Poetry About Tickling

[FeatherFeet]

So I've sort of notice that there is quite a lot of tickle fiction and tickle comics going around. But I was wondering if anyone out there rights poetry about tickling?

A friend of mine works in getting books put together and I had a wild idea for a book of poetry about tickling--like an anthology of different poems submitted from different tickle fanatics about the topic. I have seen a bit of tickle poetry around over the years but not much.

I was wondering what people thought of this idea and if there are any tickle poets out there :lol

 

[Barefoot_Sis]

You'd be in good company. Here's a poem by Emily Dickinson hoping to be tickled by a feather. Or something.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

254

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
Emily Dickinson

 

[Volsung1]

http://www.tickletheater.com/showthread.php?t=70900

 

[Raichyll1]

Here's one of mine about our lovely past time.

"A ticklish musing"

In ticklish merriment, I laugh
Gazing at the sight.
Your eyebrows raised in appraisal,
Of my situation.
A questioning look in your glittering eye
Tells me. You are quite aware
Of my gigglesome tendencies

Walking around the room. Circling.
Like a falcon eying its prey.
Fingers twitching, like talons, at the ideas
That in your mind are taking shape.
You, are thinking about your feathers.
What part of me you will brush with them first?

Tracing a line from cuffed wrist to armpit,
The laughter escaping in a stifled, gasping squeak.
Biting my lower lip between excited teeth.
You reach for the blindfold, bending low.
To my ear, you whisper, twirling a feather there.
"My dear, you are delicious in your predicament."

Eyes darkened, and ticklish laughter rising
I squirm and squeal, bonds restraining.
Vaguely hoping the storm on my sensitivities may soon break.
"Goose bumps!" I am shouting as they raise.
Fingertips dancing on belly.
One stiff feather traveling down my leg.
"Please?" I implore you.
"PLEASE???" I beg. – Too late.
As the feather has reached the foot of my leg.

Hips rocking wantonly.
Body wiggling and juices flowing.
Laughter flowing free,
Mixed with tears and sweat.
A feather sliding between my toes...
"Master, may I????" I plead.
"No." You say, "Not yet."

© Raichyll Mae Fine
August 29, 1997