NOTE: This page is a daughter page of: Poems
Here's a copy and pasted collection of poems that I read and liked. I hope that by reading them, it will help me write better poems myself. :)
Sweet Poems by Andrew
Here are some sweet to let your friends know you are thinking of them. :)
You Improve My Day
I wanted to take a little time to feel a sun ray,
Just to breathe deeply, feel the wind, and say:
Every-time I think of your face I smile a little,
And it helps improve my day. :)
Here are some poems to ignite passion.
Milk And Honey
Like your mouth has the gift of reading and I'm your favorite book. Find your favorite page in the soft spot between my legs and read it carefully. Fluently. Vividly. Don't you dare leave a single word untouched. And I swear my ending will be so good. The last few words will come. Running to your mouth. And when you’re done. Take a seat. Cause it's my turn to make music with my knees pressed to the ground.
--Rupi Kaur (Indian-Canadian poet)
A friend, Elena, once got Adam and I a couple of books (mine was "The Sun and Her Flowers") by the incredible the Indian-Canadian poet, Rupi Kaur. Many of the poems were sad... but then there was this one.
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?
-- H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)
And yet one arrives somehow,
finds himself loosening the hooks of
in a strange bedroom-
feels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges
twisted upon itself
like a winter wind!
-- William Carlos Williams
To A Dark Moses
You are the one
I am lit for.
Come with your rod
and is a serpent.
I am the bush.
I am burning
I am not consumed.
-- Lucille Clifton
Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Futile - the winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
-- Emily Dickinson
Make War, Not Love
Graze your fingers
against my skin
like a soldier
crossing a landmine
throw your kisses
into the trenches
of my mouth
carve bullet holes
onto my chest
and remind me
of where it hurts
let your moans
sound like gunfire
and your breath
feel like death
if you promise
to destroy me
-- Sahith Shetty
After Making Love In Winter
At first I cannot even have a sheet on me,
anything at all is painful,
a plate of
iron laid down on my nerves,
I lie there in the
air as if flying rapidly without moving,
slowly I cool off—hot,
warm, cool, cold, icy,
skin all over my body is ice
except at those points our bodies touch like
blooms of fire. Around the door
loose in its frame, and around the transom, the
light from the hall burns in straight lines and
casts up narrow beams on the ceiling, a
figure throwing up its arms for joy.
In the mirror, the angles of the room are calm, it is the
hour when you can see that the angle itself is blessed,
and the dark globes of the chandelier,
suspended in the mirror, are motionless-I can
feel my ovaries deep in my body, I
gaze at the silvery bulbs, maybe I am
looking at my ovaries, it is
clear everything I look at is real
and good. We have come to the end of questions,
you run your palm, warm, large,
dry, back along my face over and
over, over and over, like God
putting the finishing touches on, before
sending me down to be born.
-- Sharon Olds
Lady, I will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene
-- E.E. Cummings
trace the silhouettes
of smooth, contrasting thighs.
They navigation rounded hips
with familiar fascination.
Inhalations whisper of longing.
The breaths catch...
while fingers orchestrate
an exhaled symphony of moans.
I wrote poems inside of her
with my fingers.
Our story began
with her scream.
And ended with her soul
on my lips.
I made love to her on paper.
and spilled ink like passion across the sheets.
I caressed her curves in every love letter.
I kissed up and down her thighs in short sentences and prose.
I tasted all her innocence, without a spoken word.
I bit her lip and pulled her hair, in between the lines.
I made her arch her back and scream,
it only took a pen.
Sing You Home
She puts her hands on either side of my face, and the room falls away. I have never gotten so lost in a kiss before.
And then, the space between us explodes. My heart keeps missing beats and my hands cannot bring her close enough to me. I taste her and realize I have been starving.
I have loved before, but it didn’t feel like this.
I have kissed before, but it didn’t burn me alive.
Maybe it lasts a minute, and maybe it’s an hour. All I know is that kiss, and how soft her skin is when it brushes against mine, and that even if I did not know it until now, I have been waiting for this person forever.”
Suggestive Poems by A.N.
Her Passion Song
One night of passion,
memorable for eternity,
make me crave,
her sweet smiling face under me.
If her body was an artful song,
I want to savor every note.
My favorite verse,
between her ears and neckline.
Each word has meaning,
I turn the pages of the musical score.
With my large hands,
rested on the curve of her lower back,
My grip firm enough to let my passion known,
soft enough to reassure that I will listen carefully to her sounds.
To learn the meaning of the songwriter's every decision,
upwards the crescendo will engorge from the softest murmur,
to the loud guttural screams of forte.
My fingers will move across her,
As if dancing over my polished saxophone.
My hot breath travels down her neck,
deep inside her, filling her completely as I blow.
I want her.
each nerve ending is listening.
made for kissing.
So I write this one verse,
a tribute to her memorable presence.
To let her know that the sound of her song is memorable forever.
That I want to have her play for me her song, once more.
The orchestra will be the amphitheater between damp sheets, cries of ecstasy and a soft touch.
I don't mean to be obtuse,
I want to drink in,
both essence and your juice.
Such is the paradox,
of being a warm blooded gentleman,
I don't always want to treat you like a fragile lady,
and gently take your hand.
I want to throw you against the wall,
and pin your above your head.
To make you gushing wet,
before you even see my bed.
You can call me daddy,
or whatever you really like.
Your breathing will stop and start abruptly,
As my finger trace up your thigh.
I will dominate you,
in this moment in time,
I will take and not ask,
you will surrender your body under me.
Each move I make now is aggressive,
but I am not inside you yet.
I'm about to make this a night,
we will never forget.
We risk one of us falling,
from lust into love.
But for now the shaking of your legs,
Is far more than enough.
I don't want to give you and praise or thanking,
I want to give you a solid spanking.
What is life without moments of passion,
of spontaneous dancing of the flesh.
I want you to scream my name,
both of us losing control of ourselves.
Closer to our primal animals.
You drive me wild.
I want to hear the full dynamic range of your voice.
Moan and scream and yelp.
Don't say to me three words.
Right now, I just need two words from your lips.
she is water,
men thirst for her,
her subtle full-filling taste in their mouth,
she dances across the pebbles,
no stone untouched,
by her liquid fingers.
powerful at times,
gentle at others,
her sound of torrents and ripples each softly up the rainforest gullies.
she rains from the heavens,
she shapes the land.
i am here to ground her,
to give shape beneath her,
to let her embrace me,
to find every hole and every inch of my permeable soil.
down into the cracks,
making the earth wet.
I will cup her in my hands,
and drink her in slowly,
so she can become me,
and I become her.
she is water,
The roar of the Lioness
I have never touched her, but I wish I could.
Only read her my written stories.
Talked of fire and passion.
Expressed desire, yet too far away.
Like a distant land, forged of savannah and wild fire.
A different life perhaps, or just timing,
To displace every item of furniture in her home.
A beautiful mess of cloths, and candles and dampness.
Order through chaos, her crumpled black panties like a work of art.
The fine scents in the air, intertwined with the sound of carnal moans,
in the same manner her body contorts around mine.
There was no time to talk, only time to play.
The moment the door slowly unlocked, and I saw her,
She had to be pushed against the door,
Her neck begging for my large hands, grinding back on me.
Our minds were filled only with lust, more reflex than cognition
Yet somehow plotted a chaotic battle from her door to her bed,
where finally I could learn every inch of her.
To hear the fierily roar of the lion.