Best Press Down Poems
we merge ...
I, rooted in your core
grinding up as you press down, never deep enough
supine, you on knees above, I reach up
weaving my fingers through silken strands
I guide your head gently down toward me, moondrops in your eyes
sweet tresses fall between us as our mouths melt together
tongues playing their own game, soft like bubblegum
I swim up the river to your soul
to that place indescribable, warm and dark
we are so melded that I almost feel alone ... lonely
but in the sense of being US, and one
I could let go my spirit there ...
without fear or regret or contemplation
I could stay forever on those shores, in joy
lost in our union and ethereal embrace
but it is far, far too precious for those ends
exquisite and rare for the sake of how momentary
and blessed for the sake of how perfect
how tenderly and passionately ... perfect.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Brian's Select 1, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Favorite Poem From Last Week" Poetry Contest, Lu Loo, Judge & Sponsor.
I will thank you
For your voice.
It adds a weight to the hem of the veil
That will press down
The curtain of secrecy.
Your words, your octave, your spacing
Will appear before my closed lids,
As an artist painting a self portrait;
Of a man I have never seen
Or touched or tasted.
Each word, each stroke,
Each layer, each contradiction,
Will transform the
Ghosts of imagination
And define your reality.
I pray for this one word:Hello.
On a whim,
a demon will grab a fist full of mind.
Slap it down- roll it out- sprinkle it with lye.
Then pull out its cookie cutter heart.
press down hard...real hard...
Feed pieces of sanity to its hoard.
Half devoured they crap you out.
Into the shadow of an indigo night.
Clear the eyes
of the craggy miles.
Slug down a cup of fog:
What is that sharp pain-that dull sound.
Just beyond the cobbled soul...
Something just isn't right.
Stroke the cat
sweep the floor
croak "good mornings"
shower
wash away that crazy gray:
snakes are in the showerhead...again.
Go for a long walk.
pick some daisies.
sometimes that helps ...
but not today.
Hissing is in the swaying veins of the leaves,
the locust eat throat deep into peace...
Stagger toward home into a hearth of talking bones.
Read the daily dread.
Stroke the cat again.
take another nap.
Pray for a warm breeze dream to move the bloom of life.
Back into its golden vase to temper the pendulum.
Sweep the suckling demons from the chest...
Where the hell is my rolling pin god in all this ffin mess?
My faucets run cold, what IS this about?
My hot-water-heater-tank pilot light's out!
Press down that red button and click 'til I pout
Then spew out a string (my religion in doubt)
My stove-top still lights, I can still take a bath!
Boil three piping pots full (I HOPE that will pass)
Teeter and totter like I'm walkin' through glass----
The stopper ain't stoppin', you STUPID dumb-ass!!
Reaching out unconsciously, not knowing where to embark upon,
This damned spirit is grasping, doesnt know what else to do,
With no vexed thoughts on whomever else may read or know,
My fingers press down with an anxious intent, focused and true,
No one else in this moment, these words are only meant for you.
Pain and misfortune is all my reflections allow me to view,
Guarded or misguided it seems I have traveled the earths crust,
For a first in my life there is the brightest of anticipations,
Fearful of its very outcome I stumble damn, ****, i can't get up,
Knowing what I want is so indisputably blatant, Its very much you.
That's obviously so easy to express, but wait why can't I let go,
Confused and consumed, my mind races for excuses and its ending,
Happiness forever graspless in my existance what am I to feel,
With little understanding of these chains that encircled my soul,
Our frienship to me is so unique, amazing yet nothing without you.
A liftime of emptiness forces my emotions and causes my hesitation,
Wasted time not a part of our experience if I can make it my own,
Decisions been made, letting go, I'm going to dive threw this fire,
Doesn't this seem crazy understanding that you're my true desire,
The way we meld just insane, said I made it easy, but only for you.
Now I've said my piece, there it is, there you have it, here you go,
This is all for naught if you've already made a different decision.
But if I'm right just do me a favor, turn to me and just say this,
"Its alright, I actually understand, I gave you your time, no worries here",
"It hasnt been easy for either of us and just know, I'm not going to quit!"
The gift of a man maketh room for him,
The gift of healing,the gift of understanding,
The gift of given to the poor,this I long for,
The gift that supersedes all, this I crave,
this I work towards ,this I dream of and
this I die for..
For a decade, I roam in wonderland,
For a decade , I swim in abject penury,
For a decade , I was a novice and a fool;
Before I discovered the secret; the secret of
Greatness , the secret of leadership, the secret of
manipulation, the secret of oppression and opposition,
the secret of celestial bliss…
People talked ,I refuse to listen!
People called me names ,I refuse to change !,
People barked at me ,I remain undaunted!,
People betrayed me ; I continue to give!,
People planned ,people connived ,people mocked
And plenty people failed!;for I remain faithful to the poor.
That`s why, I am among the best,
That’s why, I flourish like the lilies and gold crystals
That`s why ,the almighty endowed me with glory,
That`s why, I dine with great men and kings.
To him that gives, It shall be given;
To measure, press down and running over….
*Prov 18:16—“A man`s gift maketh room for him and bringeth him
before great men”.
Olusegun Arowolo....
It has been a long time since
I have been away from you
and tonight, I miss your soft-glowing
presence, and the serenading shadows
conducting the silky symphony of
your peeling clothes. I miss
your reassuring steps, as you
approach the bed, and the gentle sagging
of the mattress as you press down
to bend over to kiss my cheek
as I fall into a blissful sleep.
There's a push in my pen
a coax in my keyboard
A prod 'cross my fingers
a poke 'top my brain
Each sentence hides muscles
nudging stanzas to bustle
One poem's done, here comes the next
press down on the keys, produce the text
There are pets and then there are people in fur coats. My Angel Face was a people in a fur coat. She loved to go riding in the car. She would put on her seat belt and mommy would be put on hers. Then it was off to hit the road to see what we could see. With delight to the bank for a cookie. Angel Face seemed to know when there were no cars-no red lights in front of us. She would take her left paw/leg and press down on my right thigh. She would press down until I would go. She would do her touch and we would go faster. Touch my leg again and we would go even faster. We never figured out how Angel Face knew my leg worked the car. She wanted speed and she got it. My Angel Face was a people in a fur coat.
Date Written: 3/31/2021 Note: True Story
Submitted For:Your 2021 N-A Choice 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by:William Kekaula Date: 04/28/2021
N/A Title:"Touch And Go" This or That, Vol 1 Poetry Contest Sponsored by:Edward Ibeh
Calvary Hill.
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I curse the day I ever entered Jerusalem,
I curse even more ever meeting Gestas.
The night chills seem to burn in to my wounds
and I feel wretched and stretched upon this cross.
The blood around my mouth has congealed
since i stopped biting my lips in pain.
My whole body aches with stiffness
from cramps and the pressure in my chest
is becoming unbearable,
I try to press down with my feet
but exhaustion is taking its toll.
I drift in and out of conciseness
and dream of water and warmth.
The crowds have all gone,
except for one woman
who kneels at the foot of
the cross of this man Jesus.
This man, that fool.
I bemoan the fact this man
even knows his Father
and I curse mine whoever he may be.
I think Gestas is dead,
for he has not hurled abuse
at this Son of God
for a long time now.
I pray to this mans God
that the guards will finally
break my legs and end my torment.
I call to him for help
and I hear this Jesus say,
"today you shall be with me in paradise"
My salty tears run down
my battered cheeks
and fall into forever.
A sign of my human frailty,
a sign of mans inhumanity
high upon this hill.
A Testament indeed.
When the poems sound ordinary,
change your pattern of life.
Live more than write awhile.
Go out and run a mile.
Get yourself a new wife.
Visit an observatory.
Sit and zone awhile.
Witness something vile.
Fall deep in love.
Be reaped by love.
Break a woman's heart.
Get your heart broken.
Just press down the lead to start,
the only saving token.
Write, live with vigor
and unatched hunger
of madman intensity.
Lyrical festivity
may well be conjured.
(Several here have encouraged me to post some of my erotica, so here's a start)
My thoughts fly back to you,
and to the facets of your being,
beauty, giving, singing, creating
of safari to adventure, softness
and unique remembering
of images too deep within
to realize as one until my mind
is fused with yours and God's,
exulting in a sweet profanity,
one hallowed time alone.
Close your eyes, and there for us
incarnate lust--
your naked body lying over me
and thrashing with desire,
our mouths inseparable,
and I, your ready prey to succulence,
may know the heat of glory
as your thighs press down
upon my own.
And what of arms, attending
to the precious discipline
of nipples, testes, breasts and bellies
in their quest of paradise?
What of my turgid manhood,
burgeoning with every thrust
into your seething pelvis
now, again, again !
...and it is not enough.
No amazement at
the restlessness of our desire.
The absolute transcendence
of carnality that we are given
suffices now; our questing tongues,
our probing, hot demand
is ruler of the writhing scene
that would consume us
at the moment that
I blast within you
all that I may give--
Pure ecstasy is ours,
for climbing to the heights ,
we find that we have reached
the summit of Olympus and released
the thunder of the gods.
~
Top of the family tree
Looking down on young life
The future what is there?
A chance or more chances
To become more~improve
The deceased press down hard
Train up the children
Teach the youth what's right
Show them correct way
Point them to the light
Through hands of love guide
The very top
Now there's freedom
No! Now first comes
Obligation
Tenderness
Gentleness
Listening
Ever
Love~Guide
Now!
Finis'
There are oceans in the ridges
near our house.
Ripple marks and sand slips
set in stone. The long weathering
of the world exposed them
and eventually will wear them down.
A thought experiment: first, a knife.
The thought precedes the word,
as in the fable god brought his works
to Adam to be named. The thought
empowered by the word sets us apart.
The knife must be steel, dealer of death,
master of armies. It must be sharp.
Man the destroyer – mastery of
death sets us apart.
Take up the knife, carefully.
Observe the delicate grip
of forefinger and thumb.
No other primate can do this.
This clever hand sets us apart.
Now to the hills.
No other creature walks like this.
But we are not
well made for it.
We have to learn it
and in old age our backs ache and fail
from the burden of a lifetime
we are not perfectly adapted for.
At the summit kneel
on rock, the sand
of three-billion-year-old seas.
Take the knife and press down hard.
Try to make a scratch.
Brush away the dust.
Look at the blade:
it’s blunt.
Our experiment is done.
We have made
the brief human expedition through
the landscape of deep time.
My mother was talking to her friend and I was drawing fruit on an Izal toilet roll.
Only because we didn’t have any writing paper and Izal because it was the cheapest
Unfortunately it was shiny and thin
And my wax crayons wouldn’t stay on it very well so I had to press down hard to colour the fruit in.
The friend said why is she doing that on the toilet roll?
My mother replied, she’s different.
I went to a cousins wedding with my mother and I wore white flat shoes that were too big
The woman next door had given them.
I stuffed the confetti into the toes
Aunt Mary was watching and raised her brows, sniffed her nose
And said, why is she doing that with the confetti?
My mother sighed and replied, she’s different.
I read the Bunty book annual, a Christmas gift at that time. It had an address for R.A.D.A.
I wrote and asked for an audition to act out in a play
Whilst waiting for a reply my parents took us all to live in South Africa a long way away.
My father questioned, why is she so angry
My mother said, she’s different.
My mother died at the age of 90, my father gone ten years before
I cried when they wheeled her coffin past my pew
And thought of how she never cuddled me as I grew
I guess it was because my mother too
was different.