Long Press down Poems
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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
I am twenty-one.
It’s a hot, summer day in 1963.
I’m in Lubbock, Texas, at Reese Air Force Base
And I’m climbing the ladder into a supersonic T-38 jet.
The parachute strapped to my back is cumbersome.
I can feel the sweat running down my legs.
Settling into the ejection seat, I strap myself in,
Attach my G-suit to its umbilical cord,
Connect my oxygen mask, microphone and headphones
To their nearby connections.
I am exhilarated as the plane and I are becoming one.
Yet, I am the master and it will faithfully follow my commands.
I start through my lengthy checklist,
And as I power up each engine,
I feel my supersonic rocket ship coming to life.
The engines’ whine reverberates through my headphones
As the instrument panel comes alive
And the myriad of needles jump and stabilize in unison.
I signal the plane captain to remove the chocks.
He salutes me and I smartly respond.
A gentle nudge of the two throttles starts us on our way.
I close the canopy and turn on the air conditioning.
A cold mist blows out of the vents.
I take my mask off and smell it to make sure it’s not smoke.
It never is.
I pull down my helmet’s visor
And tune the radio to the ground control channel.
My headphones come alive with air traffic chatter.
I can see other T-38’s in the distance taking off and landing,
Gracefully, like giant storks swooping down to earth
And then back up again.
I eagerly await my chance to join the flock
As I feel in complete synergy with my exquisite flying machine.
Now it’s my turn as I pull onto the runway.
I press down hard on the brakes
As I push the throttles forward
And check my engines’ instruments
For the thousandth time.
I focus on the centerline ahead of me
As I release the brakes
And push the throttles into full afterburner.
I feel them rather than hear them
As they explode behind me
Leaving a trail of angry, red hot flames.
Their force pushes me back into my seat
As I accelerate down the runway like a dragster.
I pull back on the stick and feel the wheels leave the ground.
We’re airborne!
Gear up, flaps up, as the ground quickly recedes beneath us.
I point the nose upwards and we head to thirty-thousand feet.
My rocket ship and I are happy.
I am smiling.
Life is good.
From Loneliness to Linkages
In the midst of a lonely night
With not a voice to greet the ear,
And not a human sign in sight,
Seated at a familiar desk
With faint fingers on the lap-top
And a thoughtful mind not at rest,
In the quietude of a room
I dare not ever call my own
I can hear my breath in the gloom,
The tick of the clock on the wall,
The rustling of the gentle winds
As they caress leaves that do fall
As feathers on the lowly ground,
The sharp shrilling sounds of crickets
And the quavering croaks of frogs
From a nearby verdant thicket.
From the loneliness of my room
I try to link up with the multitude
As I press down the keys of my laptop
To create verses in deep solitude
And rhythms with or without rhymes
In a freely structured version
Beyond the bounds of space and time
To convey my deep-seated emotions
Gathered in solitude and quietness,
Share my cherished thoughts and visions,
Impart images ingrained in my mind
In the daily course of my lonely life
To one and all who may wish to find,
In a bid to forge linkages with friends
Beyond the range of the oceans
And bring down the loneliness to an end
Written by Krishnanand Guptar
18 February 2023
It’s what we had all waited for
What we practiced for all year
Not that I am bragging
But I was the one to fear
Now Sheila was a gammer
And MiMi had the charm
Jinx was just my sister
Not one of them an arm
Not that the game took muscle
It was more or less technique
I had loads of talent
The others – well – were weak
With the board up on the table
We all took our places
I turned to look each in the eye
They showed nothing in their faces
We each took up our squidger
Between our thumb and finger
Placed it on the edge of a wink
And for a moment linger
We were aiming for the little cup
There in the table’s middle
For winks that land within the cup
Each scored a single tiddle
Then “pop” we press down on the wink
And “flop” the wink goes flying
Hopefully right in the cup
For we were really trying
But I missed my first wink
Then it’s squopped by another player
And I can’t play that wink again
Because it’s down at least a layer
We go around the table
Each scoring tiddles fine
I’m playing so darn good in fact
I think the trophy’s mine
But Jinx and Sheila had my wink squopped
And I’ve no play to move it
And MiMi has but one wink left
And boy did she sure groove it
Oh, I had the talent, I had the skill
And I know I could beat them still
But those three girls ganged up on me
Squopped my wink so I would be
Covered up without a play
And that’s how it played out that day
I lost my crown in Tiddlewinks
Beat out by Sheila, MiMi, Jinx
Mdailey 3/8/12
Squidger = circular disk used to propel winks
Wink = circular disk counter in game
Pot = cup in center of game board
Tiddle = point scored by landing wink in cup
Squopped = getting your wink covered by one or more other player's wink
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!"
(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.
~
Calvary Hill.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Form:
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.
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.
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....