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Sharina Saad  Jul 2013
Sharina Saad Jul 2013
Afternoon nap, a siesta!
the spectacular view,
but eyes are told to shut
the sound of the ocean waves,
but ears are made to close
Perfect siesta!
The mind is dancing with the ocean waves..
The sea breeze is massaging the tired skin..
Dreams of heaven in my mind
Far off places, far away from this life
The body, the mind and the soul...
Terry Collett Jul 2015
likes to watch
some TV

at midday
once we're back
from the beach

getting sun
she sits there
in the lounge

of our room
hotel place

get me wine
she asks me

sitting there
in that red

that my young
pecker likes
sure I will

I tell her
white or red?
sweet white please

so I go
get her wine
and get beer

for myself
and sit down
the programme

on TV
is foreign
a couple

in a room
what are they

about then?
she asks me

she's found out
he's *******

her sister
looks at me

how did she
find that out?
I don't know

I reply
I'm guessing
the couple

on TV
argue more
do you think

her sister's
and that's why

he's doing it?
says to me

sipping wine
I drink beer
taking in

where the red
keeps it wrapped

I don't know
what the two
actors say

it's foreign
I tell her
why say what

you said then
about him
******* with

her sister?
says to me

just a thought
in my head
I tell her

I thank God
I haven't
a sister

she tells me
I love her

of bright red
what about
a ****

I ask her
we finish

up our drinks
and she says
just as long

as you don't
pretend I'm
the sister

I don't have
I wouldn't
want to think

you having
*** with her
while with me

whispers soft
in my ear

don't worry
I tell her
your pretend

big sister's
not my kind
but as we

get down to
having our

I keep her
big sister

(an image
I made up)
in my mind.
Anatidaephobic para siesta,
on the park bench w/ the child molesters:

eyeballs eyevory as Arctic detergent,
amid shingle by De Beers are REMurgent.

Whitsands of some incroyable Bermuda
(white man even his own intruder,

upon cetocephalic theta depths,
that whistle crystal Dixie, seahorses for clefts).

'Peas have great individuality,'
but peristerite is this sea,

not peagreen.  A pickpoctopus of preag
(pre-peag more offshore than 64,000 leagues),

klepto Neptune mudlarks the silica,
into his limelylit hypothermia

sleeves shells, like the desirable hermitcrab Earth
of my astrally orarian self.

My gaze stolen by tealeaf tides:
samphire, sapphire, squid's suckereyed .

Under the sea, there is no CCTV.
But guilt is a silk meat to the nee-

dleeyed nostrils of PC Jaws;
feefifofumes slip faded scabs' pores.

He's not a panoptopus catching your tentacle in your mouth,
but squaloid cop whose own gob's a ganch.

Phaser intangible thru verdantique,
Policeshark! does davyjonestowns deek.

On a fishing expedition in shipwreck slums,
whose 19 new tenants are pinklewickers from Morecambe,

but they're innocent as God's goslings, so Policeshark!
capriciously octocuffed a gangster's mollusc

- by 'octocuffed', I meant crunched the suspect's stu-
diously nonevolved backbone in his beartrap bazoo.

After flossing the caries of noble cause corruption,
moody maccarelics had snubsnouted selachian

policesharkraid! an octopus's gardengate,
& half a McCalf, knee, did he confiscate

- minus the 'confisc'.
His beat is wide & his beat is deep, from Frisc-

o to Portalprints,
Constantlynubile  (Instantbeau) to Pawsmith,

from pertly lisped Perth to hellsmiled imorteen's
imaginary Miami, styrofoam unicorn shoreline.

& traversing isthmus now wasthmus, Lemuria,
where  the wreck of the Sargassoworks lies similar-

ly submerged, sunk by Cap'n Sanforisedbeard,
nautical vagabond who thought he'd blagged a pond,

but was wonking all the angles on the sextant,
till mainsail was mainly flailing like an introvert

among many reprikates of Rik Mayall. Policeshark! swam
thru turquoise ****** of amino acids, liquid farm-

yards of forms not yet strangely familiar enough,
where plankton are those new clear vitals' scurf,

or Creation's intelligent designer stubble.
& Creation's archeozoic goosepimples are bubbles.

For around Policeshark!, waves may turn time-
twiddlingly wavy: Zeit's gristle to the Sein-

shark, the Aardshark, the Wailsnark, the Sharchetype
worrying my liminal jugular like a vamp-

ire scarf. In the blink of the eye of the
Policesharknado!, Policeshark! the merciless mer-

monitor has done his bloodhound rounds,
reset his primordial aura dial, outswam Ground

Zerocean brane, that damp original,
even aquathreshed the 'bi.ven.' in that bilateral

venture 'tween surf 'n' turf, Sinbad the Flavour.
So as to spyhop above cursive of rips & rollers

to stake out this shorehugger, whose Shutter Island discs
sirenade not of Portalsmith, Bizzyhandyman or Frisc-

o, but of a more prosaic 'mare where sharks go quack.
So rage, Ol' Cuntsea, Thalassa you ****!

Big blue wobbly ****, Red Label Sea
of my unconscious! It is mens rea

for which Policesharks! frenze, pinprick of shame,
but the dreaming animal's meat is not game.

I am Ruestungminister in his Argentine cabana!
I am God in His Gondola!

& the Policesharkcage! is the cordon sanitaire
of my not really being there. Or here.

I'm Shore Ryder splittin' for a sun-Ken-
tucky, para siesta passing for a con-

tent Tuesday come to pass like the rainbands
that wore Ray Bans were disbanded by whitsands

fresh-CV-not-cream-scroll-brill, yet
inadmissible as Icarus giblets

or a mohican of gills' nullity.
O Policesharkbait! paltry

as dismembered Freudianism of carnal lagan!
Less catabasis & more embasan.

A dreampoet about to jump the Policeshark!,
awoke to the trope of a Savileville park.

Was it a dream within a dream within...
TL; DR, Policesharkfin!!
'embasan'  (Filipino)- to wear clothes in the bath
john oconnell Jun 2010
Barcelona in the siesta:
two alien idiots walking
the dry deserted streets
in search of mineral water -
like infants in a land of gentiles.
Dan O'Neil Mar 2015
This is Not Glandular - Dan O’neil

I don’t use excuses. I never liked them.
The people who say “they were born this way”.
Husky….Stocky…. Big-*****…
Let me start by putting your minds at ease.
This is not glandular. So, i am not a fat man..  
I am a FAAATT man. And i am **** proud of it!
I am proud of this body.
I chose to be this size.
Chose a body as BOOMING as my voice ,
with the softness to counter my sharp tongued words.
Chose puppy cheeks,
so my grandma will always have something to pinch.
Chose hands that look like hot-dogs glued to a baseball,
because thats really funny to picture.
I chose to be a mountain of a man,
just incase any ladies were feeling adventurous
and wanted to hike to the summit.
Trust me, this is not glandular.

I chose this body because of the women,
because the ladies love the funny fat guy!
Because any girl who won't take me if i'm fat ,
is not anyone i'd want if i was thin.
Because I am 230 pounds of cuddling,
bearing down on you like a force of nature,
and there is NOO escape from my snuggling.
Because i am a teddy bear,
whose heart is on “E” and desperately awaits the next woman to refuel him

I chose this body because of the FOOD.
Because there are 6 meals in a day.
Breakfast,brunch,lunch,siesta, dinner ,and the taco bell drive thru.
And theyre ALL the most important meal of the day.
Because just like lonely , ***** ,and angry. We all get hungry.
Because my mom told me that some people show love by cooking.
So i got cookies instead of hugs, meatloaf instead of kisses.
And fried spaghetti sandwiches, replaced bedtime stories…
And i cleaned my plate every time because it was all i can do to say.
I love you too.
I mean i never knew my dad, and Rick.
Rick was never the hands-on step father.
Unless you consider the occasional slap on side the head.
So food became my surrogate fathers. Kernel Sanders and Chef Boyardee
Became my models for manhood.
Which explains my obsession for weird hats..

I chose this body because of 7th grade PE
Because if just one fat guy is confident when changing clothes
it makes others more confident, because dodge-ball is a ****** sport
so who cares if i get knocked out first? Running the mile is TORTURE!
But so are the jokes.. If the fat guy can't finish.

I chose this body,because other people not liking my body is not a good enough reason for me to change it.
So to the bullies, the lunch ladies , to the women who NEVER gave me a chance.
And the football coaches who berated me with insults. To the jerks and the jocks
And the doctor who joked when i stepped on his scale. To Rick and Kernel,
and ANYONE who ever used F A T as an insult. You can do what i did for the last 2 decades.
of my life doing. YOU CAN EAT IT.

Because i love pies,  i love hamburgers ,french fries ,and lobster, and deep fried twinkies
I love me some rice-a-roni and salisbury steak, microwaved burritos ,
cooler ranch doritos and ice-cream , the kind that you push that had Fred Flintstone on it.
I love cake. I love everything about who i am and the life i get to live
No. This .. not ..glandular. Its just fat .
And for the first time in my life. Im proud of that.
Mutted sounds
The city sleeps... traditional
Rest...closed shutters
Against the heat....skies white
Blinding, implacable
Brurnt, liquid: coupolas baking
Through centuries of glazed splendor
My lover's breath on old fashioned
Sheets: starched, crip...ironed flat
Our bodies recouping
In the cool inner wall... welcomed presence
Nary a sound...inanimate objects
Enrobed in silence
Languid , heavy, waiting for the shadows
Announcing night's fresh enconter.
Colette Anne Naegle

copyrights 2005
Bill Higham  Apr 2016
Bill Higham Apr 2016
the joyful indolence of a summer's day,
the siesta lull which wakes
to a slow pushbike ride,
or momentary lapses into conversation
under the shade of the banyan tree
Sol de siesta en toda la campiña verde...
Rezonga una noria no sé dónde. Muerde
un cantar la calma que en el aire reina.
Bajo unos perales, una vaca peina
con su cimbreante lengua la testuz
de otra, que mordisca hierba con pajuz.
Frente de unos olmos blancos de palomas
un pruno destila transparentes gomas.
Baten los trigales rúbeos ababoles.
Jaulas destapadas son de verderoles
los gozosos huertos colmados de nieves
de azahares de plata  como esquilas breves,
donde son badajos de mieles bermejas
millones sonantes  de áticas abejas.
Duerme el polvo ardiente de un recto camino.
Álzase una sierra como un torbellino.
En los correntales de un fino arroyuelo
del sol encendido y untado de cielo,
abreva  sediento mi pulido atajo.
Luego, silencioso, se tiende debajo
de las sombras móviles de un cañar umbrío...
Soledad de tierras... Claridad de un río...
Llevo hasta mis labios mi clara siringa:
de armoniosa música la siesta se pringa.
Mas presto me canso del tosco instrumento.
y echado en el césped, cara al firmamento
que parece un ancho e inflamado horno,
buscando a Morfeo, la mirada entorno.

...Entre los follajes, a los que se acopla,
el dios Pan. Su grato caramillo sopla...
nivek  May 2014
nivek May 2014
sleepy summer full
all is so quiet;
the afternoon siesta
of the sated spirit
Terry Collett Jul 2015
She unzips
the zip of my jeans
her mother's

in the kitchen
getting drinks
-soft drinks

not hot stuff
in this heat-
her fingers

thin and spidery
search for my fellow
I anxious stare

at the maybe
approaching mother

he's slack
she says
soft voice

he sleeps

it's his siesta
in this heat
I say

not looking away
Milka zips up the fly
and licks her

spidery fingers
one by one
here you are

her mother says
on returning
with drinks in hands

nice and cold
and straws for both
and lays them down

on the table where
we stood
she smiles

Milka frowns
and my fellow sleeps
that's good.
A BOY AND ******* A SUMMER'S DAY IN 1964
brandon nagley Oct 2015

O' yes today;
Gracefully I watched her
As tis she dozed off peacefully.


She sleepeth with her pupil's covered
A dandy like none other,Us becoming one in the moment;
She rolled around, grasped her father's teddy bear and pillow
Her sight's kept opening, spying on me to, her soul as a window.


Finally, after an hour to two hour's, of her observing me
She passed out, nodding her angelic head, she fell asleep;
O' how beautiful, a moment of god, I didst not want to miss one moment, I was glued on her, zoning, I was lost into her siesta.

©Brandon nagley
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
siesta is sleep for you who don't know.,, (:::
Melody W  Nov 2012
Another One
Melody W Nov 2012
August arrived too early this year,
eager eyes and straight pleats
tethered to the sleepy confusion
of a disrupted midday siesta

It was the end of cherry season
yet they kept bursting forth,
firm to the touch and cool,
unyielding - not unlike you

When distant bells were heard,
I didn't turn my head one bit,
tangled, so entranced was I
by the thickets of sweet fruit

A waning year upon us again,
the moon chided me softly
as I turned my face away,
ashamed at my reflection

— The End —