Best Masseur Poems
TEMPTATION'S TOUCH
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His palm soothes the ridges
Furrowed in her starlight skin
Her masseur, he replenishes
Each and every aching extremity
The chiming bells of his strokes
Ring again and again
Summoning her to his lair
Collaged in deep affinity
Her rock solid attraction
Draws her savory soul
Into a lustrous world
She's never seen nor known
A vibrant virgin caressed
Then clasped by her first
Drowns her soul in his lake
To diffuse her thirst
Heaven's hallowed sheet
At last drops her drapes
Unveiling her cast concealed
Behind the stage
Lines from her script
Long lavished in capes
Sifts and locks his eyes
Embellished by each page
Chastity's cloud exiles
Then expurgates her existence
Extracted by he who
Extricated her innocence
Alive and awake, she shows
Herself just the same
Fluorescent radiant flower
Who bears a different name
Restlessly she reclines
Atop her apple green ground
While her heart percussions
Her wedded lover's sound
Each tantalizing twine
Designs his touch so sweet
Tightly tying the tongue
Of the tasting rose
Flooded in fervent favor
From Gehenna's heat
Deteriorating the stem
Decimating her pose
I get paid driving a farm tractor
with sideline job as chiropractor;
I massage, soothe muscular pains,
move circulation through your veins;
though never trained in orthopedics,
I've got some real skills like the medics;
strained tendons or twisted ligaments,
come, just suit yourselves, my compliments;
I rub and press, and even squeeze
your bodies, limbs, extremities;
be yours the size of whales or eels,
your aches, your ills this masseur heals;
the contours of your anatomy
are easy topographies for me;
I've learned skills of a land surveyor
from years of driving a farm tractor.
I get paid driving a farm tractor
with sideline job as chiropractor.
I massage, soothe muscular pains,
move circulation through your veins.
Never trained in orthopedics.
But I've got skills of the medics.
Strained tendons, twisted ligaments,
just suit yourselves, my compliments.
I rub and press, even squeeze
your bodies, limbs and extremities.
Be yours the size of whales or eels,
your ills, your aches this masseur heals.
My fingers know topography
and the contours of your body.
Got skills of a land surveyor
from long driving a farm tractor!
.
I get paid driving a huge farm tractor
with sideline job as chiropractor;
I massage and I soothe muscular pains,
move vital circulation through your veins.
Though I never trained in orthopedics,
I've got skills similar to the medics;
sprained joints, strained tendons, twisted ligaments,
just tell me where it hurts, my compliments.
I pat and dab, rub and press, knead and squeeze
your weary back, limbs and extremities;
be yours the size and girth of whales or eels,
your aches, your ills this handy masseur heals.
You see, there's none on your anatomy
that escapes from these fingers that tell me;
I've learned the skills of a land surveyor
from long years of driving a farm tractor!
I was your bride, stood by your side - now you have lied
I said before; lies I abhor… you told me four
Words get heated, you’d cheated , I feel defeated
Your mum is sad and tells your dad, I’m boiling mad!
That blonde masseur - you’d slept with her, my minds a blur
I see red, you’d defiled our bed … your ego fed
You low life lout I scream and shout - I throw you out
I’ve packed your bag … go to that hag - soon tongues will wag
You’ve got no dough a crushing blow … she says just go!
A home you lack, can you come back - sling your hook Jack!
Keen Observation I Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama
08/17/20
Here's the Good News, our world is awash,
in wonders and beauty life cannot quash;
Like laughter and love, kind words, Turtle Doves,
Bar Mitzvahs and birthdays, baptisms and first dates,
Promotions, Grand Openings, healings and yodeling!
Still more Good News...
Our world is awash, in kisses and hands held,
Tests passed, graduations, and money found;
Quiet moments of solitude, with friends in coffee shops,
Good moods rise above, and a dog’s unconditional love!
And still more...
A cat’s warm fur, trips to masseuse or masseur;
Reports of remission, Broadway shows and magicians,
Art galleries, symphonies, faith and homeless ministries;
Be ye conscious of good news, often awash,
Overwhelmed by negative, it simply gets lost.
Just a heads up--Good News Sells too!
March 22, 2020
The North Pole life can be so hard.
Poor Santa longed to take a break.
His missus told him, “Off we go
to Florida. It’s for your sake!”
While he lounged by the indoor pool,
she vamoosed with a young masseur
in Santa’s car with all his cash.
This vicious blow he would endure.
He called Rudolph: “I’m stranded here.
I want to be back home TODAY.”
Eight reindeer dashed to Florida
to rescue him in his own sleigh.
(A village in the Khasi hills)
Sickly pine trees in tiny clusters
On balding hillocks with grey grass
Fighting harsh battle for survival
Against bronchial suffocation
Of dust storms stirred up from a ravaged road
That winds up to the village church,
Where an elderly clergyman sleeps
Every Sunday morning amidst fluctuating notes
Of a choir of country girls.
A young pastor preaches gospel truth
In native dialect with some of his sermons,
His mind, however, pondering upon
The cuisine he'll be savouring later
In homes of the faithful
Who had been blessed with a good harvest.
A middle-aged village drunk
Shouts obscene warnings to a black bull
For molesting his wife's cow grazing nearby.
The village masseur sits in a rickety chair
And waits for city clients with broken limbs.
Screaming urchins in dirty red, blue and pink gum-boots
Stampede on the dusty path to the crowded watershed
Where their aunts and sisters wash smudged linens.
But when the sun sets behind the emptying hills
After the church doors have been locked
And the good book has been closed for the day,
A calm silence settles down on the village,
And the moon takes the shape of a clipped fingernail
While a dog howls at it in wolffish superstition,
Between echoes of mothers calling their children home,
Thynroit urges me to remember a village
In a faraway land I left behind.
Didn’t you ever question your lady’s masseur,
And wonder if his intentions were pure?
His hands are so strong,
The curtains are drawn!
And he’s touching her every little contour.
listen you peice of rotten soul and insiduous temprement.
you died the second your lung's filled..
your's is the agenda of dark door's and damp bone's.
you make victim's of the weak and weary.
the old timer sat silently,or the young child with not a thought of tainted colour's.
quite you murderous,masseur of mayhem.
your threats fall weakly against the strength of my beleif's.
on the floor scuttling like the rabid snake you are.
death's door will fall on you with the crashing,crushing all empowering bark of
freedom.
miss Leyla has a body
that launches ships
and carves through
mirrored glaciers,
deep tanned to front
and rear,
I wish I was her masseur
and while I watch her
clothes fall off,
to desk and chair,
then to the carpet's
ocean floor, I quickly
turn away,
she's
moved me;
I wish she was close
and not three desks
away:
and slowly... oh so very
very slowly,
I help her dress,
and begins the day.
Las Vegas renown Belle E. Danser
Is deathly afraid of breast cancer
She heard a masseur
Developed a cure
Best of all, the man's a free lancer!
As Mrs Clause poked at her Chicken Chasseur
How could such an opportunity pass her?
With the Reindeers on strike
Santa slow on his bike
Missed her appointment with her hunky Masseur
17/12/22
A Funny Santa Limerick Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Wonder
is like Joy
except more below the waist
and less above,
said the Muse
to the Choreographer.
Awe
accompanies Wonder
and yet feels more silent bass
and less trembling treble
cleft,
said the Choreographer
to the RightHand dominant
Composer
Joy sings
overflowing Awesome pelvic dance
more above the neck
and less wondrously below
our DarkWhole sacred chakra
of deep lusty Integrity,
said the Masseur
to the multiculturing Muse,
face down on his table.
Wonder
is like Joy
except more below the waist
and less above,
repeated the Muse
to his hopeful Choreographer.
Mrs. Holloway polishes her poetry dimly,
Regaling herself with the accoutrements of
Selected poetry, cluttered and less jinxed
By way of satanic slamming by famished,
Idle critics who read The New York Times
Just once in a sugared year.
She chooses her stanzas locally.
By that I mean her stanzas nurse patience,
Drifting from gossips to loose, impotent
Talks held when midnights ail.
She digresses from north’s steady arrow
To the rump of the south, where watersheds
Of a nation’s difficult history are published.
Chances are that her poetry would win a
Contest in a fortnight, but the era of romance
Is jaundiced, which is her constituency and
Her background for coloured matters.
Her abbreviations for the names of her old
Suitors are carved from pillars to posts – reposting
Caryatids as common sentinels on a poisoned bank—
Losing the Greekness required of such adornments.
O Holloway, read, read, read,
Her acolytes pressure her.
Time loses sense of time in its own timeness,
They warn.
That, to me, is the commonest blandishment.
I should never have sipped from her potsherd
Such stale beer as she offered on the day her
Poetry was reviewed by a proscribed newspaper.
But her urge for anything dead and horrid,
Egged me on, especially when she narrated
The murder of seven sisters by seven creatures that
Very Sunday morning when the taverns closed
Before they opened.
Holloway shocked me with the gory details.
Oh, I forgot to tell you she hankers after things
Truly, truly hebdomadal.
I call her Mrs. Holloway the Hebdomadalist.
Seven churches, seven trumpets,
Seven seals, seven heads, seven horns... and now
Seven sisters murdered by seven creatures.
That’s why her poetry is cluttered.
Full of nerves and airs of salutes,
Mrs. Holloway’s poetry thunders.
She presumes that time will, like the morning
Dew, settle on the sinews of her poetry.
(And I agree with her) .
And smoothen it —yes, time, the masseur of
All time.
Smoothen it.
Oil it.
Massage it.
And level it.
At least to street level.
(And I agree with her) .