"boa" poems
Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .
106.7k
I hope your guilt strangles you like a Boa Constructor,
until you have no breath,
I hope before you die though that you realized,
It was you who caused your death.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
I know the flowers better everyday
their twisting stems
their curtain petals
their floating spice
I know the flowers better everyday
their capillary roots
their plum faces
their purple stamens
I know the flowers better everyday
their shaking seeds
their modest thorns
their unabashed lust for the sun
I know the flowers better everyday
I know the sun will rise
I know the clouds will rain
I know my daughter will laugh
I know the flowers better everyday
I’ll draw a fence for flowers
I’ll draw a muzzle for the sheep
I’ll draw a number for the man to crunch
I know the flowers better everyday
I know how lovely it is to feel
grass in between toes
the breath of a boa
the embrace of home
I know the flowers better everyday
I am forty
I am a mother
I love fearlessly
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC
Mighty arms give a tender cuddle from behind
Eternal heater
Sensation of chest and stomach against spine
"tell me a secret"
soft lips on foreheads and noses
narwhals nudge
"I've got a secret ..."
"What's that?"
"You make life, interesting ..."
" … Good or bad?"
"Good ... you show me things I've never done before."
My name is Barnacle, calcified to you
Your name is Boa constrictor, squeezing till the last breathe
Inadequate sum of memories, so
drifting nowhere any time soon
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
I sat by his bedside the day my father died.
The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control.
He fought kicking and screaming
the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey
like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he
probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning.
That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands.
At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light.
My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown.
He turned to me and asked,
“That’s a big city. Where are we?"
Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It
slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake
handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares.
It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade.
On that night compassion ruled the day.
I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity.
In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room
bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked,
“How did this ever happen?"
If only I could have told him.
Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns.
By morning his lifeless
dilapidated body laid in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree.
All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are.
Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above
the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Some time ago in the furnace below
Grew restless the ruler of sin;
He dug through His closet
Composed a composite
Consisting of a violin.
The underworld rang with
Delectable twang
As Lucifer plucked on His strings;
E'en angels flew down
Allured by the sound
Til Cerberus plucked off their wings.
Eventually Satan grew bored of this, too;
That thrill-seeking ******* must capture the new;
So up to the land of the living He flew;
Disguised as a figure whom everyone knew.
First on the agenda of any pretender:
Extinguish the genuine soul;
He arrived in Genoa
Disguised as a boa
And silently swallowed him whole.
With Europe His playground
The Devil, He made sound
That no one alive had yet heard;
He fiddled and plucked,
Gambled and ******
Until inside Him syphilis stirred.
His physical shell He now had to retire;
Back to the depths of the black and the fire;
Forever above will the humans admire;
The legend of strings; the king; the sire.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
My brother, Jake,
He had what it takes;
Shaved when he was eight,
Strong as a boa snake.
He had hair
Like Ringo Starr,
But played guitar
Like Ravi on sitar.
My brother, Jake,
He grew to six foot eight;
He had arms like legs,
Muscles like beer kegs.
He was fast,
With a ball,
His speed could do it all.
And he could speak,
Like a priest,
He kept us all enthralled.
His wit,
It was quick,
And sharp as a paring knife:
He was funny,
He was cruel,
And well thought of at school.
My brother, Jake,
Had a running streak
Up his back,
At the sign
Of any trouble,
He left on the double,
That's my brother, Jake.
So you see,
As I see,
Size is allegory.
Jake's stature
May bring rapture,
But he's a little man to me.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
It seems my little curb side tree
is acting like a tease these days,
Like the famed Gypsy Rose Lee,
She is disrobing by degrees.
A gust of wind, some red leaf falls
like feathers from a boa ripped.
Nearly naked head to breast
but fully dressed about both hips.
She seems quite loathe to lose it all
even in these waning days of fall.
Yet as the stripper ends her tease-
bare magnificence applauded,
My little tree will shed her leaves
to be raked,bagged and discarded
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
How could I spell out love when it is absent of her name?
The way her eyes reflected a sunrise, the envy of Eos
She was like honey in the sky, the amber of her energy enraptured me
I was bewitched
She was a masterpiece drawn with starlight, unfathomable beauty
An ivory sculpture crafted by the hands of a god, masterpiece of Hephaestus
I remember the time I was blessed by that smile,
A vilified promise
The scent of patchouli and the taste of my favorite tea
Like ambrosia for a mortal, that sweet taste of paradise
Sunflowers and the many other favorites that she gave me
Stolen without a word
She used to call me late at night to talk about her day
But the days for me got longer, I couldn't keep her entertained
Such a coldness hid underneath the warmth I thought she gave me
Gone like a ghost in the night
I thought I was breathless because I loved her, now I’m suffocated by the agony
She was killing me underneath the sweetness, constricting like a boa
And when I close my eyes to see the memories lapse she's still in them
Haunting me like she wanted
Eros' is golden arrows struck me hard and shamelessly
Through my heart and left a scar, chasmic and wide
Her toxic serotonin left me high, addicted to her energy
A limitless euphoria
I spoke to the gods above and I told them of my love
What a liar she's made me out to be, the clever snake
I begged that Aphrodite let my words reach her
But they fell on deaf ears
Now I pray that Anteros relieves me and hears my plea
Unravel these feelings in my heart, lift the anchor of her name
Don't let me be the sole carrier of the blame
For the ruin that remains
Nov 7, 2021
Nov 7, 2021 at 7:42 AM UTC
--Hand serenity manually entered
The automatic response system
Alerts red light blind blinking
Her excited isotopes fly, entropy askew
The 'A' stands for ready, willing and Able-bodied
Feather boa leather boy and scarlet adultery
Tucked neatly in the back of her dresser
Under bloomers and pictures of young baby boomers
--A civil masterpiece--
"I would love to," she says with a careless car crash
And a shaking ****** serial slave smile
Blowtorch full of propane and limp-action lidocaine
She cuts chronic through a slice of Hollywood layer cake
--Serves it skintight
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
oh sure, forgiveness of sin... or perhaps crimes... or just fetishes? like John Paul II forgiving sin, once polite society answered and John Paul staged the forgiveness session in a prison cell... forgiveness alright, acted out, with all the preliminary provisions readied - ode to Mehmet Ali Ağca, forgiveness always played out great for photography when all the Chinese laws were passed - Siberia welcomes all keen joggers; but you know one thing? raised in a canine environment as a child i learned to attach a different perspective with felines:
like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you just wait... crocodile or boa insomniac - and when the opposite party has banked enough to cry about having lost it... you spit at your enemy's mother's face while ****** her; **** me! you get to prove god along the way! how's that for a Camden Market daytrip? and if you don't? well, it was a nice thought - feels like being a woman with a foetus craving doughnuts and pickles.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
I've handed you
every missed opportunity I have ever had with a beautiful,
intelligent man. You are now
the object of my affection, like
everyone who came before you wasn't real,
only practice, but the sting of their rejection
has lasted. It's still burned into my memory.
I am giving it all to you.
Please hold it, for a little while, don't let
my chaos burn your skin, juggle it
between fingers and let it wind around your arm
like a boa constrictor.
You have the weight of the world
on your shoulders, it's up to you to redeem
all mankind, in my mind.
Please, smoke out the bad memories
from the empty, needy cavern of my mind.
Please, replace them with good, with your
jokes, and smile, and kisses on the
small of my back.
******* Bukowski was right, you have
no knife, the knife is mine. But I gave
it to you. Sharp as hell.
Please, don't use it
yet.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
You tell me you're empty
And I know you want my sympathies
My acknowledgement of the problem
But all I can give you is the gawking gaze
Of a child on his first trip to the zoo
Leaving smudges on the snake tank as he tries to fathom
How something could be so alien and smooth and powerful.
You tell me you're empty
And all I can think is
That I have not a moment of my life to compare that to-
A day without suffering, without pain or danger,
Without that or joy so intense it tips right back over into treachery
I have no memory of any such day
To draw from for empathy.
I stand and stare at you
Empty you
And I know your sadness should be respected
And I know I shouldn't wonder so perversely
What it must feel like
Not to feel
But I can't help it
I feel like I'm standing on the other side of glass
Staring into the beady eyes of a boa constrictor
Wondering irresistibly
What its embrace must feel like for the mice it devours.
I know you are suffocating
But I
Am drowning
And I wonder
What empty feels like.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
"Squeeze Please" presents as a cute word rhyme,
But its grip and depth
Is unique and sublime.
Part hug, some cuddle, but
More like a tickle...
It's fickle!!
Yet,
I sense familial love songs
When
My limbs contract to stop his wiggles-
And then,
Before he starts his giggles...
My knees squeeze...
That’s when I heard,
Without one word...
Squeeze because you love me;
Squeeze because I love you;
Squeeze because I feel protected;
Squeezing keeps we two connected.
Squeeze Please makes me feel secure.
Please squeeze... please... squeeze please me more.
Squeeze me to my happy place.
Squeezing tells me that I’m safe.
A squeeze will make me feel content
Your squeezes tend to give me strength.
Then Squeeze tight for respite and peace,
Like a weighted blanket as I sleep.
Squeeze me like a pet boa,
Squeeze because you're my own Granda.
I hear and listen when he says Squeeze Please;
That cute word rhyme really speaks to me.
(Now loosen and Squeeze Please some more.........................)
Jun 10, 2024
Jun 10, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC
They either say "We'll spend some time"
Or they say "Well, never mind"
Is it the apostrophe
That makes us we?
Or is it a mentality
That sets us free
To changes
And ranges
Of open thoughts and feelings
That bring us together
Until negativity starts stealing
And our connections we sever
We'll feel well
After escaping the hell
That is the difference between well and we'll
But they will not be the hands that heal
When they act like adding the apostrophe
Is tantamount to apostasy
So they wield sabres
Of different flavors
Like the shallow gravers
And the glow stick ravers
That look good on paper
Until they are erased
When I need their embrace
I'm left hanging
Like an apostrophe
Putting me down
Into a comma coma
Leaving holes in me
Like a drama stoma
Constricting
Like a mama boa
You're your apostrophe
When you take away being
And turn something into a possession
You channeled my overt obsession
Then punctuated with aggression
The end of our sentence
I can't survive this period of my life
When savages cause serious strife
By adding small marks to me
Until it becomes too dark to see
In the shadow of their apostrophe
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:06 AM UTC
Bom dia a todos...Desejo que tudo corra na plenitude e vossos anseios e desejos se concretizem na abundância e plenitude. Boa vindima para aqueles que ainda continuam na tão nobre Colheita. Esta poesia é dedicada ao meu Pai: António Alexandre Marques e a todos os seus amigos e conhecidos.
Lembro-me de Ti meu querido Pai
As videiras cansadas pelo sol tórrido de verão,
O rio corre por amor e paixão.
Eu procuro a resposta que não acho,
Sou feito de uvas e do teu abraço.
As rochas xistosas esperam a madrugada,
As uvas amarelas e avermelhadas.
E tu meu Pai continuas aqui sepultado,
Pois o vinho foi teu amor, meu fado…
Palavras sábias de profeta que sonha e sabe,
Lembrança de ti e eterna saudade.
Nossa Senhora de Fátima te acolheu,
Eu anseio também para ser seu…
As uvas dão precioso fruto,
Eu continuo vivo e de luto.
O Douro sublime se consome e exalta,
Por ti Pai saudade quase me mata…
Victor Marques
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
I see the commercials
for osteoarthritis.
And mentally curse this age of awareness
Where we, the audience
are forced to see our frail mortality . . .
One in three! ONE IN THREE!
Mocks the voice on T.V.
And suddenly my chest fills
with invisible cancers
cholesterol, and tumors
While diabetes races through my veines.
I stagger from the room.
Joints now rusted with a touch of arthritis.
My breath wheezes from the asthma
I never had until this moment.
My arteries harden like boa constrictors.
And I fall to the floor - breaking a hip as I go down.
My memory fades under Alzheimer's wrath.
While glaucoma darkens my vision.
And ravaging Obesity, consumes my soul.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Espero a madrugada
A noite escura estava cansada,
De esperar pela madrugada.
O galo ansioso por todos despertar,
Eu abandono-me a este fenómeno peculiar.
No ermo onde existe um Senhor da Boa morte,
Noite escura em Castanheiro do Norte.
Os cedros parecem ter luz,
Eu perdido no silêncio que seduz.
A noite aqui é simples, singular,
A madrugada de encantar.
Candeias de outrora, cavalos e suas ferraduras,
Madrugada de anseios e aventuras.
O vento sopra solitário e as mimosas são fustigadas,
As madrugadas que tantas vezes foram madrugadas.
E eu aqui sozinho espreito com curiosidade,
Uma madrugada sem tempo nem idade.
Victor Marques
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
8am-light is bursting through
My shades as I take my shower.
Once I dress myself, I reheat
The coffee my wife left me.
I step outside to be met by
The crisp air of waning summer.
Like every day, I notice the
Vibrant boa scarf of purple wildflowers
That adorn the shoulders of
Wheeler and Monitor.
The sky is not falling, and
It is true what has been said,
'The fear of something happening
Is worse than it actually happening.'
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
Vindima que sempre vem
Que regalo é ver estas lindas uvas que serão destinadas a ser pisadas por tantos pés generosos deste povo duriense que nas encostas trabuca com suor no rosto. Depois de tantas canseiras chega a hora da colheita para todos começarem em festa um processo que acabará nos melhores vinhos de Portugal e do mundo.
Para haver vindima temos de ter videiras bafejadas pelo sol, acolhidas pelo xisto e amadas pelo homem duriense que não se cansa de as amar e bajular. Este meu Douro é sem sombra de dúvida local privilegiado para a produção deste néctar abençoado por Deus.
A videira que Jesus tantas vezes enumerou me faz perceber o universo, a sua diversidade e porque não mesmo a vida depois da morte. Como simples podador o homem corta as vides na esperança de uma boa colheita. Que encanto ver durante seu ciclo o despertar constante de tantos sonhos adormecidos.
A videira delicia, rejuvenesce, cresce embalada pelo vento em socalcos e patamares e os rios são seus fiéis companheiros e a seu lado tantas árvores dão as azeitonas da paz e serviram de aconchego no Horto das Oliveiras para Jesus Cristo amar os homens e segredar a Deus seu Pai. Temos orgulho em nossos muros de pedreiros que esculpiram seu próprio fado, eles mudaram os olhares de um Douro mal-amado…
Victor Marques
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
To craft a poem
is to carve a small wooden figurine
of an Arabian horse
out of a redwood tree—
a trinket
whose sole purpose is to gather dust.
And when comes
the boa constrictor of slow sleep,
you, young author, will have this poem
as the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt
had their treasures—
beads, idols, canopic jars—
accompanying them in their tombs
like a crowd of onlookers
surrounding the silent scene of a car crash.
Novelty items, family members, memories—
words to be whittled down
into useless artifacts.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 5:26 PM UTC
Esbate luz em nossos corações enquanto seres humanos...
Hoje perplexo olho a minha volta, procuro respostas, me incito enquanto ser humano a ser um exemplo: em honestidade, humanidade, e lealdade. Caminhadas que desesperam em ser feitas, pois estamos com tantas adversidades que nos fazem sonhar menos, pensar em tons de um amarelo cheio de um **** quase azedo de um pão que deixa de ser cozido de uma forma tradicional.
Como seres humanos aptos para sobreviver teimamos em harmonia viver com os os ensinamentos de nossos antepassados. Tiramos proveito de tanta aprendizagem que gratuitamente foi transmitida de gerações em gerações. Vivemos numa sociedade extremamente competitiva e selectiva, lutando cada dia contra instituições incapazes de gerir riqueza, gastando
alguns tostões que restam aos pequenos contribuintes que resistem e pagam sem pestanejar.
O que fazer quando se tem a leveza de ser amado, bajulado, respeitador e honesto em todas as vertentes de seres humanos fantásticos que semeiam amizades para toda a vida?
Simplesmente ousar ser sempre contemplado com a luz de um sol radioso que aconselhe e encante os homens de boa vontade a fazer alguma coisa por todos os que nascem desprovidos de roupa e morrem sem nunca saber como e quando?
Falta humildade em nossos corações enquanto seres que vivem neste planeta terra,Falta amor , gratidão, simplicidade, perdão, harmonia, paciência, serenidade, seriedade e amizade.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
I'm thinking of how I return to the spot in the disco ball moonlight
and I'm catching my breath.
I always noticed people who are uptight
using humor as a mask.
This masquerade is filled with gowns of glitter
and tuxedos of black and white.
We dance, we chat, we drink our beloved manhattan and gin.
I'm more than excited to be at the masquerade,
Though I'm hit by past behavior of craziness and belting profanity.
I didn't mean it.
Just want everyone focused on my glitter so I now still wear a mask.
Can we still dance?
Can I have one more drink?
Can they learn to move forward?
Behavior is like a masquerade.
Dress to perfection, and don't drink too much or you'll end the night with humiliation and grief.
Play with your boa but don't chase if it doesn't catch his eye.
Don't lay a hand on her if she refuses a dance with you.
Be kind to the others at the ball.
Smile and whatever is hurting inside,
put a mask on it.
We don't need to ruin everyone's time at the wonderful masquerade.
Some may or may not
Forget.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC