Best Maleness Poems
August wind, glass moon,serendipity...
two chairs gazing at each other in tender flow.
Hundred miles away, clouds gather
to fondle the opening and closing
of after- midnight refrains,
both trespassing a continental divide
to awaken upon scrolls of ramblings
united by the sorcery of mystic spaces
between humid lenses.
On such lit evenings, I will surrender
to the maleness of a trembling heart ;
your cheeks swollen like yeast…a shaven head,
the blue of your shirt buried in my cellar
unbuttoning the heaving pauses
between the nearness of our skin…
Chairs grind in wanton anticipation of palms
touching my hair… you whisper,
“ I adore you beyond words.”... and I; I falter
while a glint climbs into the almond of my Oreo eyes…
The scent of hours lingers as we wrap our fingers
into morn, owning a body language in play of charades…
Your mouth hushed, searching the curves of my spine
glazed by soft bites of an August wind
brushing our lips…until the slide screen fades off,
and we are dissolved into a paradise inhabiting
unborn stars. In raw enchantment, our warmed glances
wait for a next time, as if a tarot of angels
had known about serendipity.
PD's Best Love Poem # 3
Somewhere between our song, he is there
like a delicacy on my tongue;
on my fingertips he burns
the silence on my eyelids,
and even the pang that he leaves
is a blaze in itself.
And what is compelling
about the maleness of this star
is how his glance can still reach me
in circles of adagio movements
even when he is not around.
As fast as speeding thought,
he rules over me…
sending a thousand revolving wings
to shade me from the sun,
fountains to wash me away…
then i am gone, done
into the rhapsody of his arms.
And even the pang that he leaves
is a fire in itself
that simmers like oil in me…
till the falling of another evening,
when once again he takes his laughter
in my sky to flare in my heart
like a night keeper rising an octave
of love’s syncopated heaves,
trailing one beat ahead of me.
Favorite Love Poem Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
He walks into the room like liquid mercury
Deadly yet mesmurizing to the eyes
He molds into every woman he touches
She will ever feel his smooth maleness
He seems to be placing orders for the night
Who will get to grace his bed of pleasures?
Tomorrow he slithers away like the spineless
disease he really is; life shatters around his wake.
I noticed the uniform, and the heavy soled shinny black boots
Not the man within it, I apologized.
I remember the clean fresh smell of maleness, as they stormed into the house,
Broken glass, ripped down hangings, a slashed sofa, a pulled curtain,
A sudden maneuver to throw my brother’s bear across the yard,
Such military worries, hidden bombs in a child’s best friend.
Your broken cross I buried in our garden after they left.God, come back to my house, I am
waiting.
All I saw were figures painted the colour of grass and bark,
with gilded edges traced by some crazed church painter's brush,
faceless with pockets full of bullets and chords,
Their arms intertwined with red eyes and swollen hands of my teachers,
Stiff figures against the soft jeans, sweaters, and knitted hats below.
Standing witness in the yard above watching, I waited for her to die.
Shinny black like the dirt dug from the mass grave,
Full of crumbled human bits, decaying coloured cloth,
while the sun scorched the group sorting the cellular samples
I saw the black boots etched into the bone fragments.
Lost bones of lost loved ones from empty families,
Standing in the desert, I wait for a name.
No, I do not see you the man, just the uniform.
I see the butt of the gun, the dent of the boot, the slickness in the air,
the cruel power of the swirl jungle green print with gold trim.
As a witness God left me, and I was waiting.
Change, let me meet the man,
maybe the waiting is over.
As most days go, this seems pretty good
Doesn't take much to affect my mood
Just a simple greeting like “Have a good day”
As I show up at the office in the nude
The reaction of coworkers sure tickles my fancy
With my dangly bits dancing around
They try not to stare but it's kind of impossible
As my studly maleness astounds
When I settle down on my black leather chair
I let out a childlike whimper
My super warm flesh on the this super cold leather
Makes me scream out the name of my vicar
The ladies gather round never ever having seen
Seventy-eight year old dangly bits
I start twisting and turning like a beautiful ballerina
Slapping a giddy-up on my hips
Well as this day goes it's not necessarily the best
Got rid of some of my inhibitions
Till the security dudes burst into the office
Felt like the Spanish Inquisition
© Jack Ellison 2014
Defining a Man ( A Letter to my Daughter )
What is a man in these modern day attitudes and parlances of our times
harder now, I think to define a man than maybe it was
but then maybe not, considering how much we all have learned
Rather it should be easier for a man to define himself, as a man, in these days, than it
was in the past, but this seems not to be the case.
Ever it seems, men, cling to the ideas of “The Macho Man” ( which if you think about it is
so Gay.. trying to prove to everyone that you are not Gay, by being a “Man”….. how gay is
that ? )
Any “Man” that conforms to a stereotype, or the stereotypically accepted view of what a
man is “Is not” a man
But a mere shadow of one
Who by acceptance has agreed in his own conscience “not” to think past or beyond
a cultural definition of what he is
And therefore has not explored to any depth the idea of maleness and all its qualities of
personality
They have, to say, accepted a definition of themselves which is a blanket and an easy
excuse to explain what they are and how they behave.
I can count the number of men I have met in my life on the fingers of two hands
but I have encountered an innumerable group of brainless masculine gender defined people
in their thousands….
Firstly a man is or has the courage, “not” to define himself by stereotype
he becomes a wolf instead of a sheep and so to some degree an outcast. ( and so many sheep
call themselves wolves that it is laughable considering their obeisance to acceptance )
A man, does not use self-centred egoism as an excuse for truth or a replacement for truth
He will contend with any rationale that challenges his idea or view of his life or world
until it can or has proved itself to be better than his own
In which case it becomes his own rationale.
A man does not, by the use of any force, verbal, physical, emotional or mental, make any
person submit to his will, in order to prove that he is right. ( erroneously or not )
A man will use his physical strength to defend, not attack.
Bouquet bride on a smitten horse,
Chocolate doubts and pastel thoughts.
Twister of love wails and hums,
Something wedding this way comes.
Envy ripples from jade reflections,
Last call for last chance objections.
Silenced by their kindred vows,
A shield of trust subdues the crowd.
Safe in a sleek four-wheeled cocoon,
Speedy whoosh travel and floral scent swoon.
Observing with steady, wanting eyes,
Soft, supple breasts and baby-white thighs.
Husband squared and maleness pumping,
Tender beastie rhythm thumping.
Chosen master of my flowing, blooming heart,
Future father giver with a fluid mix to start.
On that night of seven-course passion,
Wanting him more than you can fashion.
Holding her after you explode with release,
On that bed of wedding grease.
Oh, what a marriage we will be,
Running like twins through a mystery.
Memories gaining, curious, diverse,
From a twisted pair of hearts in verse.
Bouquet bride on a smitten horse,
Chocolate doubts and pastel thoughts.
Twister of love wails and hums,
Something wedding this way comes.
Inspired by SAW, JR
You got me in rifting feel twists
of bits not yet on my heart’s list.
You got me with your careless ways
that my ways had not come across.
Yes, you laid our mess in pain’s toss.
Now I know my body swelled grips
wanting your sexy, sculptured lips;
your maleness was my need display,
your long, dark hair, my dared fondle,
your brown eyes, my eyes' prized coddle -
and, your movements flared my sway.
You got me in rifting feel twists
that sent me thru heart mirrored mists.
We dragged love mute thru wasted days
until stays were just trace loss
and no feeling words held hope-gloss.
Yes, you got me stuck where lost lays.
Now, I need remedies best tips
to strengthen my spirit’s raw strips.
Yes, I am lost in numbing rays
where my hope tilts on my wobble.
My honest thoughts steer full topple
and tend my breaks in tentative ways.
You got me with false act insists
and kissed me blind in dizzy frays
that my love-laced dreams failed to resist.
CHAPTER SEVEN
this seventh month… a handful of sun dust
greets my aurora skin, touching every
lace of foliage: buttered stems, blushing leaves,
soft-boiled branches with upturned eyes
silky in the veil of July’s palette
face. farther on,
i wanted to smell its rareness,
how my own raw eyes pass behind occasional
veins and wiggling ridges, wondering the
maleness and femaleness of their palms
receding then whirling underneath my
feet ,receiving the ancient chant of some wild
calm…
how intangible this soft fire in
my belly, splattering like auburn harvest
of wheat thrusting unto air
chambers of sun nymphet honored
in all shades---the emerald, garnet,
sapphire of paradise patch as if
saved from the kaleidoscope of month’s past,
slowly cuddling every sinner and lover the ember
that feeds on harps and cancer -zodiac stones.
. . . .
Contest no 300 Premiere
Our passion
By Sharon Maria Moemise
Thoughts of you marks the existence of my passion
Propelling me into a deep yearning
to be completely possessed by your maleness
Burrowing into my being, making me utterly yours
The passion with which your gaze covers all of me,
Takes my breath away, making my yearning endless
Your heat envelops my senses
Your voice whispering endearments in my ear
Your kisses... Fueling the fires of your passion.
My cries reverberating throughout civilization
I moan to the throbbing of out hearts together
My sighs in rhythm with the urgent tempo of our bodies
And as one, we glide to our earth shattering finale.
Although the scent of laughter flows
Into my wind-swept breath ,
I hesitate the call of his rugged charm
As violin notes serenade temptation’s play
To crawl upon my luscious flesh igniting
Evening's spice of an earthy maleness … I quiver.
While moonshine drapes the porch-light's view,
He pulls me nearer in warm embrace
Fondling lines of my glistened back--
How in slow-fire drift, I claim effort
To regain awareness from this hazy trance.
In a hush flush, I gently leave bewildered
Denying our first plunge with a ‘ no, not yet’…
But seriously , in the brink of hunger and craving,
My raw instinct pleaded to utter ………’yes.’
john lawless' Contest: But Seriously
1/26/2017
Into the light I stride
Letting my maleness
Slowly subside
Feeling the warmth on my skin
Allowing my femininity
To sink in,
Into the light I stride
The sensation of air
Swirling
And sensually
Climbing
Stirring
Around my dress,
Into the light I stride
I beam
In fullness of heart
Of life
And self esteem.
What a long friendship with
moon !
I refuse to accept the blast.
Papa is dead, he said and
latched on to circularity.
I don’t seek the interbreeding
with terror.
It was me in reverse mode
of cryptomania.
Too stoic;stop. I think
I am wrong ; stop. And a serenade
for the lady luck. This life
was too much for me ; stop.
Androgynous.
The female body wants to eat
maleness, by almond eyes.
The old man was walking barefoot
with a paintbrush.
Satish Verma
The Day Your Child Stabs You
Version 1
In order to weep
I guess I must care;
At least enough to stress
Over these words, to share.
To her free mind, half mine
She stares down at me...
But not for one second
But perpetual eternity.
Mistakes, unforgiven,
Yet nodded upon,
social contracts in the air
But forever shunned.
The air thick with resentment
Over war zones entrenched
Like poison over drudgery
Liberty over stale love's stench.
Spreading her wings over our
Clipped flight,
And gliding over us,
As every next generation must.
I shut down and give up.
Can't be disappointed
Ever again.
Pick up your spoon or your needle
Or your bottle or pill;
Your children dance on your grave,
Before you are ever ill.
Version 2
Tell me again
Of your woke generation
I will sit in my diaper
Waiting for your instruction.
Tell me again how
Everyone has a right to their
Sexuality and
Reference points
Of they or them or assigned
At birthness.
Tell me how understanding
You are, and how your generation has
Finally got it right.
I will drink my booze
And swallow my dope
In my late 20th century
Americana maleness,
All the while shivering
In skin, too afraid to address
Any of my
personalities.
Version 3
My child steps on
Her blind spot
Which is on top
Of my mental illness
To preach from her soap box
About how prejudicial I am
Towards society's victims.
To gaze on your form
reveling in lassitude
ankles crossed
arms cradling a lolling head,
is to know mystery.
Unwritten tomes
etch the surface of furrowed brow.
Eyes arrayed in perpetual humor,
the brawn of chest rising and falling
with satisfied breath
speaks only of peace.
To gaze upon your form
in wonder such a precious gift.
Maleness surmounts you
from the arch of your cheek bone
to the blue black flutter at your wrists.
You shall be used unabashedly
as all artists do
my Prometheus
my fire
my muse.