Long Rubs Poems
Long Rubs Poems. Below are the most popular long Rubs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rubs poems by poem length and keyword.
Soiling, sin stains bleach the fabric of my inner being
Serrated path is dotted with my continual missteps
Shady thoughts shudder my raven mind
Salty, brackish inclinations evaporate into my sane senses
Silty apparitions clutter then corrode my night visions
Sultry, lucid desires are embedded in my dark imagination
Seductive thoughts race through my coarsening intellect
Shifting eyes refract the availing light
Sordid deeds exponentially multiply my misery
Searing indiscretions bracket my dampening conscience
Shrouding gloom eclipses my vexed heart
Soaring guilt pulsates through my jaded psche
Shallow cares flood then drown my resolve
Satiating peace flees from my corrupt estate
Shielding grace is obfuscated by my compounding feelings of inadequacy
Spawning mercy is blighted by my wicked, cankerous condition
Sanctifying balm rubs raw my callous, iniquitous sores
What is it about me
that so gets under your skin
Have you lived the life I've lived?
Have you been where I have been?
What is it about me
that makes you livid, green
Is it the way that I write?
Or the things that I have "seen"?
What is it about me
That rubs you the wrong way?
Is it that I am brazen
With what I do and say?
What is it about me
That has you on recoil?
Is it that I am "fake"?
Does my presence make you boil?
What is it about me
that makes you want to hurl?
Is it that I'm "soul" ugly?
And you thought I was a pearl?
What is it about me?
Maybe the same's true of you?
Cause let me just say right now...
Under the sun, nothing's new
Eileen Manassian
MUSING AT THE LIBRARY
Curmudgeon staring me down, what do you think betwixt those eyes? I dare to stare back this time. “Are you having a good day, sir.” “No!” he says back just as fast. But perhaps I laugh with a mischievous twinkle in my eye, perhaps sir, just a scintilla bit better.
She stares at me unknowingly cutting in line, ready to speak, then doubles back for someone was before her. She shuffles to the next counter with her stack and opens her jaw, “Are youuu Jewish? Because you look Jewish…” and I just stare back at this odd woman, rude woman, what is she jabbering about. I’m befuddled.
Supergeek, and I say this lovingly, gives me the lowdown on everything humanly possible about the comic book world. Even the color coding of heroes and villains.
“Oh, I’ve got something special for you to do,” she rubs her hands together before I can rub the sand out of my eyes. Oh, boy!
And there’s the “Do you remember me?” and just like a book with outline, the colors come back to me. I erase the red hair and make it gray and I wrinkle up the paper. Oh yes, I remember you!
In the sorting room, I put my feelings on the conveyor belt. They fall into a variety of bins...adult, child, ones I leave behind, those headed outside and those to shelve.
10/12/2018
your red dawn rubs against my gentry
and I'm alive
awoken
from the malbec of night
drifting
i swim into your catacombs
frosted in light
my backdrop
your nook
as I suck on the virtues of life
what i feel
is that you're open
to hold
me, a tin can
relentless, receptacle
kicked around
and down
a bosom of need
followed
your hunger
my greed
bubbling blood
sweeping inside
more than urges
blessed
moments to come
succumbed to an utter whirlwind
we blow
breath sliding slowly into one another
staring off into the stars
the future
we don't blink
we are no longer blind
my hands rub
against an a'ss of a lifetime
oblivious
to the past
or what's about to come
my eyes look closely
and kiss you deep
etching a memory
longingly
forever in my mind
“I am feeling it.” He said.
He meant his age, and as I watched
I saw a vision of him…
Ribs broke away
from the cuttlefish bone of his breast
opening outward in a rueful grin.
I saw his heart stuttering over a word.
I watched his lungs tussling
with a bladder of vapor.
I saw a horseman on a creaking steed
raise its hoary head
and point an ancient ladle
at a long-winded windmill.
“Stir my belly lad,” it said.
“spoon out my sump,
dole globs of lymph from here to there.
My oil is vapid, my hip-bones hang
like tree tusks over a wilting groin.
Each ear is a pot
for mulch and millipedes”.
The specter fades.
He smiles, rubs his thin hair.
“I also see it sometimes’” he says,
“this liver-spotted ghost
that chains me
to you.”
Held to expectation cast by citizens
Mirror assures return of gilded grins
Ballroom brag pats his back
Dancer has handshakes lubricated
Dignitaries' approval demonstrated
Slide through sludge of embellishing
Climbing supply sets steep trajectory
Chainmail armour can't crack
Schedule transferred into twenty four
Long clock pours hour numb typhoon
Two day growth rubs grey flat reflection
Ajar loss odds conjure slam of rejection
Glass heart arbiter fears attack
Campsite composed becomes complex
Company pivot competitively, sniff index
Windswept wolf is braced for coals' ignite
Empire pain laid relabeled, corporate heist
Exposed turgid slapped by lack
Asset confines his value crushed for cash
Worthless in combustion, a city collapsed
Identical colts interrupted
Bid for counterpart acclaim
Business fortune corrupts
consecutive boys verbatim
21st February
Tycoon's Forbode
Galloping within the nights of her innocence
he raced around the field fire chasing the heat of equine glee,
the horn of his head, a wizard's weapon and a witch's wish
with which a poison may be whimpered and youth enriched with longer laugh,
rose gold gilding on the supernatural spike ribboned with ribs of silver spells,
sensing the magic of her intuitive love the beast of God's bridge halts,
her eyes pretty in patient approach, his alert with admiring admonition,
they tresspass upon each other by exhalation of warm airy awe
whirling from their mouths, measuring the elation of frienship newly carved,
although invited to mount, the Maiden rubs her chin along his velvet nose,
fingers glide through the mane like breeze through willow branches, he huffs from joy,
in a gesture of supplication she kneels to the Unicorn's lead leg, one arm around
and a hand of healing pressed against his ripened chest, be restless and alone no more,
nibbling her ear in acceptence she giggles at the thought of adventure's anxiety,
leaping like an angel possessed with purpose for playful liaisons,
his back forming a saddle of supple security for her healthy frame, they join naturally,
she names him Azyerbel and he rears in rejoice at the grip of her knees,
riding into hinterlands of history unborn, they share courage known only to legends -
J.A.B. written in honor of, and for PD.'s Unicorn Birthday Contest 2012 -
Happy Birthday my Sphinx -
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Fast steady steps but not sure where to go
Strong sturdy arms but ready to give in
Warm playful gaze with a hue of sadness
A cursing tongue
capable of sweet innocent promises
Wrap me in your arms
Hide me in your smile
But baby don’t drag me for a mile
Fill me, consummate my soul
A touch that could burn
A look of yearn
Words that could calm my spirit
An embrace that shields me
A smell that rubs off
A presence that could linger
A face that could show me the world
A being that makes life unfold before me
I wish i could be the one
Who could be with you when you are afraid
Placate your fears
Chase the dark shadows of your past
Close your wounds
Heal your scars
I want to be the one to te tell you that
Snowflakes do not taste good
That flowers do bloom in the spring
And that splinters hurt
I just want to be there for you
Make sure that your everything is going to be alright
I want to make you believe
That true love exists
I want to smother you with feathery kisses
If i can't hug you long enough
tell you I love you too often
Know that I believe in us together
Even if it can’t be all that
I have given you the rarest opportunity
To allow you to see my own beauty
All the reasons i have in me
My qualms, realms, pent up emotions
New perspective and even my uncertainties
You have reached that special part of me
Where you could hear my heart flutter
Listen to me when i say nothing a
But i mean something
When you could thrust me deep
In the night sky’s feverish theme
In return you have share with me
A place where we can confront our needs
dreams and unspoken fears
The storehouse of our hope that encompasses
The essence of who we truly are
But when i see a furrow in your brow
A glitch of sadness in those eyes
Or hear you curse and yell
Sense anger in your voice
I shudder with fear but somehow
make myself strong enough
So i could run and hold you
rock you gently
Say it's okay baby
In your world where everybody hates
a happy ending story
Let me be the one to say forever and ever
before the end
I hope time will not come when my dawn will break
Giving light to your mind that we are meant
But this time with you is not wasted in sorrow
But spent in smiles
Despite the future’s call
My case i now rest my heart i now give
Myself i surrender before my time slips
And runs out with fate.
' '''''''' ' ''
Somewhere a hand is reading out loud
a Dickinson, a leather-worn journal
recording daily life’s soirees,
memorizing rain and shielding little girl’s eyes
from the blasting words of the sun.
Somehow someone reaches
from darkness to drive the shadows
that meet the body of her child: trembling
with excitement or fear,
sliding tender fingers on the back;
parts the arms like wind that rushes in
all seasons to reveal the lush, delicious
landscape of summer ; then rubs the elbow
down the forearm to greet the cheeks
with a kiss and watches while
the hands move back without help or
guidance from the daughter sleeping. ~
Somewhere a mother, grandmother,
godmother, stepmother, or mother nature
weeps over love’s broken child;
uses her hair to bandage
the wound on the youth’s head …unfolds
her hands from prayer to widen
the window of angel psalms
pressing her lips into alleys
of the sapling’s mouth: a tear transforms her
from receiving to giving. ..
and she feels without seeing the last light
of the night; lit for those who witness
its final extinguishing.
©
........ .... ........
*with love to my Mom who had passed on*
Gautami Phookan's Poet lll Contest
by nette onclaud