Best Index Finger Poems
Rhythmic pose arcs lifting elegant ambience
Graceful dance enshrines artful renascence
Visceral posture invites emotional response
Festive celebration of aesthetic renaissance.
Attired in red and blue of simple elegance
Glorious style augments swirling excellence
Left arm risen high points gracious eminence
Finger tips lift vivid attire in quiet eloquence.
Golden bangles adorn wrists flirting in stare
A lone yellow flower crowns her silky hair
Folded right arm obstructs in a defiant dare
Index finger hides grief, eyes closed in prayer.
Head turned right, arched with sculpted flair
Tense neck muscles manifest muted despair
Open fingers gesture a stealth grievous flare
Air of intellectual grandeur opulently glares.
Ponder why the painter didn't show her eyes
Discover invisible pain vibrant colors disguise
Beneath the splendor lies a hidden surprise
Cultural dance-music echoes her silent cries.
September 22, 2017
Placed 1st:Poems that paint a picture
Painter: Anna Razumovskaya
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Strand choice U contest by Brian Strand
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
Dark chocolate eyes bore into me,
Beseeching, brimming, tunneling for truth.
A single tear trails silently
Cascading o’er lifted cheekbones so
Perfectly angled they’re matchless
Throughout nature’s beauty scheme.
Exquisite, ethereal amber skin is
Glistened by a single path tracking south
Till brushed tentatively aside and away
With a deliciously delicate crook’d index finger.
Adjusting focus with a bow, her upturned glance
Begs understanding, explanation.
Crimson lips, lavish in their trembling,
Part in silent query, “Why”?
Two years ten days no joy could compete.
Renowned in circles select, discreet,
Our couple bid the daily world depart.
Sealing curtains leaked primal sun bright-strewn
‘cross comely sheets, fantasy games oft fulfilled.
No doubt the future shined, out there.
Sparkling horizons, her urgent beckoning.
Glacial azure eyes avert at this sight
Of flawless beauty marred by an unrequited
Inky threshold placed anew across
The spectrum of her charted dream.
Cooling cooing stills her tears momentarily,
Hypocrite rising fresh, predicted.
Hope extended but a moment more,
Remembered embraces reenacted
Pacifying heart-ripping avalanches
Sure to embalm, feigning calm,
Endless love promised, bestowed,
Bloomed, embezzled,
Freshly bamboozled...still,
By her guileful paramour.
~~~~~~~~~ (the goodbye lie)
There
Your hand
That exquisite, sexy little hand
I reach, oh so slowly
My index finger extended lazily
But with enigmatic intent and subtle grace
(Like Michelangelo's Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling ...
Desperate for the touch of God)
I softly touch your thumb, and there is an electric shiver
Not static or reaction or even a spark
But rather the gentlest of vibrations of skin rubbing skin
The hairs on the back of your hand stand up
And I know, when you don't pull away
That you like what I'm doing ... that I can continue
I increase my pressure just slightly, and slide
Running my finger along the soft inside of your thumb
Up and over the tip, pausing playfully at your bright pink, shiny nail
Then down the inside slant to the fleshy notch there
I run my fingertip tenderly back-and-forth
(With a similar motion and intent that I hope to use in more secret places)
Then I push it slowly into the space below
And you turn over your hand, palm up
The ends of your fingers tremble and quiver
And I know you're anticipating me ...
Wondering what is next ...
I pause for a moment, to let your mind spin
Then I trace around the edges, up and over each finger
Down between the spaces, pressing on the warm skin that connects them
And when I reach the base of your pinky
I softly, slowly, tenderly, with the care of a first kiss
Work my fingertip to the sublime soft-center of your palm
First making tiny circles there
And then writing sexy words in cursive
Writing in love's language the things we'll soon be doing ... together
As a final touch, I withdraw my hand and put my finger gently in my mouth
When it's sufficiently moistened and shiny
I return it slowly to your palm
And make a final, sweet, small, sexy circle of wet ...
The period to the torrid tale I've written there
The story of what we'll soon be sharing
In soft, silky skin and sighs ...
And moonlight.
Submitted on May 1, 2020
To the "Strand No 740, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.
(Base USO club, Zweibrucken, Germany, 1963)
Of a lazy afternoon, I sit
propped up,
Bones aching, sorely tired from
lack of work,
And dutifully read the comic
strips
With bored eyes while my mind
dozes.
I sit enveloped in my peculiar
Grayish pallor, which clings
And will not disappear,
And martyr myself to the gods
of convention.
I smoke acrid-tasting cigarettes and
Loudly chew a cud of gum, popping it
Absent-mindedly, and I turn the
crinkly sounding
Pages, one after one, slowly
and intently,
So as not to disarrange the sheaf.
The dryish smell of printed
comic strips
Irritates my nose, but I don't
sneeze --
Merely wriggle it a bit for some
relief.
My brightly polished shoes are propped
Upon the table and I lean back and tilt
the chair, and my hair
Is closely cropped and combed with care,
no strand
Out of place, pomaded and arranged.
My clothes are neat and clean
and stylish
And I brush away a nonexistent
crumb and
I slowly chew and loudly pop my gum,
Moisten index finger, moisten thumb,
And turn the colored printed page
of comics,
Snicker at the antics pictured
While I glance about.
And wonder.
We walked down the stairs away from the crowd
Could still hear the mellow tones of the viola's resonant sound.
We strolled along the shore, Hands touched for the first time
His eyes locked within my own,sent tingles down my spine.
Our rhythmic heart-beats raised, to the crashing wafts of waves.
His nose slight-rubbed my own.I got lost in his embrace.
His musk the scent of sea-wind,perfumed the midnight air
Whispers played against my neck's nape,His hand tangled in my hair.
In the shadows of Spring's moon He pulled me closer,tilted my head to the right
Whispered softly in my ear,'neath the stars' flickering light.
He ran his index finger across the rose-blush of my lips
He leaned forward,as warmth lingered,and I tasted his first kiss.
Our wants longer than forever,Sheer bliss fulfilled our dreams
The sand is still and glistening,and breathless is the breeze.
Pointing her index finger towards me,
with a frown asked the young fair lady,
"Do you know the definition of points?"
To me it was a big disappointment.
At that point among us ,the back benchers,
a discussion about lovers' point was 'on' there,
it was then the question was thrown to me,
"Answer must be to the point"yelled she!
Various points were coming to my mind then,
did she ask for 'point' or 'points' in question?
No point in asking her to repeat it,
started thinking about the point(s) little bit.
Seeing me blank and pointless till then,
one of the friend poke my back with pointed pen,
along it came a whisper in my ear,
"to pinpoint the answer you just look at her!"
As I looked at her reddened and angry face,
the answer came to my mind with a sudden flash,
"Madam,a point is a dimensionless slender dot,
just like your little cute beauty spot!"
===============================
Placement:7th
Contest:What's the point?
Sponsor:Paula Swanson
By:kashinath karmakar(14th January 2011)
The world is spinning
and you refuse to fall off.
Yesterday,
you stabbed a crooked finger
into my hidden diary
criticized my Fascist inflections -
debated my scribblings
on Marxism,
noted the notations
indicating Munchausen by Proxy
and then
choked and lamented
upon vague references I made
concerning Virginia Woolf,
Sylvia Plath,
Anne Sexton,
Cruella De Vil
and Hitler.
You literally littered through
my private Pandora’s box
of personal prose and poetry -
with an unbridled
crazed compulsion
and without my
permissible permission.
Pointing to bold typed words,
such as “ebony”
and “vacuous”
and “sociopath”
and the one
you couldn’t evenly pronounce –
“phlegmatic.”
You stomped your hot heavy hooves -
screaming with the dire urgency
of a rape victim:
“What the hell are you talking about?”
It didn’t take very long before
I simply shrugged,
slugged the remaining remains
of my Rolling Rock,
took your index finger
guided it across
your ratted sweater
and placed it
upon your
hopeless,
hapless
heart.
I’m dining with my cousin Giles
Who disclosed he’d terrible piles
He’s wriggly and twitchy
Cos his butt’s so itchy
His visage is sad, there’s no smiles
He’d tried using soft margarine
This process had just made him scream
So he did not linger
With his index finger
But Anusol worked like a dream
I said it was my understanding
That surgeon ‘s do hemorrhoid banding
But if he has it done
Sitting down he may shun
On this subject I won’t be expanding!
Next time I saw my Cousin Giles
They’d successfully removed his piles
So he can sit down
No trace of a frown
And Giles is chock full of smiles
10/09/21
-
Tom sat fer-nent the table within a smoker's chair
A table pot of pra-tes and bacon quivers there
The cook an apron dirty wipes the grease and clears her throat
She cooks her husband dinner the children's and the goat's
He smokes his pipe asunder and prods and pokes its shoot
Burnt black his index finger tobacco by the root
Dear wife is it not ready for the pit I have to trot
the horse will soon be ready the timber and the shot
Dear man move to the table the butter there just melt
The pra-tes are King Edwards and tighten up your belt
Tis hot and floury flavour the bacon salty rich
Some milk would be a cooling or you will have a stitch
Dear child come home from school now those shoes a wearing bare
You scholar and a brother of fiddle and of flare
Before you have your pra-tes put turf upon the light
Where's dear dear sister Nancy be home before the night
And Annie did you eat yet asked he a million times
Not yet the lady calls out but yet she never dines
The kettle purring steadily in black and iron cast
A crook a blackened lever and tea for all at last
Hurry up now dear dear Annie the night shift I must go
Some bread some bacon sandwich the night for money sow
The sound of carts a coming and following the man
Oats and horse a chopping the collars and the ham
Goodbye now Cook and ready now depart and bid fair due
My jacket wet and dripping, tonight and on the crew
Carts a pulling coal blast the horses strain and tear
A fire man's instruction and all are quite aware
Black sandwich square the dusty air take soda made with fruit
I hope one day I'll get away and always wear a suit
The night is done and Annie come to greet me on the mat
Without you dear I'd not be here my life my joy my cap
(1940s- West of Ireland)
Ian foley- for the :Middle Of The Road Contest
Elevator Man
A wrinkled hand
rotates Time's worn handle of half circles
giving arrest to past rides awakened
Up and down
listening
hearing
never forgetting
Watch your step
Ornate iron confinement
charming for youth
insulation for some
sentencing for others
Cables retch echoing secrets within
sliding metal dregs past elevated remembrances
among whispered conspiracies
softly spoken nothings
muffled weeping
all preambles shadowed
in corners of illusive passage
Momentary respite
gradually gives way to silent whimpers of fear
as passengers await floor-stops
fortune
reward
love
penthouse dreams
Elevator man's eyes rise
Arcing brass arrow above
waves Wisdom's index finger
past invisible floor thirteen
allowing today's filigree of delusions to remain patient...
for the moment
"I want my Mommy.I want my Mommy",
I heard the young man cry.
That's how I made my living.
Watching young men die.
The boy had taken a bullet,
Right around mid-thigh.
It cut through his femoral artery.
Soon he'd bleed out dry.
I took my index finger.
I stuck it in the hole.
I tried to make a tourniquet,
But I couldn't find a pole.
I could feel his lifeblood pulsing.
I just couldn't make it stop.
As the bullets flew around my head,
I could hear the pop,pop,pop.
My rifles butt exploded.
It had taken a direct hit.
I found that I was thanking God.
I'd found my tourniquet.
I prepared the lad for transport,
To take him back to base.
When I turned around he was dead.
He'd taken three rounds in the face.
He was gone, so I moved on,
Amidst the constant cry.
That's how I made my living,
Watching young men die.
The Romantic Legend
The lord of the manor near the coast of Algarve,
Behind the manor a forested valley where
Packs of frightful wolves roamed.
A day when his youngest daughter who was a bit
Odd-as she took no interest in suitors- went to
The glade to pick flowers, she met a he wolf.
Not afraid she petted the good animal and his
Eyes she discovered love that asked for nothing
And had nothing to give but love itself.
The daughter when doing needle work had stung
Herself and there was a drop of blood on her
Index finger, which the wolf lovingly licked away.
A miracle happen the girl turned into a sleek,
Wonderful she wolf with silky black and tan fur.
Their union was complete and love rewarded.
The pair found a cave in the deepest forest
Where they lived happily for many years until
The he wolf was killed by a bigger animal.
The spell was broken and she was now an old
woman, alone and scared, where love´s light
had shone there was fearful darkness.
There was a knock on the manor´s oak door,
An elderly woman claimed she was the daughter
Of the house but, she was not believed.
It was a rainy night and when the door opened
Next morning the servants found a young girl
With glade flowers in her folded dead hands.
What sorrow, what grief, but she wore a smile
“Vale de lobo” the forest doesn´t exist anymore
And a paradise of love is lost to a legend.
PS “Lobo” wolf.
This index finger of mine loves discothèques,
Amber sunsets, pretty faces from heaven, wanderlust hybrids & violets,
Those are just few of my fantasies surrounding me,
Now let’s share some of my secret language, the B-a Story!
That will entail no point of return,
Let the Herculean games begin,
My heart will wade with only dominics’ who are wired for this evening spree, Tetsuo”
That’s why I’m always losing my old brooms that make several detours & pit-stops,
So who am I?
I’m Bryan, the Bye! Bye! Butterfly with good enough wings,
Who is espoused to his career and talent for now!
But today is another day away from that,
Now let’s go spinning with what placates me on this amazing day,
Music alone placates me, because it wades me down to the river bank,
Regardless of any genre!
I listen to Rock music, Cause’ it’s the music for the Darby kids like my Sis #Liz!
I heed to Trance, Cause’ it uplifts my animal ecstasy,
Trance music alone makes me to transgress my 99 problems one less #DjProvocation!
Hip Hop is for us the wordsmith & my brother #Pak Seeker,
We Hip Hop fanatics, we are the G.O.A.T, 2Pac Lives.
Soul music melts my soul and spurs along my entire love to rest besides my violet,
So #Seal, shall you croon again that “Kiss from the rose”
For the love of my gad dam birthday!
R&B is my affectionate music genre for my precious Venus!
Dancehall & House music cloaks my club house with #Joan,
Dj Guetta & Dj Novelli can you please stamp my house party,
So that the electrons can mingle with atoms!
Tell the storm that this is my B-a Story.
T.m.TS ©BryanDePoet
God moves a universe
like a child playing marbles...
Holds the shooter
between the thumb and index finger.
At the speed of light, planets collide
; galaxies whirl in a sea of miracles.
Shattering the taw called impossible.
Colored explosions- space and time.
Expanding contracting breathing existing.
A billion years dancing without witness...
Planets blue
planets green-
planets in the beginning
planets at the end
planets full of living-
Our planet is filled with death.
The great contraction soon comes.
Everything that ever will be
and that ever was...will be crushed.
The voices and footsteps.
The wars and the loves.
Everything played out before.
(on the rosary of God).
Hail Mary, full of grace
Take us to infinity's pristine grave.