Best Groping Poems
*Secreto de Medianoche*
~On this very Night~
I found myself in a
FANTASY
Camouflage in lace,
I run my hands all over the place
Wet whispers drop in between
In a soft stroke,
I touch the tan on my skin
Pure sweetness unfolds
The perfumes in the air - Arouse
every sexual intention inside
Without a care,
I'm lost in the moment,
Every feeling at this point,
feels erotically insane,
In a seductive way--
the night whispers my name,
A freedom flight - into the night.
(Like the wind)
Caressing my breast, my legs tremble
Beyond the haze, into another world
Never pointless - A new sensation
My fingers slither, a play tonight
Circles in motion,
Vibrations and self-soothing lotion,
I touch myself gently,
Thinking of you relentlessly,
Looking around,
The night echoes a whimpering sound,
Embracing the Secrets Inside
I squeeze the dark damp sheets-
Moaning and moaning, repeatedly.
Holding my silk pillow, groping my knees,
I run my finger on my lips -
Satisfaction complete!
Back into the realm of dreams.
~Tonight~
:)
MONSTER
Shackles nor chains, can't change what it is.....
Never was it, the one hiding under the bed,
It was me, tired of it getting inside my head
.... I can still feel, the groping at my feet,
Pulling me from under the sheet,
A victim to your personality
Nothing can, uninstall these walls
--- Walls of bricks, that can't be taken down
On the night, I've learned of your return
My bones began to shiver, as they too shudder,
remembering every black tinge feeling left behind.
Before the bricks, your filth put my innocence into your victim's box
Without a voice, I fell with no one to rescue me...
Sometimes, I wondered who else had to look into its heinous eyes
Nights without security, you crept in' with every morning cry
With nowhere to hide, I found myself constantly victimized.
Nefarious, at my bedside, how did I manage to survive?
Unwanted communication, stole my youthfulness away,
So young, yet persistent diabolical stories hide inside
Bones turned into a tomb of stones
Decayed and withered years, never to be unveiled
Some stain will never wear off or be forgotten
The monster, I once helped shut down,
Soon to return on another bedside,
Now, someone else will close their eyes,
And hear the monster's whisper, "Shh, don't tell, or else!"
And just to think for a moment I felt safe, the air felt different
Now, I feel dirty all over again,
No one can fix or put the ease back to sleep.....
Just as long as it still LIVES'
***
#Monsters Living in Our Society
#Let's take them down one by one
Blindly..
I beseech you
for my eyes won’t adjust
to this shaded maze of despair -
neither the lantern’s flame
nor a compass rose can help me now
in disrepair I need to find you
with fingers outstretched I raise my arms
groping for you like a eyeless babe for her mother
..but you’re not there —
a cunning thief this despair
for stealing my sight for a way out
Why won’t the summer solstice light this darkness
nor warm this anguished atmosphere..
am I to die here where I lie?
my undressed soul exposed to the wind-chill of your loss
naked in biting throes beneath a stony sun
desperate to thaw ice dams lodged in my bloodstream..
the winter sallow of my heart’s shallows a skater’s delight —
a cunning partner this despair..
ice-dancing with my pain
Where is the air I need to breathe..?
it’s evaporated with you and the dreams we used to dream
the weaver a double-dealer stealer..
life no longer lives in my poker-faced lifestyle
nor in fantasies long gone from sleep’s clouds
moth-eaten desires and grit and tears
too holey and harsh to knit a warm reason to swaddle in -
just let me close heavy hope-chest-lids of empty eyes
and take my last shrinking violet breath —
a cunning spy this despair
for infiltrating my will to survive..
Susan Ashley
October 11, 2020
N/A
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 22
Sponsor: Mark Toney
(reformatted)
~ First Place ~
Contest: Will To Survive
Sponsor: Silent One
No flame within!
do I hold for you
no delightful delicacy
shall I put to rhyme.
No picturesque words
in italics of your
woeful wildlife, no
acknowledgement of
the ancient mariner, he
that crossed the margin
of our “Atlas of the world.”
(Still in use, [I believe] in the
old stone museum.)
One can easily live in fear
of your many mordant moods,
to see you capture the
embracing horizon, where warring
clouds fondle the sunlight,
and the departing QE 2 is
reduced to microcosm.
How can one live in awe of
you, when at the end of each
day you snatch at the light of
sustenance, therefore
giving license to the veil
of damnation, soon to be cast
out of the east, driving impending
fears to languish upon the
unholy waters of the Styx?
(An extraction of the mind,
an evaporation of the memory
the spray dried brain
tossed into oblivion.)
Yet each morning an
interval to one’s ongoing
nightmare, when with renewed
levitation, the new light reprieved!
Begins avidly it’s universal
journey across Manukau’s
“Pack ‘n’ Save” Car park.
Oh yes! It is so easy to hate you;
you that brought the rest of
the world here, you that constitutes
a world within a world, that,
where the cycle of life creates it’s
own constitution, each player
judged on cue, to become an act of
fodder, mobile supermarkets
in ferocious competition with
nothing at all to give.
“Unless death itself is a gift!”
Upon the surface your
treachery still lingers, there,
tenacious tentacles lurk
within the sedulous surf,
groping blindly at sedated
rocks, those pinnacles of sanctuary
that harbour the weary,
support the rod.
Only when gravitation truly
intervenes, does the perpetual
invasion subside, leaving one in
no doubt about your promiscuity!
© Harry J Horsman 1993
In those bleak fields that so quietly lie - stilled as graves,
Between where the thin wind creaks and upwardly heaves,
Unseen feet can sometimes be heard
Shuffling through the old woods discarded leaves.
For i have seen those strange distant lights
That detach themselves from heavens spilling crowds;
When dropping over the blindside of the little ridge
They rise to leap from cloud to cloud.
Impossible angles of inexplicable darting momentum -
Inwardly gyrating wheels now ingeniously turning;
Marvelous these the strange crafts of unknown design...
Yes - I have seen the night skies burning!
For well i remember as a reckless child
How i stole out to ascend that one forbidden hill:
Cast deep plans, set the clock ticking accordingly,
Rose, wrapped myself against Novembers raw chill.
Deep inside the Beech-hanger the Plough was struggling,
And over the despairing holt a devisive breeze...
As, of a sudden, on the edge of swirling darkness -
Showered particles upon vapourous ethers so violently seized!
Oh the hissing bolts of sizzling electrons -
Brilliance of colours like a dying meteors last rites!
Anti-Graviton paradox of mastered equational conundrum
Igniting the latent freeze within winters sharp night.
Radiant orb held aligned by polar-opposites forceful lines,
Spinning upon a singular point with such consummate ease;
Roaring furiously liken fabled dragon of Arthurian legend,
Hot breath licking across lines of illuminated trees.
Momentary seconds that crept alongside an age enraptured
Amidst tumbling thoughts of - "Just another Alien abductee"!
Then, gently tilting starboard, accelerating smoothly away,
Vanishing over the stacks and tiled rooftops of nearby Walton-Lea.
Often have i wistfully pondered in ever hopeful, watchful years:
What was it so witnessed as it hung before me in suspended flight?
And - with many cramming thoughts - groping for answers sought -
Recalling the wondrous moment of such an awe-inspiring sight!
Sighted
Vision, perception
Staring, observing, gazing
Ability to see everything, total visual impairment
Stumbling, groping, touching
Darkness, sightless
Blind
Diamante Contest
Sponsored by Janis Thompson
submitted to Diamante Poetry For Fun - Your Choice of Theme Poetry Contest
sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
10~12~16
He said, “Everything about lust
has already been written!”
Every person, man or woman
at some time will be smitten
Lust can be fetish,
she dresses like a kitten
Romantic and soft
on a bed of white linen
Others want it hard
they long to be bitten
A few have been rubbed
with a sensuous mitten
Some search for lust
they are okay with paying
Choosing a body
pushing deep until they’re weeping
Who knows the secrets
many people are keeping
Lust can be confusing
it messes up our feelings
Yet somehow lust’s pulsations
are way beyond appealing
Clinging and groping
looking up at the ceiling
Holding hands while walking
or lust on a table
Wheelchairs or walkers
each will do what they are able
Images in fairytales
or sexy found on night time cable
It gets under our skin
makes us feel so insatiable
Although the faces change
lust is still the right label
No one has been immune
not even Adam Eve or Able
("Depth Psychology Merit Badge, aka The Myth of Being", 2015, original oil)
The Myth of Yesterday
“Yesterday, today was tomorrow
and tomorrow, today will be yesterday”
So say the sages,
and so say us, groping in the dark
following the trailing sparks
of fireflies dancing in the night.
But the fact remains
it’s all a myth,
the myth of being and becoming,
the myth of yesterday and tomorrow,
the myth as a story
we tell ourselves
to make sense of it all.
A riddle wrapped in a mystery
inside an enigma
told to the blind ones
safe and sound within their cave.
(2/15/24)
Here's How It Is:
The atoms dance
While Space expands
Shoals of galaxies race away
Towards every point of no return
Spin and spin
Like Catherine Wheels
Firework flashes
Brilliantly blazing dazzling sparks
Against a night so deep it swallows thought
A trillion times a second,
Everywhere and Nowhere
Things are starting
Things are ending
Things are becoming
Thoughts are groping
In the spinning wheels and flashes
The sparks themselves are spinning
As are the sparks around those sparks
And so and so and so
Down again into the waiting atoms
Everything whirls
Because of this
There are worlds and worlds
Weaving themselves together.
Their billions of alien skies
Sliding over landscapes full of
Death and Life
Love and Hate
Fear and Hope
Beginnings and Endings -
Because of this
These lines are flowing.
A mind reads them,
Because of this
The whirling goes on
Out and Out
In and In
Dancing down to and up from the atoms -
All of it, all of it
Is happening RIGHT NOW
Has always been happening RIGHT NOW
Everything's awhirl, Snowflake:
So just go dance in the black Sacred Wind.
DANCE
!
'Cause that's How It Is.
Can one count the pieces of a broken heart?
Can a flag half staff proudly wave?
Will kites still rise in staccato weather,
or partial freedom be less than a slave?
Explain this measure of a hearts half beat
wind that blows yet never reaches the trees
the disfigured countenance of a dreamers disgrace
how half body dreams cry imbalance in between
Tarnished stains of unpolished silver
flyblown details of a life unabridged
groping for a fortress forged by slivers
unfit by the stages between and betwixt
shifting weight from east to west
dodging shadows of intent and neglect
standing at the post where the middle never met
like a chromosome missing beholding whats left
Oh to be pregnant with hope
then giving birth to a portion revoked
How does one survive the division
of two halves opposing a whole
What brightness can a light once shining
affect through half of a soul?
and where is the joy in knowing
without two halves you'll never be whole?
A heart scattered in fractions
equations refusing an algorithms find
These are the conundrums which riddle
and the factors left baffling the span of time
Dear Rosebud:
The morning dew gently caresses you
like the faint whisper of a young child's kiss.
Your limbs yearningly reach for the sun
as if awaiting a long lost lover's embrace.
Only a pair of vacant eyes could fail to see
the wonderful symphony of color waiting to be.
If allowed to come into full bloom uninterrupted,
butterflies will dance liltingly across your awakening splendor
as honey bees sing praises to your blossoms burgeoning bounty.
I can only pray your thorns grow sharp and rugged enough
to defend against the groping hands of life's wickedness.
Only the desires of the most savage hearts would ravage
a still unfolding beauty and extinguish a spectacle yet to be.
Only a vile pair of ears could fail to hear a shattering heart
and the soul deafening screams of a rose picked too soon.
Love dad...
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Through drowsy quivers of wired thoughts
I lose an hour in the morning
to parry every second of vengeance,
as if to hasten my night rituals
from the unrelenting pace of dawn-break…
and as tunnels honk, my eyes forget
to relish the yellow buds-in- waiting.
Again, Mr. Time… you steal my fresh hours
while my soul wanders far beyond
a metered compass for a rendezvous
with my day’s free- flowing motion.
Now, my hands crave to make love
with the softness of earth’s clay
or bathe in a camphor sun, lapping a wind.
Your meter is not mine to rent or borrow;
and by the glory of night and moon
the bards’ tale knows my songs...
allow me then to age here,
groping with the endless fingers
of sweet eternity.
Funny how time seems to fly contest
Sponsor:Brenda Chiri-Carroll repost 10/6/2016
The feeling of being trapped with an unknown
Maybe a very hungry polar bear
or a greedy wolf ... the beasts bites
A tragic view where people pass by all the time
See me, hear me ...
come in to me and touch me
Let me live my life
A round room with a constant snow storm
My body and brain block everything around me
creating a vicious bubble
Like being locked up in a prison
I am a restless soul groping in the blind
"Hello ... is anyone here? .... H.E.L.L.O"
- behind the glitter of this secluded place in no man's land
"Let me out ... Please ... Let me O.U.T"!
I want to go home to my family for Christmas
Longing for freedom
Freedom without glass walls
20/11/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Stuck in a Christmas Globe Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Bobby May
1st place in the contest
The fear of darkness seems to threaten most-
when we are lost and groping in the dark
of self. We blame unknowns; the devil, ghosts,
or even God, for fright that comes with stark,
cold, empty blackness. Courage will depart;
just like a pearl dropped in a sea of ink,
its glow will die, while fear's black magic art
revives despair between each hurried blink
of eyes that stare at shadows to incite
imaginary monsters of the mind.
But oft, these visions are the mirrored sight
of what we see within as eyes are blind-
for darkness lights and magnifies the whole
dim panorama of the troubled soul.
October 12, 2014
Contest: Fear Is Liar
Sponsor: Sotto Poet