"akimbo" poems
Saturate and brimming of my hometown Boston,
of its sunshine Marathon peoples and bomb images,
my heart fracture rend.
On the third day—resurrection of all my sadness
came to me, feeling fresh and born to fruition,
so this grew.
It grew and through my tears coming,
I stood to witness two loving sparrows
on a window branch.
My sadness at some abeyance, studying and curious
I was of her--all akimbo shivers and rock-in-roll, of him--
flying feathered stone, rolling from branch to branch
and coming home, repeatedly.
Circles flying within moving circles!
Did something happen
with the last jiggle of her branch?
Did you see that? Science says
what they were doing—they had finished.
(But what to believe of science?
It calls their loving--mating rather).
Now to tell you—the sequencing was this:
when I was full knocked down
on account of my grief,
and I hardly had strength to go on,
a Beatles song flew in and gently pierced my heart,
singing to my ear: *Why don't we do it in the road...
no one will be watching us...why, why don't we do it*
O, Spring Life of Sparrow surprises!
Open road, that budding tree,
any new notion is something grand!
How do I say now? That you two
were most helpful, your innocence
forever abiding?
Fly off Sparrows, forever prayer!
I speak this with all my love.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
It is nothing,
a mordant of the soul,
an elixir, a panacea, a placebo
for my lesions, there in the thistle, grows
our drastic garden of red posies and hyacinths,
such little things, on the verge,
lilting as the decorum begins to bobble
and slump sideways, and murmur,
on Mondays I can swallow the octave
of your absence, tendrils and all,
red quince limbs parting from the deluge
and in its wake, the wreckage
of black pumpkins and purple corn, hanging
pendulum at our door,
the Autumn lights summon a lavish song to harvest,
thirty seven colours in the brocade you gift me,
tangled and heavy the years upon my bones
begin to spur and flower
into cunning disruptions,
and stratify upon my body like rinds of ricepaper,
vellum for another wish
in the complacent burial of mango flesh,
listen,
as my song liquefies,
drowns you, inundates
each alveoli, and our love
in the swallowing gush, perched,
begins to shudder,
devoured by its symmetry,
stem cells all akimbo
in the shallow pitch of days
bound in a nostrum of wine and liquorice
it is nothing, really,
a mordant for the soul, a tulle filament
twitching in a raincoat of lightning....
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
I am unsure of the geology
of where you’re from.
I expect there exists
shelves and sheaths
pale grey-yellow
like serum in the blood
and rocks resembling
sun-weathered lobster
carapaces.
all of this enclosed by
a festoon of green pine—
its regalia cut sonic
and naked
wrung and wrung again
by august.
on the edge
a cabin is hemmed on
the skirt of ocean—
spikes of molding logs
propped and resting
akimbo.
a wave comes in.
a wave goes out.
a wave stays to shake
your hand.
introduces itself as
sensate verge
and wonderment.
home.
I can only imagine what
it is for you.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
"unconditional love dinner-dance"
so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance
laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...
*what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?
these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next
love
am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction
dinner
she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us
dance
she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself
she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note
I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of
unconditional love dinner dance*
I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
**Long brown dream
her legs akimbo
apex flushed dark
arms bowed at hip
******* accusing
Breathless, the
******* seesaw
tight curls crown
angry beauty
teeth blaze hot
golden eyes
spit hate
spinning slowly left
proudly curved
bending exposed
face framed a
toppled heart
lips lick entice
three rising paces
the suite bar
long fingers reach
the glass held
waist high
pivoting back
all swift motion
a somersault roll
landing grinning
******* bouncing
a silent scream
lashes out blinding
red wine**
*All loves promises
tumbling bouncing emotion
an ****** spite*
**leaving me
naked rivoletto
sashed red
seeing blurred
ghostly negatives
of forever young
screaming
bouncing *******
I say “Goodbye
true love” to
the tall glass
on the bar
my coat and
open door
to the
clothe strewn
bedroom**
*Clothed party act
a pint spinning somersault
quaffed down brim full*
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 5:11 AM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
my hidden shames
are an excellent source of moral fibre,
nurturing, but not nutritious.
we coexist in a quiet
mutual acknowledgment,
coexisting but un-categorizable,
nonetheless,
among my oldest cohorts,
their singular coordinated characteristic,
they are mine alone,
not meant to be shared.
But they will someday
make an excellent poem.
Mon jan 2 2023
6:47am
@here
———————————————————-
the askew
are my oldest companion,
dating back to my naissance,
faithful, eternal, but single-minded,
with a rueful sense of humor,
of course,
refer to my relatively plentiful hairs
inherited from my mother’ genetics.
a morning chore,
to return their antics
to an adult,
dignified pose,
plenty sufficient to be be brushed,
straight back,
the preferred orderly compose,
of older men
who cannot waste time
with foolishness,
the excessive vanities of
curls, parts and pompadours,
and yet,
every day they wake me with
ridicule, mockery, by presenting
themselves.to me,
as if electrocuted,
each
hair raising itself
pointing to the heaven,
whence
their true Creator resides.
no amount of product
persuasive,
they do what they must do,
akimbo, askew,
with inordinate amount of
malice aforethought and
a venomous sense of
hairy (and now hoary)
absurdity .
a splash of water,
a handful of rigorous brush strokes,
returns order
and the pretense of a serious mien,
an adult demeanor.
But their purpose accomplished,
they have reminded me of the
absurdity of human vanity,
to humble myself
before forces
more powerful
than human self-aggrandizement
by accentuating
our human foibles.
7:13am
same time & place
——————————————-
morning prayers are
always
a trilogy
the rounded evenness of three,
provides the necessary gravitas
of sufficiency,
three being
not too short,
not too long,
not too quick,
just three right,
to impart
the seriousness
of gratitude
for having gained
another day upon earth,
with it,
many multitudes of
chances to share
thankfulness,
kindness,
yes,
& love too,
and to write,
one more poem
encapsulating
all of the above.
7:35am
same day
same place,
same cup of coffee
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
Like starving locusts
they swarm the streets
looking for instant gratification
they'll never afford
Bodies akimbo
****** shaking from AIDS
old men withered and plain
children starved and bemused
all with their palms out
hoping to catch
a little glimpse
of hope
they are the most beautiful people
on Earth.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
I challenged him
burly ******* captain
stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper
standing there in muggy dusk
arms akimbo,
mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat
two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado
all he had to do was speaketh the words
“need those maps, head out at 2230 hours”
and that was a death sentence
which was commuted to life
if four decades since has been life
there are not words for the black
of moonless jungle
except nothingness and paralytic fear
and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness
I crawled, crouched and crept along
sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch
the silence, the silence, the silence
became my splintered cross
to carry to my place of crucifixion
at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and
fearful eyes
silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness
black soundlessness
punctuated by shallow precious breaths
and imagined slant-eyed demons
waiting behind each berm
to turn the timeless night into timelessness
of more black
should I chamber a round?
and follow its solitary sound
into the silent holy night
and shatter my own fragile fright?
would that end this knowing without knowing?
and answer the question,
“is this fear worse than the answer?”
since questions have answers but answers have nothing
the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part
in the silence, the silence, the silence
of the black canopied jungle
in Tay Ninh Province
in 1967
where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live
in silent, black wordlessness
sentenced to live
to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light
did the captain become a human?
And was I really allowed to live?
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
nothing was as Beautiful --
as
You when you would stand aKimbo..
..boasting Insults -- talking ****
hips were Posing -- so obTuse.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Sometimes I cup her breast
while she sleeps curled up.
Sometimes it’s just the merest brush of skin,
the toes, perhaps, that meet somewhere
in the shoal of sheets.
Maybe it’s just an arm flung carelessly
or a leg akimbo here or there.
Her flanks are also sleek and smooth,
and is it a dream I sneak
of riding wild and reckless
through the canyons of our sleep?
But mostly, just simply holding hands
stops me tumbling in the void.
I don’t know if she knows
she's my bridge across forever.
Oh yes, I know that I'm a dreamer,
and I know that forever never lasts,
but I still hold her, oh so gently,
through the darkness of my night.
Mike T Minehan
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
She walks like a ballet dancer
headed for a fight.
Hands in pockets,
elbows akimbo,
the whole a pair of isosceles triangles
balanced above the rapid
heel/toe heel/toe
rocking grace of her strides.
She knows--
where she goes, who she is
what she wants.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.Big black eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.
I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.
The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.
We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.
The Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******
Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.
Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.
Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
We’re under a vast illusion.
Somewhere along the line we
came under this impression and
somehow we think that
we’ll always have it all together.
Always have all of our
strings wrapped
perfectly around one finger.
That the earth will always
spin the right way.
That the weight of the
metaphorical world won’t tip our
planet’s axis .2 centimeters to the right,
uprooting the ground from
underneath of all of us
suddenly and all at once
the balances shift,
Kristallnacht.
A German word.
It means, simply,
Crystal night.
The night of broken glass.
The night of broken people and
shards of lives.
The night everything fell
apart, suddenly and
all at once
the scales re-arranged themselves,
Kristallnacht.
Mid-way into a thousand year
reign of 12 years.
The end of the beginning and the
beginning of the end.
The definition of destruction and the
physical representation of a
bubbling and spontaneous
hatred.
You see, we’re under a vast illusion.
We think that the world will
always look this way,
That we’ll always be
young forever.
You see, she used to run through
meadows, picking
wildflowers and daisies,
blowing dandelions and making
carefree wishes.
Running barefoot,
arms splayed out,
heart all akimbo through
fields of forget-me-nots,
singing about how he loves her,
loves her not.
Not a care in the world.
Then the riots started and
she couldn’t explain why
the meadow she used to
run in was suddenly full of
stones with names tattooed on the
front with a date.
Overnight, the balances
shifted and that 6 year old
girl seemed to age 10 years.
She saw it all.
Beautiful faces, beautiful minds.
She saw the world fall apart like
fluttering hearts and
butterfly wings at midnight.
People coming back together
in a huddle of broken
promises and forgotten hallelujahs.
A 1000 year reign cut short.
She saw the end of the
world as she knew it.
Saw the careless hatred
decimate her carefree meadow
of daisies.
She began to sing a new song.
Picked a handful of
forget-me-nots and
chose to love
like she did
before the night the world ended.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
I Am Like My Mother
In more ways than one,
I am like my mother....
This stands before anything else:
My family is my priority
I preach to respect seniority
But, sometimes I go soft
Upon hearing pleas from little voices.
My life is replete with family albums,
Sturdy wood furnitures that have lived
Through the years, and most importantly,
Old family traditions my siblings and I
Learned from my mother.
I would prefer for these to be observed
By the succeeding generations,
Where love and kindness to others,
Table manners and saying graces are only
A few of those lessons most often stressed.
The children in my family,
Thy grew up the way I was raised.
Humility is practiced at an early age,
Where no child speaks when not spoken to,
And helping with the chores is a must...
They are taught early on in their childhood
As soon as they are able to understand...
We have a God, our Creator,
To whom we should always be grateful to....
From Him comes all our countless blessings...
My sisters and I...
We are like a sorority.
Hopefully, the other women in my family
Would eventually realize,
There is an expectation
That my mother's ways should be kept going...
This, my sisters and I would make sure of.
Each morning, my mother would look around
The whole house and its boundaries,
With both her arms akimbo.
Now, it is I who does the surveying,
But, with my hands clasped behind me.
Front, back and sides of the house
All kinds of plants and trees surround...
I make sure they are all green and lush.
Fruit trees and flowering plants in the summer,
Several wild flowers do sprout all year round,
To grace our lives through all kinds of weather.
My mother and I, we had an implied agreement,
We didn't discuss it, never brought it up
In any family gatherings.
It just happened that I knew her so well.
Now that I'm older, I've never been so sure...
I am like my mother,
In more ways than one...
(Written August 28, 2013)
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
There is a trail in Pennsylvania that is barely tamed
That winds on down the mountainside and fractures into veins.
It lashes through the trees and wood, like man-made ligh-ten-ning
And offers streams of water tasting pleasantly of spring.
This way is framed with micro-caves and fissures in the stone
Where sweetest water rivulets feed moss that's overgrown
Haphazard wooden walkways dot the snake-like trodden path
Their clumsy steps all akimbo; they bridge the wild gaps.
And even further down the trail, dodging brown tree roots
That point like gnarled fingertips and target untied boots
Below, like uncut diamonds lodged into the mountainside
Gushing waterfalls sing aloud, in ranges far and wide.
Their surging torrents babble in a distinguished harmonies
The wordless wind responds by rustling through the countless trees.
There, at last around the bend, before the lumbered river
A bench there sits within the shade where coolness draws a shiver
The wood is at the mercy of the lichen and the rain
That rush to bring that broken boards back to the earth again.
And there, amidst the other foolish carvings in the wood
Scrawled with hopeful youthful hands that did the best they could
The chips and angles buried in reveal what once was true
This is the final place where I will always love you , too.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Entwined,
Elbows akimbo,
We make casual conversation.
Your hand on my ***
We discover the world
Seeing very much the same thing;
An arm, a leg
A slippery smile.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC
You stop to start my dear heart.
Whispers of cannot be invade your ears.
The night is cool and sullen. Your crystal ball swirling.musical chairs. Winding stairs with no answers.
The ceiling mocks your hopefull stares
Your pillow caresses as passion fruit swirls like crimson clouds.
Mocks aloud.
Easy to be hard.hard to be easy.
Rusted splatter lingers echoing past injustice.with scars stretched taut.
Sullen is the night.
We ask the question.the answer stands akimbo. Glaring. Defiant to the senses.
Beginning's end ushers end's beginning.
Who is to blame?
The moth or the flame. Truth is farce. A tepid liar.
Rules are amourphous. Real or tristy.
So. We ask.again.again.
Who is to blame? Careless moth?
Mercilesss flame ? Who.is to blame.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Standing in the tunnel
at Eighth and Pine station,
I survey westbound commuters
waiting across the tracks -
standing arms akimbo
or leaning on marble walls.
A well-suited young man paces the platform -
cell phone pressed to his cheek.
[Passengers stand clear of the
edge of the platform at all times]
Rushing in from the east,
a gleaming white chariot
arrives - pauses - resumes
leaving the far platform vacated
as if by alien abduction
From the left a blazing light
pierces the tunnel
and the Shiloh – Scott eastbound
halts and snaps open its doors.
crossing the threshold.,
I claim a seat by the aisle.
[Please stand clear! Doors are closing]
With eyes half shut I scan the crowd:
uniformed workers wearing ID's,
a toddler’s arms and legs
dangling off his mother's lap,
An elderly couple talking softly.
The soft clatter of wheels
and the gentle side-to-side sway
rocks us like a cradle -
memories of the long day
melting into thoughts of home.
[Fairview Heights Station.
Doors open to my right]
The lady with the toddler steps off.
A trio of teenage girls
fresh from the mall
seek and find empty seats -
filling the rear of the car
with the music of their chatter.
Streetlamps scatter shadows
over parking lots.
The unseen country side
slips by under cover of darkness.
Headlights gleam like jewels
waiting for crossing gates to lift
[Next stop Belleville Station
Doors open to my left]
I clutch my lap top,
work my way to the door
and wait for the train’s full stop
Stepping out into the frost filled air
I pause to watch the sleak white chariot
vanish on the eastern horizon.
September, 2006
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
Glasses thick
Brilliant mind
But not my pick
To bump and grind
Legs akimbo
Astute *****
But better a window
Than a door
Grade A student
Pass your tests
Keep tongue fluent
Off my *******
Red mark checked
Thesis compiled
You'll never wreck
Me **********
Quantum ****
Solve any issue
Keep your ****
In a tissue
Quick sharp thinker
Professor adored
But I can't finger
Your SAT scores
Six degrees
Pencil *****
Modern Curie
acne genus
-r0
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
while building static warmth
unbiased night has nurtured strain
now! ;
breaks akimbo in filling veins
silver branches
lipping open flare across the sky
stimulated charge raised
through our earthed souls
greeting heavens kindle above
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 6:14 PM UTC
*If only your mother would have loved you right,
maybe then you would know how to love a women.
If only your father would have stuck around,
maybe then you would know how to be a man.*
**Ifs and onlys all akimbo
leaves me confused, my heart in limbo
what is what and who is whoodoo
love is love, not gris gris voodoo**
*But I wouldn't expect
for you to know that when,
you don't even know your own worth
If only you knew that you aren't worthless*
**Can't make excuses for my mama
she carried on without a comma
but i never knew my dad
the best father I never had**
*Maybe if you knew your father then,
you would be more forgiving, more loving
If only you knew how much you meant
to your mother, your father, this world*
**If I truly meant something
perhaps it would mean less suffering
my momma loves me, that I know
but my dad got drunk..and just said no**
*If you only knew....
But I guess that you don't.*
**Maybe I never, ever will
but I let my heart, find love..still
if there's some way I can treat you better
teach me how....show me, to the letter**
*I wished that you loved yourself
then, maybe you would know how to love*
**I can only pray you'll show me,
take the time to get to know me**
*I can't show you.
You'll have to figure it out
I can't show you how to love yourself
Only you can*
**I am a work in progress
merely a work in progress**
*I can't help you if you
won't let me in or forgive me*
**Here is my invitation
my forgiveness
my welcome mat
please......enter this wounded heart**
*If only you knew...
that I was wounded too*
**I can heal your wounds
wipe away your tears
just let me inside,
your heart is where I long to live**
*If you look on the inside then, you might find
a scared, insecure and lifeless girl.
The girl I've spent most of my life trying to hide.*
**Oh, but you are so full of life
the kind of girl who could be my world
no need to fear life any longer
grab onto my heart and we'll both grow stronger
no more hiding...who is beautiful
it's you, it's me...so beautiful
and as for insecurity
i'll believe in you & you believe in me**
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
A common thread our swanky prance
Obdurate circles while we dance
Harmonious we'd make romance
And for each other we'd enhance
With eloquent and wanton stance
While willingly we take the chance
To reach across unknown expanse
And though akimbo not askance
We flaunt unfettered by durance
While at each other we would glance
As if enraptured by a trance
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
you know the avatar of vishnu
sitting pretty,
pretty calm,
he sat there, lost his hair,
became a bald & fat idol in china
miles away from nepal...
became an idol with that famous waving cat
(maneki-neko): ola ola... hello to you too.
so the avatar of vishnu is sitting
peacfully pretty,
but this avatar of shiva ain't...
he's on a windowsill... head-banging while
the supposed meditation takes place...
he's on to it, the next vogue of mindfulness
and feminism... he's like: **** it...
let the zeppelins in, london on the fork fried,
give us bacon and other assumptions
of king above all beasts.
but at the bus stop i met four would-be ballerinas,
four lolitas nonetheless,
aiming for a party, went into the shop
were asked for i.d., but the look of them
no more than 15...
smoked my cigarette in the umbrella of
the bus shelter... true to feminism got *****
'can you buy me some vodka?'
i don't care about your lies, you don't
have to lie to me,
'but honest, i have a picture,
i'm over the age of consent! look!'
my moral compass is missing on this matter,
plus you're so petite one of your musketeers
gave you away, flesh that never grew to the bone...
'but please! we're going to a party! we can't
go empty handed!'
o.k.
took the 10 quid note and went in,
they wanted a medium sized bottle,
under 10 quid of ***** and 4 women?
no chance. put the note in my wallet
and bought them a 70cl bottle of *****
3 quid extra so they could, just, shut, up.
apparently there was no party when i handed
them the confidant compliment of uncle...
you know that bit where nietzshce criticised
socrates for engaging in dialectics to create
a rude society? i think not engaging with dialectics
creates rude societies... where children
are above and most opinionated...
and the elderly are below and exposed to sadism:
as england row row rows the boat for an iceberg
to thus sink.
yes, the four of them, happy enough
to be believed to have discovered the ********
and happy enough to have almost lost it.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC