My favorite word poem

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My favorite word is “floofy.”
It’s such a floofy word.
In fact, I’d say that floofy
is the floofiest I’ve heard.

I use it when I’m floofing up,
or when I’m all floofed out.
Whenever I feel floofy-doof
I give a floofy shout!

I may not know what floofy means.
But — floofy! — that’s okay.
I’m sure it’s floofy floofy floof
to floof it anyway.

I know it might sound silly.
I know it might sound goofy.
But, still, there’s not another word
that’s floofier than floofy.

 — Kenn Nesbitt

Copyright © 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Of all the words in the word

I have one that I love above all

and it has nothing to do with it

ambiguous nature or it exquisite sound

but rather it profound meaning and it simple

ability to mean much and say a lot.

It moves me to tears every time I heard

it for I always «Longed» for someone and feel

it deeply. like I always long for the almighty

God, my mother, and friends that passed

away daily. what make the word beautiful

is it comes from the soul and the heart;

The word «long» is my favourite word.

because a schoolgirl-Crush give me it, on crumple

paper that said «I long 4 u, -T.»

Monday, January 6, 2020

Topic(s) of this poem: crush,life,love,word

Words. Words are, perhaps, the bridge that connect the subconscious
and the conscious. They convey a myriad emotion. They could be spoken,
or sung. They take us  places we wouldn’t ever go. Words. I love
words. They can kill, or make alive. They can turn on, or turn off.
Words are powerful.

But sometimes, words are not enough.

There are emotions that can never be accurately put to words. In such
cases, words only give but a clue. I have a favorite word. It is one
word that makes everything make a little sense in my times of
insanity.
.
Sonder:
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid
and complex as your own — populated with their own ambitions, friends,
routines, worries and inherited craziness — an epic story that continues
invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground with
elaborate passageways to
thousands of other lives that you’ll never know
existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping
coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway,
as a lighted window at dusk.

what’s yours?

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My favorite word is pussy. It slips right off my tongue
Females only have it. We males are only hung
It’s the place we were begotten, where we came from to begin
Men always think about it. Spend their lives to get back in

The proper word’s vagina; too clinical for me
To see and feel a pussy is the way it ought to be
I seldom use my penis, �a cock you’ll get from here
Being plunged into a pussy, that’s how I do it dear

Your pussy tight around my cock, �best feeling there can be
So warm, with muscles squeezing, so fucking fine for me
The feel of plunging head to hilt and meeting bone to bone
It’s nice your pussy and my cock don’t have fuck alone

Give your pussy to me. Shove it at me with your hips
It’s time to take my cock out and eat your pussy with my lips
It’s such a turn-on for me to taste as your juices go
Wet me with your cum when your orgasm makes it flow

Your nose is buried in my nuts, �cock deep within your throat
As I’m sucking your clitoris, that little man in boat
You’re positioned now above me, your pussy on my chin
You raise your head from off my cock, let the humming time begin

Wrap your hand around the base and stroke up to the top
Your mouth is humming on my nuts, that are about to pop
Your hand is stroking up down, I’m harder than a rock
It’s time, before I’m cumming, for cock and pussy now to dock

Slide off my face and move on down. Put your pussy o’er my cock
Impale yourself with vigor, cock’s in a pussy a lock
I’ll watch while my cock disappears into your pussy slot
Then spread your cheeks, to make more room, for everything I’ve got

If I could get my balls in too, your pussy they would share
They’re knocking on the entrance and on the clit that’s there
My cock begins its pulsing as it starts to flow it’s cum
If I could hold back longer, I would, I’m not that dumb

Your orgasmic heat’s consuming my climaxing, jerking pole
My cum is spurting out into your heated pussy’s hole
I shudder with the draining. My balls are wet with you
This finish has me satisfied and I’m hoping you are too

The cookbook A Tuscan in the Kitchen, by Pino Luongo, is distinguished by not giving measurements for the recipes, and by the stories Luongo tells in between the recipes. In a section of the book called “Grandpa’s Nets and Grandma’s Pots” Luongo tells of his grandfather, a fisherman living in Orbetello during World War II:
My grandfather was a fisherman. His name was Ettore, but everyone called him “Bo,” which is an exclamation in dialect that means “Beats me” or “Don’t ask me” or “How should I know?” Like the rest of the family, he was anti-Fascist. During World War II, the Fascists put him in charge of all the civilians in Orbetello, and it was his responsibility to report anyone who did anything against the uniformed soldiers who occupied the town. They would say something like, “There is a man up in the hills. We are looking for him. Do you know where he is hiding?” And my grandfather would shrug his shoulders and say, “Bo?” So he was known as Bo Solimeno until the day he died.
After we read that, in Florence, Italy, in 2005, Jim and I spent the next two weeks rudely blurting “Bo!” every time one of us asked the other one something. Luckily we did not try it out on anyone else; my friend Paola later told me ‘be careful who you say it to, it’s not polite.’ But we did listen to see if we could hear someone saying ‘Bo!’ on the street.

Finally, one day I was trying on some shoes at a shoe store where a girl was trying to return some shoes at the counter. I couldn’t understand a word she and the saleswoman were saying to each other; my Italian stinks at the best of times and they were not talking slow and simple for me the way people usually do when they realize I’m a tourist. But it was obvious what was going on: The girl had changed her mind; the saleswoman wanted to know where her receipt was. The girl puffed out her cheeks, let loose a puff of air, shrugged and said “Bo!”
My next goal was to get someone say it to me. But since most of the things I say to Italians when I travel are along the lines of “Where is the bathroom,” “Campari-soda, please,” and “Where’s the Laurentian library,” and since I’d usually ask someone who would know, this didn’t happen.
Not until last fall in Rome. Thanks to Maisie, we had a lot more interactions not based on directions or commercial transactions. People would come up to talk to her and call her “Carina!” and “Bellissima!” and chuck her under the chin and sing her the song about clapping hands because Daddy was coming home with cookies, and then they would scold me for my rotten mothering skills, which included letting her sit in her stroller barefoot in October (it was over 75° every day) and letting her head slump when she slept in the stroller. It was very sexist—they wouldn’t scold Jim, though he’d be standing right there. They would only scold me. It doesn’t take a village, it takes an entire ancient capital city. So one day we were at Piazza Mancini pretty far north, near where we were staying, to catch the tram that would take us downtown. Usually there are two or three trams lined up to go, but on this day there were none. We waited fifteen minutes. There was only one other person waiting, a woman standing there with what looked to be her three-year-old grandson. Finally, I said “Dove tram? E un sciopero?” Which more or less translates (I think) as “Where tram? Is a strike?”
And she said: “Bo!” Which obviously meant, “how should I know, you dimwit, you can’t even put socks on your baby’s feet!”
The great thing about «Bo!» once you start thinking about it is that it seems to be the perfect answer to every question. Like the ones you get at post-reading Q&As.
How long did it take you to write that poem?
When did you start writing poetry?
Where do you get ideas for poems?
Bo!