Best Plumps Poems
the unzipped match —
a flame that heats the tips of fingers,
those sensitive appendages
that linger,
upon the cheek,
the whiskers.
erogenous zones touched by the flame,
like candles arouse
compatible birthday suits.
the cherry red matchstick
plumps up her lips
making them magnetic.
his lips and ruby tongue
pulled into
the black hole of her being.
their own haven of forest
in flames —
no longer tame.
the full force of desire
moves over her neck
her shoulders,
lower and lower,
leaping higher and higher.
flesh singed —
in the end both become smokers
in bed.
9/25/2019
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He tracks the sins
of the truculent muckrakers,
the yellow iron caterpillars.
He glides over bogs with the frogs.
Slips between the stringy and tall,
if there are no forested ways
he ambles where the wind ruffles.
He talks to the bears - they tell him
how things are going in the suburbs.
Swimming pools and trash cans,
have still to be negotiated. There must be a treaty.
He is leafy, kits and coyote love him,
Whistle-Pigs chirp like sparrows; blow their noses
to trumpet his approach.
When ducks quack his many sermons
shotguns misfire.
He is a preacher, a teacher to tics and turtles.
He is the bosky bedfellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow man – he is variegated and verdant,
a green man for me and thee
at least for now.
She's only seventeen
Eyes of warm blue ice…
a sky with clouds of pearl
Kindness peeks out,
empathy for the whole world
Ebony lashes, concealing,
revealing, in a graceful fan
Flickering glimpses of
this strong woman within
Youth plumps and smooths
dandelion dusted skin,
That only glows a golden bronze
when the sun's shinin’.
Hair, a long and straight
arrow down her back
Sometimes it's a rich brown,
sometimes blue, or black
Not interested in pink satin
or frilly, white lace
But she loves to have shiny jewels
to decorate her face
Inside this stunning shell,
behind all the bling,
Lies a mind full of deep thoughts,
a heart that's known pain
Yet she laughs without boundaries,
she will always dance in the rain
My heart and soul, my beloved,
She's only seventeen.
A small advance party scouted the valley high,
The rest,
In a ba,
Massed on the ocean nigh,
Not towering creatures with spindly hairs,
Nor mountains of bellows with rumbles of bears,
But endless splotched
Like cotton from cats,
Plumps and hunky
Like so many rats,
These clouds rolled by
In a playful parade,
Summer chasing Summer,
Turtle passing hare,
Chicken riding puppy dogs,
This tree and ground my chair.
Horsehead whales
And heads of bores and boars,
Dragons and unicorns
The half-moon with me watched.
A bluebird sits in the old pine tree,
dressed in blue for the jubilee.
He plumps his feathers for the show,
(he's an absolute Romeo.)
He hears the other birds complain,
But Bluebird's there to entertain.
He ignores the jealous looks,
his name will be in storybooks.
Bluebird's soft lilt and rolling sway,
All of nature wants to stay.
To listen to his graceful song,
he wants you to come along.
He's the star of this bird show,
(he's an absolute Romeo.)
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
No table round will ever square the thing.
All knights have equal access to the bread,
Even the stout are adequately fed;
Each squire gets equal pay for equal knighting.
Then Guinevere unsheathes the distaff lightning,
Uncoils her hair, so lustrous and inciting,
Plumps her lips with a berry crushed and red.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
Pendragon is ostensibly the.King.
And normally he doesn't miss a thing.
But Lancelot is naked in his bed
And Guinevere is humping him instead.
"No man above another" has a ring.
Whomever a woman chooses is the king.
Only one
of my assets
qualifies
as glory crown.
Pampered hair
plumps my ego
and has drained my pockets dry.
Permanents,
dyes and rinses,
cuts and sets
salon shampoos,
never missed
hair appointments,
as if it matters at end..
6/15/12
Crown of my Body..A Whitney contest
Confessions of lust
In death’s sweet crust
Of poisoned fruit
Deceiving the just
Silky smooth skin
The secrets within
The veiled mushroom stem
Not outside but in
Fruit on a cage
Wither with age
Yet memory plumps
In youths' first page
Passion still lives
Forgets and forgives
Even if life
Leaves the crust
On a plate
It doesn’t matter if I ruined myself from intoxication,
even for a moment, as long as I can get drunk from
the wine named arrogance.
Although arrogance is the robe so colorful
that it blinds ordinary man accustomed only to a quiet color
and it’s conspicuous vividness stunning onlookers and plumps down
to become a lame, doesn’t matter its consequence, I would like to wear the robe of arrogance because most people think not only that it’s proper to honor and admire arrogant one but even respect, awe and consider him holy.
Because the audience overly admires arrogant one,
speak highly of his every movement and daily activities,
moreover, audience welcomes the arrogant one with thunderous hand-clapping, jump up and down with cry in excitement and even tear impressed by his lordliness.
The audience praises arrogant one from the heart with great admiration, uttering, he is a broad-minded noble with a high-spirited appearance that only strong one can display, pure like clear dew reflecting early morning sun-ray, and more.
Nevertheless, you shouldn’t have hatred for the arrogant one because
he is a snob just like the emperor* who struts on the daylight way
surrounded by his dignified chamberlains, wearing priceless silken gown
trimmed and woven with gold threads and uniquely tailored for him.
I wonder why I have a keen desire for glorified moments
like an arrogant one, and behave in a lordly manner
intoxicated by wine of arrogance though I know
the cost of pomposity very well indeed.
*ref: Hans Christian Andersen’s the Emperor’s New Clothes
For Timothy Lee, the best of me
Meeting you was my ultimate life lift.
Loving you is my cherished, precious gift.
Your unique ways still dizzy me love high.
Just as yesteryear, passion plumps my sigh.
My first sight of you bounced feel in my chest.
Each year grows my passion atop loves crest.
Home moments of couple-ness stay my bliss.
No ache endures past the cure of your kiss.
We always could and do discuss all things.
Our talks grow and bond us in word-warm springs.
Laughter often aches both our ribs at night.
Even now, our love enhances its light.
From the start, you called me pretty and hot.
Time has not changed your praise a single jot.
With you, my all is relaxed in our share.
To show you love remains my joyous care.
How rare the wonder of day’s end with you!
Night time snuggling eases life's hits anew.
Our same heat reaches feverish embrace.
May our bond always fail as common place.
... CayCay
September 9, 2018
Creations Facts of Life
The earth in living glory hears each man’s pine.
Mortal life upon his ground fears unfaithful woes.
Each mundane task upon the dirt molds soul’s refine.
Then, he turns from man to dust, seeking heaven’s glow.
Meanwhile, wind winds its way across the land and seas.
Wreaking havoc, bringing breezes, fanning wildlife.
Pruning trees, washing leaves, working God’s mysteries –
Fluffy clouds float; imaginations stifle strife.
Lightening struck and fires raged; then, came the fleeing.
Harnessed electricity brought nighttime its current look.
When man took untamed energy, harnessed, and cooked.
Look what came from what seemed, with wisdom, seeing.
Rivers rise, waters gush and carve torrential snares.
But calmness greets pleasant streams, ending the strife.
Wetness washes all: dusty leaves and silken hairs.
Quenches thirsts and plumps each cell; supporting each life.
Earth, wind, fire, and water began at creation,
Facts known by God above show His mighty action.
© August 19, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
BIRTH
Just all of a sudden
From nowhere it seems
This fresh new force invades the eye
Circles the iris
Plumps the breast
Rides the living vein
Taking on its own peculiar color and natural voice
Thence to mind
Joining those unsolved mysteries
Finally only to be given up
With blind acceptance
If
Wren
designs
six abodes-
his wife plumps just one.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all the dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He sweeps the muddy tracks
of iron caterpillars.
Bears tell him
of how things are going
in the suburbs,
in swimming pools and trash cans,
There must be a treaty.
Kits and coyote love him,
whistle-Pigs trumpet his approach.
Ducks quack his many sermons,
may shotguns always misfire.
He is a preacher,
a teacher to tic and turtle,
a bosky fellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow but verdant,
a green man for me and thee
harken now to his leafy lingo
for tomorrow he may be only a scarecrow
in a long ravaged field.
Old age
Threatening near
Wrinkles on forehead
Lines on corners of eye
Netted crosses on cheeks
Plumps of fat
On protruding belly
Double chins
Hanging loose
Shrivelled hands and fingers
Resemble those of a cold blooded animal
Clumsy legs
Staggering
Sinking eyes
Dimming
Exhausted brain
Confusing
A complicated world
A bleak future
For every oldie
And it comes only once