If you enjoy these, go to the next post which are series of poems about Death. i feel you will find it very, very good.
CLAIRE DURLING
Joseph
Seeing his face, such a comforting sight
Like the glorious ring of a morning’s light.
To his lips I come with a hopeful glee,
In the midst of a lover’s captivity.
His chestnut eyes glow with a kindly gaze,
Sweeping my airy legs high through his gentlemen ways.
His cheekbones, chiseled with a manly form
With a rosy and tan creation adorn.
From his face to his neck, such a broadness to bore
A strengthened young man full of beauty’s galore.
The veins in his arm full of the purest of blood
Pierce into my heart like a crashing, unbearable yet beautiful flood.
To his torso I go, such immenseness is there
A hairy and perfectly muscular glare.
Such lusting is this! How I wish he could know
For my staring must boast unmistakable glow!
Athleticism roars from his head to his toe,
In his quads, in his rear, oh God what a show!
Now for his back, how could I forget?
For the rippling muscles were precisely the reason we met.
His loving embrace, such a comfort I feel
That his powerful grasp could be nothing but real.
The perfection of sight, how could he be mine?
My fortunate outcome; so lovely, so fine.
Your body and soul, a sight to behold
That you would choose me to love and to hold.
How could you my love, remember my song?
Know that I love you, so faithful and so strong.
MATTHEW VALERIOTE
Rosy Lenses
So many months have now gone by
And now my eyes, which once were covered
By rosy lenses, now are bare.
The fire which once shined blindingly from your eyes
Now smolders amongst the ashes of what was “us.”
Your hair which I would have sworn without thought
Was softer than the softest silk you could find
Has somehow turned to scratchy cotton;
The grade you find in motel bed sheets.
How could it be than in just half a year’s time
Your ample bosom which would have made
Rick James revolve in his grave in envy
Now evokes the landscape of the Dust Bowl?
Your hips which even Shakira would admit could not lie
Are suddenly as narrow as a British alley.
Your arms which once wrapped around me like
The sash of Sir Gawain to make me invulnerable
To the whole world outside of your embrace
Are now quite frankly chains of stick bugs
Hanging limp from your armless shoulders.
And far be it from me to forget, your buttocks which
Were then so extraordinary as to be beyond comparison,
Have bewilderingly transformed in these few short months
Into a novelty item I glance at in a gift shop, without even
Breaking my stride down the aisle in search of better things.
But after all that is said and you’re surely quite livid
Please know that this passage is most definitely biased;
It’s just what happens when the rosy lenses come off.
Nicole Whitman
My Own Personal Ocean
Sunrise sheds light on your thick tousled hair
a tangled web of blonde bursting through brunette
slanting slightly to the left and
framing your pristine face
pale yet flushed
encasing your blue eyes
shining sapphires in the sunlight
yearning with desire
open as windows
vast as oceans
sending me sailing with every glance
your nose bridging the gap betwixt them
curved to perfection,
as the foam curves to divide the ocean and sand
horizontally aligned with prominent cheekbones
holding your reddened cheeks
only superior to your soft lips
delicate as flower petals
moist as morning dew
crashing, crushing, crumpling against my own
your neck, tender yet sturdy
the rest of your body unfolding below
cascading muscles
firm and taught
arms of Atlas
withstanding the weight of the world with ease
chest of sand
smooth when washed with water
slightly grainy from your stubble when dry
your stomach hidden under glorious abs
hard as stone
yet weakened by the tracing of fingers across it
legs of toned muscles
thighs rising thick above round calves
sculpted to perfection
supported by the uneven feet
which gently graze the back of my knees
sending me spiraling downward
intertwining our legs for the moment
connecting our hearts for eternity
KATHRYN CHUN
My friend whose face is dark from labor
His skin is a hide from wild deer
Cheeks etched with scars and scratches
Lips whose sticky intoxicant leads beer
To his belly, heaving with moistened air
From ages away to current age
Ages waver from youth to a meek
Eighty years-years playing tricks on his hands
To arms that sling a heavy day’s work
On a back that would be broken
His elbows curved, not yet right angles
But crack when joints have first awoken
He crookedly strums a cool guitar
His body around a musical body
Picasso like-is so like his singing that haunts my dreams
His knees cradle this wooden infant
As musical murmuring seems
To drift down his calves and up his wrists
His legs are planted in the ground
Only to shift slowly with the tempo
His ankles, feet, and toes are a mound
But divide into a hundred pieces
When he taps out time
His toes bob very little to this earthly sound
His body sways to my poem’s little rhyme
As he sits and plays a cool guitar around me
HANNAH TYNDALL
He has a cold, long nose
That meets mine every morning
It sits yonder from his brown eyes,
Judgment free in their strong gaze,
Yet acknowledging of sadness
Beyond that, his slobbery tongue,
It scoops back and brushes the dog chow crumbs
Off of his velvet fur covered noggin.
A velvet fur that is so soft to the touch,
Smoothest at the ears to their very tips.
The velvet goodness extends to the scruff of his neck
Where a mother once grabbed
Now an owner does the same.
And his collar circles around to his
Muscular chest that trembles at
The need to run wildly and free.
To run a hand further down his spine
Is to feel the velvet turn to course, think needles,
They are his warmth in the winter,
And in the summer fall to the ground
In an effort to survive the summer sun.
The rest of these needles cover a bush;
This bush wags in pure joy
And thumps when he dreams of puppy cookies.
He is my Buddy, but more of a friend,
A companion and a confidant,
A pillow and a source of warmth
A furry sidekick to my life!
IMAN HABEL
Her face the moon that makes the wolfs of Ireland howl in despair
Holding the deep creases of her eyes,
In her eyes the star in the horizon lingers freely
A glance into this horizon takes you on a voyage of innocence and dignity
Piety playing lovingly on the lashes of this creature with zeal that plays your emotion
This sea is of the rich, brown honey of the killer bee of Kisumu, Kenya
Your image in her eyes is of purity and goodness
The darkness of this world is very emptily seen in these eyes of sheer divinity
Never thought a moon could be so soft
Be apt a finished, refined, ceramic
Sculpture of the famous Valentine
A moon so bright it only befits shyness
Modesty, piety, reticence
Features that only deem chess
To the ferocity of men’s claws
Her structure molded by the traditions of her grandmother
Shoulders back, back straight, a rhythm plays the feet she moves
A walk with purpose, principle and a dare like the queen of Shiba
The height of a Massai woman, only to be envied by society
Her size, shape, a mystery for she hides it so well
Better than the eggs of a spider in the spring
Better yet than the bone of a hyena’s meal
Her modesty the sword that protects her divinity
Wrapped like a present presented to the queen
Head to toe only reserve is seen
Her head the spring of a winter’s snow
Her body the cover of the society we breed
So sheer in her place like the roots of a baobab tree
Deeply tied to her roots, not even the fanatics of imperialism can shake her stance
CATHERINE STOBEL
Leaning over my body as a willow tree
Which shades the cold moist earth below;
Cannot wait for what will pass or what may be,
A constant wonder that I want to know
His smell is like the spices of an evergreen forest
Consuming my nostrils with each time I breathe;
His eyes like two dark blue ponds reflecting the gray sky
Hands so large and so strong, with veins that look ready to seethe
On top of which my waist does lie
His hair the color of the sandy beaches that the sun bleaches gold
And which does glisten with rays of a bright amber day,
And can also be found covered with wool on times that are cold;
Like a bird in spring with so many words that his mouth does say,
But With every kiss our lips lock into a perfect mold
As I move my hand down his broad barreled chest
I can feel his young healthy heart beating,
Like a runner in a marathon who has laid down to rest;
Farther I let my hand fall to that dip in his lower back
Like a crevasse gradually worn in by the weather;
His core is strong, and in no way does this lack,
With warm skin smoother than polished leather;
Long and thick stalks does he have for legs,
Which continue far below my own,
His knees like knobs on a light maple tree,
With feet so wide and solid they could float like boats
And take him upon the vast and deep sea;
But yet they are and beautiful because they are his
And he is mine, my love, who is beloved
SAM HATAMIAN
My Father
His hair vigorously grows
Like a wild thorn bush with no respect for soil
Serving as defense for his ingenuity, his brain
With a patch missing at the center dome
Like pure white sand in the midst of a coliseum
Eyebrows fierce, strong, almost too strong
Born from the ashes of a nuclear power plant
Something must have gone wrong
They face off, a clash of the titans
Winner must take all
Eyes round and widen with precise geometry
Having encompassed the world, revolution, sorrow, and defeat
Each blood vessel telling a story
Branching off into the back of his mind
Where thoughts of the past continue to circulate
His lips, an upside down parabola
The moon eclipsing the sun from the perfect south
A permanent frown, chiseled from stone
The architect must have made a mistake, or broke his heart in the midst
The climax of his life falling, like the downward slope of his mouth
His shoulders powerful, vast, and expand
A backpack of muscle with algebraic textbooks
Quantifying endless limits and always at work
Never ceasing pistons, the remnants of a breaking machine
With no grease, with no help, Atlas holding the weight of the world on his shoulders
His olive skin is smooth to caress his daughter
Coarse to hold the ruins of a broken Persian Empire
Growing on top, a jungle, a forest of hair
A reminder of heritage, a reminder of pride
A reminder of his beloved Iran.
NINEKA UMEH
DEAR BELOVED
Your heart,
As big as the Grand Canyon
Stretches across the oceans,
From the Atlantic to the Pacific
As loving as a mother towards her newborn child
Never out of place,
It touches every soul that comes in contact
Your voice,
As soothing as the water to a parched soul
Of the rain that ever so lightly leaves a trace of itself,
During the middle of the night
A volcanic eruption of soft spoken words
Round, almond shaped eyes,
Brown as the soil that nurtures the earth
Full of curiosity of a world unknown
Yet overwhelmed with confidence that shines through
Even in the loneliest realms of the darkest pits known to man
Your smile,
Unique in its own right
Effortless in its effect
Breaks through the locks of one’s heart without permission
A body created with a specific design in mind
Tended to ever so gently,
Through careful preparation
Baked slowly to perfection,
The clouds come in,
As it rains in winter and is breezy in autumn
Your touch enticing,
As summer heats and spring retreats
Time comes to a halt when your presence is known
Sweet dreams are where I can find you,
A beautiful encounter and sight to see
With wings I know not only visible to my eyes
Sent from heaven,
A good luck charm
The remedy and only cure to my broken heart
My beloved
RYAN MENDOZA
Her hair is bleeding unto her shoulders
As a soldier’s wound drips red unto the soil
And a mother cries tears of mourning,
One single tear drop escaping the tyranny of tissue.
Her eyes implode into a black hole,
Forever capturing my gaze and
Swaying my love like a tree branch falls from wind.
Lips full as strawberries freshly picked and
Even more desirable to taste, yet
Only after the leaves have been clipped.
Even the neck has the seasons long stories
Of a daytime drama, put on a pedestal
By house mothers, fulfilling the fantasy
They lose from nurturing their most loved.
Her bosom, although inappropriate to gawk at,
Makes one reminisce of deep sea,
Visible on the surface but the depths of which
Only know to those lucky to enough o explore.
A moment in time captures the gentle curves
Of a body that encapsulated the joy of
Thousands of choirboys singing falsetto,
Singing innocence, singing spirituality, singing faith.
The V of her upper thighs makes a lumberjack
Retire his axe for the day and just appreciate the
Beauty of trees and desire of nature.
Legs extend like the winds shuffling newspaper
And throwing down sorrow the people wish
They could purchase an umbrella for.
The feet unfortunately go by unnoticed
Forever hidden in a tent without a door.
Her body does more to me than does
Internet sensations and repetitive movements
Making the debauchery of the night and upcoming
Pain of the morning are worth the momentary touch
Of a mermaid: forever desired, never experienced.
HANNAH OBANNI
Ideal
It starts with his hair
Darker than Vader’s soul
Falls like the branches of a willow tree without a care
And as delicate as a fine china bowl.
His eyes deeper than the depths of the ocean
As brown as a newborn fawn
Mysterious like Juliet’s deadly potion
Beautiful like the early dawn.
Lips fuller than a stadium on opening day
As soft as a flower petal
With color of a rose in the month of May
That speak words more pure than metal.
Your back is a meadow covered in snow.
Skin aged to perfection like an eminent wine
Your spine, the valley in between mountain peaks,
leads to the small of your back so warm and so kind.
Muscles that are not used to overcome others
Simply, to hold me tight
Love given, like the kind of mothers
That turns me on like the ceiling light.
Your hands outsized and trusting
With phalanges protruding, long and lanky, like newly planted trees
That intertwines with mine, caressing and warming
That tickle and tease
A body chiseled like an intricate figurine
His shoulders stronger than redwood’s roots
And his arm’s the branches so sturdy and lean
His chest guarding the loot
KAITLIN RYAN
My Love
I start at your toes
my eyes tracing up and over every inch
of your soft physique
that I selfishly adore
Your legs are built and steady
they bring you anywhere that I am
balanced stalks with a purpose
powerful and determined
Your hips are always in the right place
surrounded by muscles I can’t help but touch
deep river valleys
beautiful and smooth
Your arms are long and strong
they pick me up and put me exactly where I want to be
the safest cocoon
warm and secure
Your hands find the places that make me shudder
they hold my face, stroke my hair, brush away my tears
my protectors
gentle and deliberate
Your mouth, your smile, your voice
with them I can see the real you
music that shows me your heart
tender and sincere
Your blue eyes are the icing.
they steal my attention and make me melt
marbles of hypnosis
they pull me in and anchor me to our moment
CORY HASKELL
Head hung in awe, unable to look upon the grace
The shoes, polished jet black, a dark window to the soul
The laces were tightly bound, unyielding even for a key
The trousers were creased with an edge
Sharp enough to cut steel
As deep as if peering over a ledge
Into an abyss
They are filled by legs
Powerful and strong
The masses claw and beg
To be near, the line stringing for miles long
The chest, oh the chest
Covering the wash board abs of steel and sinew
Is a jacket sharp and bold, the gods’ reward for a quest
Housing arms as that could lift tons
Used is deliver the beat down on unsuspecting fools
Deadly weapons, hope you have a permit for those guns
The tie strains, constraining the dress shirt to your body, the finest wool
The face, it stops the hearts of the masses, young and old
The ever smiling face, white as snow with ruby lips as red as tomatoes
Blue eyes pierce even the bold
And seem to melt away all woes
Your nose, small but sharp in the center of your face
Brings perfect balance to your hat
Crooked at a slight angle, in such cocky grace
The color of an ice cream cone
Always drawing a crowd, day or night
For here or to go, you will always be
FRANKEES SAMAD
To be loved
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but a face
As gold as the sun in the morning
And as fair as the moon at night
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but a chest
Strong and built as Greek Gods
Yet soft to touch like the petals of a rose
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but arms
To lift me when I’m down
And to hold me when I’m with him
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but legs
To run to me as I’m walking
And to always meet me halfway
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but fingers
That helps him write love letters to me
And caress my face as he please
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but eyes
That see through my soul
And penetrate deep inside
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but lips
That moves to the beat of my pounding heart
And kisses me with each purse
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but a heart
That beats with every breath I take
And that loves me, more than I love myself
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but a soul
That meets with mine in our dreams
And will go with me to the heavens when we depart
My beloved doesn’t have a name, but he’s there
Somewhere, in this world
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