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Best Poems Written by Lisa Ebehardt

Below are the all-time best Lisa Ebehardt poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

Steps To Get Over My Brother

Sometimes I catch myself defending you in my head, thinking “We were only kids…”

And then I sobered up and kick started myself into a foreseen realization.

You were 12.

I was 6.

You had no right.

Sex?

I wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

And although I may be a virgin I know damn well that THAT was not what was supposed to happen.

No, not when your six years old.

No, not when we’re alone in a tent together.

It’s cold, and nobody is home, and your hands only move one direction-

South.

Please. Stop. I don’t like this game.

The words blend together like a new definition of pain.

Eyes welling.

I may not know what’s right but I know what’s wrong.

….

To this day I second guess myself, and justify what you did to me and more importantly what you forced me to do. It churns my stomach to know that your going to be a father. We used to be so close, and I cherished that. But now I know it was just a lie. A lie that you forced me to keep. Concealed behind virgin lips, knowing that you were someone I had no choice but to please. You are my stepbrother.

I understand the term now.

Because it’s going to take multiple steps to get over the abuse, manipulation, and pain that you put me through.

On the outside the scars may have healed and faded but on the inside I have your song on replay.

Every jab. Every motion. Every secret. Every whisper.

It saddens me to think that our little “situation,” was the only thing I had to compare to a “real,” relationship.

Take a breath.

Numb the pain.

Ease your mind.

Start again.

Steps to get over my “brother.”

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

Come Back Please

Your chapped lips against mine made me think back to our grape soda stained freshmen days after school when we thought nobody was looking.

You would look at me out of the corner of your eyes, and that sly smile that edged your face told me everything I ever needed to know.

Except how to deal with the pain and loss I felt after your death.

That eternal absence that all of a sudden turned high school into a mausoleum.

Your locker assigned to a girl with two brown braids on the side of her head, and braces so thick you couldn't see her teeth end. 
Nothing was the same, yet nothing was different.

I walked down halls that hummed with a constant energy.

That energy that used to get me through the day is now a nagging reminder that when I get home, there will be no automatic phone call straight to my voice mail from you checking to see that I was okay.

There will be nothing.

And I would rather have chaos than a numb, grey, all-consuming, nothing.

I miss you, it's true.

But more so... I long for you.

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

Your Hands

You might think it’s strange.

But along with my seemingly awkward gestures, and my dazed expression…

You’d never know that I was paying attention.

Paying attention to the way your hands rested in your lap.

As if they were waiting for another perfect mold to keep it safe, warm, protected.

Your hands…

Pink, ivory, delicate.

Soft, course, sturdy.

A dark scar bruising your right ring finger.

Your tiny fingers in a knot, looking for release.

Folded like the pages of the Bible. Holy, yet unspoken.

I just want to know what it feels like to have a hand like yours.

Do you think people would assume that I was delicate too?

Fragile? Feminine? Dainty like a flower?

Why are women so defined by the texture of their hands?

Why am I glanced over because we held hands that one time and yours were clammy, mine were rough, and you looked at me.

You looked at me and it was not a look of conviction, nor a look of disgust.

It was a look so much worse.

The one expression that let me know that I was simply not enough.

No. Bath and body works just can’t fix the callousness from my steel guitar.

Or the dry palms from scrubbing bathroom floors.

The things I’ve had to do with these hands have been strenuous, crafty, and beautiful.

You might think it’s strange, but I just love you for your hands.

Pink, ivory, delicate.

And his.

Clammy, dark, indifferent.

You’d never know that I was paying attention.

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

My Body

I am a young woman.

Fruitful. Abundant.

Tight, youthful, soft, an escape.

Eyes a soft sea blue. 

Wandering hues on the brink of gray.

Casting shadows over watchful eyes, my brows uplifted in surprise.

My lips, so pink. Taught. Contrast my ivory skin.

My arms, once lanky, stretch to my thighs. A foreign limb.

Once renounced to me.

Carrying themselves like a separate being.

My thighs.

Oh to what do I owe this pleasure?

A chunk of meat attached to each leg.

Tree trunk width, petal soft feel.

Embarrassing, yet tis is me.

Legs so long. 

Touch the sky.

Hair so wild, Chestnut and gold.

At my side, so thick, windblown.

Feet so slim, little round toes.

Peek underneath knobby knees above.

I arch my back to see behind.

What a timid gesture, why so shy?

Rosy hot cheeks, eyes down in dismay.

This is my body.

My Body always....

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

How Does a Lamp Post Feel

It’s cold outside tonight.

Just rounding seven o’clock.

My friends have left and I’m stuck in a what seems to be eternal incandescence that encompasses my willowy form.

I am so tall, it is as if the tree tops speak to me.

Their leaves tapping my shoulders looking for questions carried by the wind.

And I?

I stay structured, securing the perimeter with my watchful eye.

Sometimes this job gets tedious.

As time flies by like the geese in the winter I sulk.

But monotony can be beautiful, I’ve seen things that would tear these sleeping houses to shreads.

And things so treasured and special I question my indecision.

First kisses.
Dead pets.
Sunrises.
Sunsets.

You can call me a hero for lending my light.

A suburban legend brought to life.

And when light is dependable once again, and it’s time for me to take a rest.

I’ll stay planted in the ground like an artificial oak and soak in vitamin D.

I will dim my being and dream of the beach.

I’ll dream of providing hope for lost sailors.

And see more of the midnight eve.

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

Bruised

I love the hate in your voice.

The vein that protrudes from your neck like a striking cobra.

The vast array of hues in your eyes.

Who knew there were that many shades of red?

So caught up in the suspense of the moment that you don’t notice your voice jumping an octave.

The pitch resounding like a fist making contact with my face.

Just because there aren’t any marks, does not mean I am not bruised.

But still…

I love the hate in your voice.

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

Love and Lust

The energy pouring out of you right now is surreal.
Like I placed my finger gently in an outlet.
My head thrown back.
My mouth so dry.
My eyes so wet.
But I refuse to cry.
Your fingers tremble graciously when you stroke my lips.
But just as quickly, your open fist tugs wildly at my hair.
This is happening.
Blurry visions of skin on skin.
Pink tongues, brown hair, sharp eyes, wicked smiles.
Intoxication is magnificent.
Your perfume is as if the only liquor in this room.
And I?
I am an alcoholic.
You are a delicate champagne.
I want to pop you loose.
Leave you empty, and drink you in all by myself.
I was never one to share.
I just can’t help but taste the aroma of your presence with my tongue no matter how arousing it might be.
Because that is all that life consists of.
Constant arousal.
Sometimes through the tongue, or stomachs, our eyes, our hearts, and elsewhere.
Where would we be without this beautiful state of being.
I am drunkenly aroused by you, to a lethal point.

Details | Lisa Ebehardt Poem

This Is Righteousness

You intoxicate me like no other fragrance has done before.

Your sickly sweet pheromones have me reeling for a chance to catch my breath.

Your not even kissing me yet and I feel my want for you reverberate from deep inside, like a bear acknowledging it’s hunger.

Yes.

You make me lick my lips.

Tap my foot.

Heave a sigh.

And moan out loud.

Because you.

Well don’t get cocky now, but I’d love to be more familiar with the sounds you make as you fall asleep.

The stubble in the morning that grows on  your cheek.

The way your singing is slightly off key.

And the tight feeling of your body as you hold me.

Waiting for release you stare at me with eyes of desperation.

I never knew a man could look this.

That a man could look so beaten, yet strong.

Beautiful, yet masculine.

Right, and wrong.

I pull the trigger and light the fire.

Our eyes meeting, our lips greeting.

This is righteousness.


Our fingers knot.

Your thighs have me in lock.

This is righteousness.

Pinned to the floor, I couldn’t want more.

This is righteousness.

Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

This is righteousness.