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I like the way she holds my arm when walking…

up high, under the shoulder,
firm grasp on muscle, feeling
the blood beat acoustically, in joy,
sensually sensing a thrumming
thrombosis messaging, this is a
full bodied animation, liquid life,
“strong to drink”
“strength to break
off pieces and keep,”
a supporting mutuel
pillar column post,
given, taken, entrapped,
enwrapped, ensnared,
enshrined, mighty fine
pieces to mine,
pieces of mine

her taking is acceptable
my taking reciprocal
for her needs fulfill,
walk taller, straighter,
in fuller strides, and when
she stumbles in the obstacle
course of nyc crack-ed sidewalkslop,
her whoosh of breath expelled
when saved by the arm firmament,
goes unremarked, for this is my
purposed occupation and the
occlusion of our skin cells
in tight bandwidth is certification
that our love is so much more than
mere skin deep,
or as she so oft summarizes, life is,
“indeed,” or in deed.

Fri Mar 22-2024
LearnfromBOBD Jul 2023
Why is your poetry naked
You couldn’t wear some words on them
What I’m thinking is not in my head
What you heard from me are unknown to me well,
Take me as i am
I’m flawed
Bake me as i am
I’m thawed
The blue is sky
Everyone lied
The truth as been wandering
No one accepted it
Keeps me wondering
Why lying is so sweet
You called me a caveman
Because i grunt while walking
You couldn’t hear me well
Then you called me a walking poet
I was a lil’ bit weird
Cos no one to cover my naked weapons
Who’s gonna wear the bullet
Everyone left unaware
Mark Wanless Jul 2023
walking the dog down familiar
   blurry roads

what do i see but i want
   there to be

created a spaceship that flew
   me to mars

followed good soldier into
   evil war

stopped all the killing
   hatred no more
Teyah Nichole May 2023
This King’s Road
My rose petal garden
As I pick myself up from my roots.
I shake and shiver,
Jitter and jive my way through
This living almanac                  of fate:
Some Velvet Morning in my cup
Of coffee,
     Some luck,
     And a mission          to create.
moon man Mar 2023
Wake up, get ready, leave, come back, sleep
Wake up, get ready, leave, come back, sleep
Like a giant loop, I follow the path.
No real goal in sight, no real plan when I stop.
It’s almost as if I’m sleepwalking, hell, I probably can sleep through most of my day and my body will still follow the path.
But one day I’ll need to look back at how long I’ve been on this trail, and all the self destruction I’ve left.
I don’t know if I have any more with me or if I’ll return to the trail. But I do know that after such a long slumber, even if it’s just for one poem, it’s good to be back.
A couple, with a couple of sticks
Walking in convoy
Wearing out disjointed joints
To distribute the pain of future loss
Weapons of choice
They carry no voice
Only the weight of their owners
Who, thanks to the sticks, will live to walk another day
Note 1: based on seeing a couple in a gapped-convoy, walking with two sticks each as we walked down to the Marina at Benalmadena... then written-up at the Marina, in rain showers. UDID 9002-1012-1.0.0
Zywa Dec 2022
I have walked for hours

and I didn't see anyone --

yet there is a path.
Collection "NightWatch"
Zywa Aug 2022
Step by step I walk

through the landscape, more and more --

it penetrates me.
"Marcher, une philosophie" ("A philosophy of walking", 2010, Frédéric Gros)

Collection "Inmost"
This *****
Artificially awake
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a ****, that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.

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