidden corners, carved by masons’ toil
In which a wary flickered flame may flit
The covering, uncovering; each fold
Of linen and of altar cloth an art
Within the starch of white, on marble cold
The space to hold His living, beating heart
Here, understated wafers wait in line
For blessing, as an unblessed congregation
Here silver, water, light, and red wine shine
Anticipating sacred consecration
Here eye, and hand, and mind, seek symmetry
In objects placed, in psychic ebbs and flows
Seek that perfection only God can see
In right angle and scented mystic rose
When all are done and gone, her hands will shake
The fragments of His flesh on holy ground
Shed drops upon the earth its thirst to slake
Pour water through the light without a sound
When all are gone, all blessed with wine and bread
There, in the East, where better men have trod
She kneels and presses to the step her head
And, lost in awe, she speaks these words to God
I am that ancient soul you always knew
A part of you, from when time first began
The I am that I am, the that in you
That serves thee, as I will, while still I can
I come to you as Christian, Muslim, Jew
Agnostic, Gnostic, Druid, Angel, Man
The cupping of my hands I give to you
The curious offering of a sacristan
© Gail Foster 2016
Categories:
cupping, blessing, god, mystery, psychological,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
Tides pull you into waters clear,
cupping both hands, she tastes
your pain.
Her lustrous foam draws briny tears;
waves sigh in seas retraced,
then wane.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 3/10/15
for Nette's Memento of Waters Contest
visual #4
Categories:
cupping, emotions, fantasy, water,
Form:
Verse
Write me something,
From the depths of the dark,
Like you've pushed me hard against the wall,
And your fingers are splayed out over my skin,
Carassing the color into it.
Heart pounding hard,
Your hand cupping my juicy mound,
Rubbing me into dizzy circles.
I want the passion of your tongue,
Dancing with mine,
Swirling down over the cream of my throat,
To find its tender spot.
I want you suckling hard on the taunt,
Sensitive rosebuds of my breast.
Your hands roaming my curves,
and sliding through my folds,
To sweet warm juices.
I want your lips to travel,
Down the sides of my belly,
Till they nip at my hips,
And for you to gently lick my glistening bud.
Flick it with your tongue,
Circle around it again and again,
And then - plunge in.
Tongue burried deep inside me,
I want you to rock your face against my hips,
Suck every drop of juice from me.
Pump your fingers into my warmth,
Glistening with my wetness,
Make me cry out your name,
Hands thick in your hair,
Bring me to explosion,
Anf then gently kiss the fire away,
Rising the tempature again,
Bringing that thrum to pound in my core,
Slide that thick, throbing cock,
Deep past my lips, and fill me.
Darling, write me something,
Make love to me with words.
Categories:
cupping, desire,
Form:
Free verse
A mystic rose smile that belonged to my mother this is what I recall
My easel and I resting in the spirit, by the grandeur of a morning tilt. As the
Yellow sunrays streak across the canvass, I think of Lamancha
Saffron and mom's tasty soups. Contentedly I paint away until a
Ticklish breeze brings me back to present stay. A lifetime away still I recall the
Indian sari she wore with shades of orange/gold lamer. Lustrous hair pulled
Carefully back, exposing two dark coaled eyes that shone like brightly lit topaz .
Red carnelian sun in tonal ranges splashed across a tapestry of love
Oxidized colors melding into the portraiture of Sahana, Matriarch of Bangalore.
Smiling at the camera a thousand watts from Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. Her
Energy exhumed inside the sketch my recollecting fingertips
Subservient hands cupping my tiny face, "My little turmeric "
Maybe you'll be an artist some day, she spoke with her eyes
I like to think she was the reason I succeeded. Her every word a
Laud accolade. I remember the day I held my first paintbrush
Every time I pick one up today, I think of my mom and a village called Aluru .
November 19, 2021
Categories:
cupping, appreciation, mom,
Form:
Acrostic
Ive forgotten what it feels like
to be wanted, needed
He certainly does not speak of
his need in words
He does not show it in his
actions
Unless i am to take those few
moments
Where he pulls me close to his
warmth and falls asleep
Surely he still swears his love
But more and more it seems
routine
He makes no attempt to pull
my young body to his
No longer does he run his
hands over my ample curves
My slender hips built for
motherhood
My supple breasts which perk
at the remembrance of his
cupping palms
Hands now turned greedy
when the few moments come
that he expresses his male
need to release
I needed? At the notion i scoff
This caveman of a lover knows
less of need than a newborn
Mistake me not it is in
understanding that he dwells
within a cave
When put to use he is more
than perfect as a lover
Selfish bastard. Laughing at
my words.
He understands nothing
And so i have been allowed to
forget the blessing of being
someones need
Categories:
cupping, girlfriend-boyfriendme,
Form:
Free verse
Erotica what is it?
I’m not sure what it means
Is it something for sensual pleasure?
Or is it something in my dreams?
Is it perspiration glistening on a manly chest?
Or is when I have rivulets of perspiration, running between my breasts?
Is it lying on a beach somewhere when our bodies meet as one?
With waves crashing rhythmically, a thrust with every one?
Is it when he runs his hand up and down my body, with such a careful touch?
Hardly touching my skin at all, but it still seems to burn so much.
The glistening of thigh beneath a dress, that catches the eye just briefly.
Or the décolleté so smooth and soft his lips caress so sweetly.
Lying on the riverside this handsome bloke of mine
Regaining control of gasping breath, with tingles down the spine.
The dampness I feel on his back as my arms do surround
The holding of breath, just for a while as we lay down on the ground.
The tenderness and trembling, I can feel the weight of him
But he is not heavy, and I welcome the feel of skin.
The six pack stomach so smooth and tanned
The cupping of my breast in his large hands
The sweet caress that sets me on fire
The look in his eyes strong with desire
The turn of a page, I want to see more
When will it be my turn this man to adore?
Categories:
cupping, life, romance, sensual,
Form:
Light Verse
The Loner goes on
Imagining friends
He heads for a coffee
With hopes to an end
He looks at the counter
Then raises his head
And wonders why
All his looks are of dead
He picks at his pocket
Not sure what’s inside
Hoping it’s nothing
Wanting outside
He tugs at his money
Begrudging his efforts
He isn’t that hungry
Or thirsty; sequester
He stands tall and proud
Cupping his coins
He can’t wait for long
And sitting is wrong
He finally orders
As he’s given the nod
He’s happy to see it
As friends or facade
He waits
He looks around
Then he relaxes
And feels the ground
Approaching is coffee
Nestled by hand
Why won’t it come faster
He can’t understand
He pays over time
Not wanting an end
He knows he must turn;
a table to ‘fend
He looks for an opening
A table that’s free
Seeing so many
Does not feel like glee
He finally chooses to sit by himself
For sitting with others
Is rude and...
Not stealth
How has he gotten here
He asks himself
Retracing his journey
As small as an elf
He looks for a friend
Then down to his coffee
And sees his mug lifting
His eyes feeling lofty
He knows he must go
And can’t say goodbye
He leaves very slowly
Feeling his sigh
He’s walking straight home
And can’t hear a thing
Even his finger
Goes without a ring
He finally gets home
And loves what he sees
Knows what he has
And feels that he’s free
He thinks of the coffee
And says he’ll go back
But the next time he goes
He’s switching to tea
The Loner goes on
Switching to tea
Coffee's not important
As the quest for friends must be
Categories:
cupping, inspirational,
Form:
Quatrain