Best Up And Over Poems
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.
I’d like to pretend that my hands aren’t dirty
from the soap of mental suppression,
that the callouses are from hard work,
and not from picking my bones back up
off the floor on a daily basis;
ragged, dry, and weary.
Every fairy tale has a root,
stapled into the hard soil of truth.
They all have a moral,
some sort of clerical error
born from life’s shadow.
We watch, hoping to learn
from the missteps of someone
else’s intrepid imagination,
some 4D revelation singing
lullabies to the young heart
of humanity.
And they bend to the fickle
will of greedy creativity,
making the yoke less bitter
so that we can tongue the purge
of denial without pouting.
I’d like to pretend that my hands are clean,
that I don’t whisper cold lies into your palms,
watch you drink from the frosted glass
of my sincerity; Hope that you don’t blink,
that you won’t notice the blood bubbling
up, and over my shiver before you finally
finish this story.
I just want you to understand.
This isn’t poison.
This is merely me bleeding out,
and hoping you’ll learn to love the
taste of fire kissed oxymoronic metaphors,
served up with juiced will and the vegan
flesh of my inhibition.
So that you can see through my eyes,
know where I have been,
and how it felt to be consumed.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
In Memoriam of brave, lost souls during the First World War
Our insides churn, nostrils flare, with the pungent stench,
Order given to leave our sanctuary and trench.
Battle cry, whistle blown and up and over we go;
Standing together in advancement row by row.
We, doomed soldiers, marching onto the battlefield
holding our rifles, killing weapons, as our shields.
Hats made of tin lay cumbrous on our head,
Boots holding chaffed, unsteady feet, as we tread.
Upfront the enemy and fast approaching us,
Peaceful bygone days, oh— how beautiful it was!
Loss of innocence, bloodied through war, outbraves,
Blades turn crimson red — so many early graves.
Bugles sound, shells explode, blinded and choked within;
Shattered dreams, shattered lives, battle we may not win.
Comrades that became friends fall at our feet —
Only death awaiting them now to meet.
Their last breathless, muttered words lovingly spoken,
A falling silent tear, plea, gesture or token.
Remembrance to behold for their sweetheart, mother;
Final last memories, thoughts, can be of no other.
Resonant of sound and echoes of war
a shroud of smoke filled air as now and before.
Remember us always today and forever more.
We gave to king, country and those we adore.
where frozen embers still burn
my doctor says is a thing you earn
i ask him if it is a large mass
as he quietly looks up my ass
i politely tell him it is on this side not there
he says he is being thorough there a pair
true i guess though i'm sure one hangs lower
much lower than the other up and over
where frozen embers still burn
i thought had cleared up in my youth
i knew i shouldn't have slept with Ruth
i should have done an about turn
everyone warned me about her
in fact that's why i courted her
what they thought i should fear
sounded like music to my ear
i lost the other ear while i was out hunting
there's a frozen ember i still hear ringing
just then i hear the Doc yell with an echo
his face still behind me his mouth down low
its not your balls those are hemorrhoids
boy their big they must be on steroids
be sensitive there sir those are my parts
makes you want to release a couple of farts
where frozen hemorrhoids burn and hang
no woman should yearn to touch or bang
i'll get them removed my dear lassies
don't mind mine and i won't your falsies
if per chance this deep poetry i just penned
has got you hot and thinking of my tight end
where frozen embers still burn my heart is yours
a woman as special as you this old man adores
Such Majesty There, Where Nature's Beauty Abounds
There it was deepest beauty all the way around
Whispering winds echoing most colorful sounds
Like a vision from a very passionate dream
Earth, sky unified into giant flowing stream
I lone interloper into majestic views
Wanderer drinking in, birds, trees, overhead blues
A pilgrim self-sent on my first real Nature quest
An awestruck fan, praying to be its welcomed guest.
Old leaves crunching loud under my invading feet
Pondering, is this any great way to first meet
Speaking soft to critters, as they scurried away
Assuring forest, destruction is not my way
Following along winding ancient woodland trail
Heart, mind and soul under beaming Nature cast spell
Around a narrow bend, climbing down small stream bank
Stopping, kneeling, drinking and giving God my thanks.
Stepping across stones, over waters crystal clear
Thinking if this would be destroyed, my new deep fear
Over to yonder hill, small saplings at its base
Magic colors sing, behold such infinite grace
Suddenly a rush, as swiftly away raced deer
All three knowing the truth, do not let man too near
Watching as they flew and jumped over fallen log
Each springing up and over like a leaping frog.
With such majesty abounding, soul wanted more
Grateful mind promising, to come back to explore
Bring along my best camera to pictures take
Save all to a pretty Nature scrapbook then make
With purest joy, I turned to trek my way back home
Adventurer, seeking under Nature's green dome
Finally arriving at my car at sunset
Explorer thinking this is as good as it gets.
There it was, deepest beauty all the way around
Whispering winds echoing most colorful sounds
Like a vision from a very passionate dream
Earth, sky unified into giant flowing stream
I lone interloper into majestic views
Wanderer drinking in, birds, trees, overhead blues
A pilgrim self-sent on my first real Nature quest
An awestruck fan, praying to be its welcomed guest.
Robert J. Lindley, 9-10-2018
Rhyme, ( Remembrances Of An Early Fall Nature Trek)
Finished and edited from an earlier version written in 1977.
A little boy with a great big grin,
Loved to watch the train come in.
To see it travel on the track,
Up a steep hill and then come back.
He watched it struggle, at first in vain,
Huffing and puffing to bear the strain.
Up and over, the little train ran,
Saying proudly, “I think I can!”
Regret life’s wrong steps.
Oh, that I could someday fly
over millions more.
For “Caterpillar'S Gait” contest
Weird Ways and Good Old Days
If feature was made into a modern day
About past, wonder what it would say
Things have been done in weird ways
And were always called good old days.
This to some might sound like a crock
But we had a party on every block
Goings were easy and never tough
Knew how to play Blind Man's Bluff.
During each day was Carolina blue sky
And we would all play Mother May I
With much vigor and a lot of pep
To either take giant of small step.
We were nice, kind and never mean
Played Red Light mixed up with Green
While there living like a local native
With new games we had been creative.
Boring new games and news have become
Put in thumb, pulled out prune not plumb
Shriveled up and over back was bending
Can you imagine him to White House sending.
What if we were to have Hillary instead
Already made and slept in White House bed
Know below are two states called Carolina
Where they are supposed to store the China.
Has knowledge of where things should go
What wall to place a Benet or Gainsborough
And no one there will look at her suspicious
Knows difference between cat and doggie dishes.
Knows dots from dits and triangles from squares
And about foreign affairs she never despairs
She still is a faithful lover of Steve Schultz
Has his characters on all of her quilts.
After further experimenting in a lonely lag
What they came up with was some old crab
Who forever and a day resided in Vermont
Can't tell can't from caunt and ant from aunt.
Here is something else between you and me
Poor soul only has undergraduate degree
And out wonder how many would flip
When service responsibility he did skip.
If someone were to be an brilliant inspector
Berne had been a conscientious objector
And even though he may be slender and tall
Is Senator from almost smallest state of all.
(This also goes for City he was a mayor of.)
Last thing I know is he thinks guiding the
VA can be counted for foreign affairs. He
must be the only one who cares.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Day one is the beginning of hard work-
January and March has taken my life back to square one.
Day one of each surgery, helpless as a new born baby.
One step at a time, so close but so far away,
Has prepared me for yet another surgery.
Light at the end of the tunnel as dimmed once more.
In August a surgery will take me back to another 'day one'.
With my faith, determination and hard work,
I'll be back on my feet in two shakes of a lamb's tail.
Okay, maybe not quite that fast, but I think I can,
I think I can, I know I can, like the "Little Engine That Could".
Slowly climbing up and over, then I'll say, "I knew I could",
By next year my 'day ones' will be far behind me.
For Poet Destroyer's contest, 'Day One'
Evenings Light
Late afternoon, rainbow colours slither across my floor,
climbs up and over my audio, my video equipment,
streaks across the covers – between which family history lies
and lights up the frames, the pictorial history before my eyes.
Mother Nature’s breath, dances shadows of forest foliage
- with Father Suns refracted rays, his rainbow children,
his multi shaped Silhouettes, shadows of animated still life -
all throughout, permeating my four cornered room
as they sway, rock, weave, dance, crawl across my walls,
walls holding onto my history, my family’s history
as we look down upon me, me in games of solitaire.
As am I, and wonder why ?, there is no dance of life
in here, except from that which comes on light waves,
floating through – reflections of forest shadows,
refractions of light ( heavens rainbow children ) –
my living, dining room, my prison window.
( B. J. “A ” 2 )
May 3rd 2006
CHILDREN OF LAHORE
(Easter Sunday 2016)
Arms flailing
From
Her
Blue burka,
The woman
Jumps
Like a checkerboard
Piece
Up and over
The white squares
Of bedsheet
To bedsheet
To bedsheet
Each
Draped
Over a
Red blossom
Bump
Lumped
And soaked on
The gravel dust
Fairground
Floor.
Like a game of peekaboo
Between mother and baby,
The woman
Lifts
A corner of sheet
Howls
Then pins it back
With her fingernails
And just as quickly
Jumps
To the next
Small
Square
Hump-covered
Sheet
Lifts
Repeating
The move
Three hundred
More
Times.
“Ibrahim!
Ibrahim?”
A police officer puts her in handcuffs.
No, her husband
Is tackling her.
Actually,
She is a fly swatter
Crazed, swinging at new yellow ghosts.
She
Tears
Her hair
Out
From the back of her head
Like overgrown grass
Grabbed
From a mud puddle
In clumps
Clamped
In her garlic-laced fists,
Even the dirt is surprised,
Hanging
By its bloody roots,
Dripping
In the air.
That is what a bomb, does.
She was a mother
An hour before,
Before she lost her shoes,
While she sat to the side, chatting
With friends
On a bench
As the Merry-Go-Rounds
Went round and round
And round
In the safe distance
And the painted horses
Panted
In the yellow dust.
The children stood in line,
Waiting their turn,
Sharing candies
From pockets and purses,
Checking time
From their phones.
The mother’s shoes
Were spooked
Away
Like fish behind a glass
At the moment
Of the hot flash and swish.
That man,
Yes
He knocked on the glass,
He knocked on the glass,
He pressed his narrow face
As he peered in,
Yes,
He knocked on that glass
Just before
He pulled the cord
Wrapped
Round his waist.
Oh, beautiful God
How could you allow this?
How could
Even the Devil
Do it?
Only a man.
Only a man
Of unfaith,
Of course,
Could smother the sunlight, like that,
Blowing to smithereens
A playground full of children.
Riding on a highway, hippy gypsy style,
Getting the past behind me, mile after mile after mile,
Until I feel free.
Songs on the radio, they always unwind me,
I love the way they flow, up, up and over me,
With nowhere to go.
It’s the little things in life that matter the most,
It’s in my hands, my heart and my soul.
You can travel by land, just sleep when you can,
It’s in my hands, my heart and my soul.
Let go and be free, your welcome to join me,
It’s in my hands, my heart and my soul.
It’s never too late to escape from that cage,
To my hands, my heart and my soul.
Gave it up easily, with nothing to lose,
The love of a dreamer, freedom to choose,
A brand new demeanor.
Give me the simple life, I’ll sleep on the ground,
Say goodbye and make haste, now that I’m bound,
It’s only a matter of taste.
It’s the little things in life that matter the most,
It’s in my hands, my heart and my soul.
You can travel by land, just sleep when you can,
It’s in my hands, my heart and my soul.
Let go and be free, your welcome to join me,
It’s in my hands, my heart and my soul.
It’s never too late to escape from that cage,
To my hands, my heart and my soul.
Up and over I jumped the fence
With howls and barks left behind.
Slipped my backpack on my back
And to the hills I ran.
The stars were watching me
And the trees were hiding me.
I walked and walked so breathelessly
Until I came across a mystery.
You hissed and flared at my touch
Turning black to match the night.
I picked you up in my hands
You were no bigger than my thumb.
Between my fingers you lie and sleep.
Faded greys, and mellow greens
Are the colours you now keep,
When climbing up my golden streaks.
While I lie beneath the African sun
Away from city bustling runs.
You taught me many things
About adapting phases Changing One.
One step, one step at a time
You adapted once again.
My little warrior you’ve become
My Dearest little Wyatt
I have ADD.
Having... what I have's like playing billiards*!
I aim my thoughts
like a cue ball at a stripe**
and hit a solid** color...
It wipes me out! I forfeit my next shot!
My Critic-of-all-dreams does the thinking, then!
And THEN, it seems my friends all make their shots,
And I am left to rack up.
As they feel sorry for me, I am given the break shot,
first shot in the new game!
'Oo!' I think, 'a thought for every ball!' and it doesn't end well!
I fire off the shot, and nearly crack the lot,
And the cue ball leaps up and over the mess of billiard balls,
and OFF the TABLE!
My one friend is bald,
and as I pick the cue ball up, I imagine how much
His head looks like the cue ball, and it sets me laughing.
Unknown, my crime of thought is,
And he graciously grants me... another shot!
It is then, that I put on too much chalk, and send the white ball spinning
With a blue mark on one side going round and round
...and... this is how my thoughts go, sometimes!
A good thing, I am not playing for money!
________
*in this case, I am employing the American usage of 'Billiards', which includes 'Pocket Billiards', along with several other Cue Sports
**'Stripes and Solids' is a game in which one player tries to knock only the Striped Balls, while the other player tries to knock only the Solid-Colored Balls into any of the pockets. To hit, with the white cue ball, a ball of the other player's designation ('Striped' or 'Solid') is to forfeit one's next shot. A successful 'pocketing' of one's designated ball, adds a point, and allows the player to continue shooting, until he either misses, or strikes or 'pockets' another player's ball.
As I sit up in my cozy window seat;
I notice that the sunshine
has disappeared in retreat.
It has left us a very dank, murky,
and unfriendly kind of day;
With dingy clouds lounging over us
in a tempestuous way.
Thundering clouds bellow out their voice in the sky.
While squeezing out massive rain drops from on high.
I survey pedestrians running to take canopy from the rain;
And I hear and see swirling water rushing to the nearest drain.
Suddenly! I am captivated by a fork-like flash
illuminating the sky quite near;
And hot-tempered rumbling and tumbling rage in full gear.
I see God's air-borne creatures flying to take shelter in their nest;
Smartly waiting it out, till the storm takes its rest.
The trees with out-stretched arms, stand still in dorm-like form;
Anticipating the fierce beating they will get from the storm.
With startling strength, screaming winds encircle the house tonight;
Causing the window panes to shudder with fright.
While the huge, expanded raindrops soak everything around;
Lightening bolts angrily shout as they hit the ground.
Without prior notice, I and the whole city become engulfed in darkness;
As the storm violently wrenched down wires, with its powerful ruggedness.
A child in the house shrinks deep down in his bed;
And pulls the blankets up and over his head.
Every sharp voice of thunder clap he does hear;
Strikes him with a stifling chord of fear.
Then a gentle reminder comes to his childish ears;
"Fear not my child, for I am near,
While you sleep, I will watch over you.
Just rest in Me till the night is through."
With the thunderous night over, and the last signs of the storm has passed away;
Sunshine casts its warm penetrating smile on us today.