Your Hands” by Angelina Weld Grimké
I love your hands:

They are big hands, firm hands, gentle hands;

Hair grows on the back near the wrist . . . .

I have seen the nails broken and stained

From hard work.

And yet, when you touch me,

I grow small . . . . . . . and quiet . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . And happy . . . . . . . .

If I might only grow small enough

To curl up into the hollow of your palm,

Your left palm,

Curl up, lie close and cling,

So that I might know myself always there,

. . . . . . . Even if you forgot.

Written in 1927 by Black poet and playwright Angelina Weld Grimké (1880–1958), “Your Hands” is a sweet ode to an otherwise mundane part of the human body. By examining each aspect of her lover’s hands, from his body hair to his nails, Grimké paints a portrait of a working-class man who provides gentle strength and comfort. This love poem totally gets that feeling of always wanting to be close to your lover.

Your Hands

An Re-amagination of Alexandra Savior's Vanishing Point.
.
.
.
Twisted on a dead straight road
Haven't got a change of close
We just split, call me crazy
But I think they might be onto us
Everybody else can eat my dust
Shall we make believe they're chasing us?
Make a wish for me baby
'Cause I think they might be catching up
You're a thousand times mine
I'm a thousand times yours
A thousand times mine
And I want a thousand more
Oh, until the vanishing point
And baby, not a moment before
You're a thousand times mine
And I am a thousand yours
As if the earth's reserved for you and I
Not a soul for miles on either side
We just slipped off the radar
And I think they might be onto us
You're a thousand times mine
I'm a thousand times yours
A thousand times mine
And I want a thousand more
Oh, until the vanishing point
And baby, not a moment before
You're a thousand times mine
And I am a thousand yours
A thousand yours
Spectacular blacklight poster neon sky
To which the sun so quickly unsubscribes
Want to call it a night
But I think they might be onto us
Oh, until the vanishing point
And baby, not a moment before
You're a thousand times mine
And I am a thousand yours
A thousand yours
A thousand yours

Vanishing Point

Late Flowering Lust

My head is bald, my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.

I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.

But I've a picture of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;

Dark sockets look on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.

I cling to you inflamed with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be--

A week? or twenty years remain?
And then--what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?

Too long we let our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.

(From Wikipedia en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Betjeman)

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Sir John Betjeman
Sir John Betjeman (1906-1984).jpg
Born John Betjemann
28 August 1906
Parliament Hill Mansions, Lissenden Gardens, Highgate, London, England
Died 19 May 1984 (aged 77)
Trebetherick, Cornwall, England
Occupation Poet, writer, broadcaster
Spouse(s) Hon. Penelope Chetwode
(m. 1933–1951)
Partner(s) Lady Elizabeth Cavendish
(1951–1984)
Children Paul Betjeman
Candida Lycett Green

Sir John Betjeman, CBE (/ˈbɛtʃəmən/; 28 August 1906 – 19 May 1984) was an English poet, writer and broadcaster who described himself in Who's Who as a "poet and hack".

He was a founding member of the Victorian Society and a passionate defender of Victorian architecture. Starting his career as a journalist, he ended it as one of the most popular British Poets Laureate and a much-loved figure on British television.

Betjeman's poems are often humorous, and in broadcasting he exploited his bumbling and fogeyish image. His wryly comic verse is accessible and has attracted a great following for its satirical and observant grace. Auden said in his introduction to Slick But Not Streamlined, "so at home with the provincial gaslit towns, the seaside lodgings, the bicycle, the harmonium." His poetry is similarly redolent of time and place, continually seeking out intimations of the eternal in the manifestly ordinary. There are constant evocations of the physical chaff and clutter that accumulates in everyday life, the miscellanea of an England now gone but not beyond the reach of living memory.

He talks of Ovaltine and Sturmey-Archer bicycle gears. "Oh! Fuller's angel cake, Robertson's marmalade," he writes, "Liberty lampshades, come shine on us all."[14]

In a 1962 radio interview he told teenage questioners that he could not write about 'abstract things', preferring places, and faces.[15] Philip Larkin wrote of his work, "how much more interesting & worth writing about Betjeman's subjects are than most other modern poets, I mean, whether so-and-so achieves some metaphysical inner unity is not really so interesting to us as the overbuilding of rural Middlesex".[16]

Betjeman was a practising Anglican and his religious beliefs come through in some of his poems. He combined piety with a nagging uncertainty about the truth of Christianity. Unlike Thomas Hardy, who disbelieved in the truth of the Christmas story while hoping it might be so, Betjeman affirms his belief even while fearing it might be false.[4] In the poem "Christmas", one of his most openly religious pieces, the last three stanzas that proclaim the wonder of Christ's birth do so in the form of a question "And is it true...?" His views on Christianity were expressed in his poem "The Conversion of St. Paul", a response to a radio broadcast by humanist Margaret Knight:

But most of us turn slow to see
The figure hanging on a tree
And stumble on and blindly grope
Upheld by intermittent hope,
God grant before we die we all
May see the light as did St. Paul.

Betjeman became Poet Laureate in 1972, the first Knight Bachelor to be appointed 

Late Flowering Lust (Remastered)

A slow waltz,where each measure mourns the extinguished flame, a dance of loss, memory, and the lingering echo of ...

1970

May the road be kind
Even if it leaves me blind
No regrets, no second try
Just a breath, and then goodbye
May the road be kind
But never bring you back this time

Where We Once Bowed (Remastered)

I’ve seen the mighty brought to knees
And liars brought to honesty
A mirror doesn’t lie for long
It shows you gone before you're gone.

“Equal”

An re-imagination of Nick Curran's - Kill my baby

Kill My Baby

If I fall again, it’s 'cause I meant to
You always knew...

You Always Knew

How dare you, world —
call me hollow.
I arch, I bend,
but never follow...

Ashes in My Mouth

Every meal, every movie,
I lied about you and me...

LuCyan

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