"bowlegged" poems
I keep falling in love
with my mother,
I dont want to hurt her
-Of all people to hurt.
Every time I see her
she's grown older
But her uniform always
amazes me
For its Dutch simplicity
And the Doll she is,
The doll-like way
she stands
Bowlegged in my dreams,
Waiting to serve me.
And I am only an Apache
Smoking Hashi
In old Cabashy
By the Lamp.
6.7k
Let me tell you about myself.
I am a mosquito magnet.
I have little scars of itchy memories all over my scrawny legs.
But I think it means my blood is sacred.
I find my laugh unique and one of a kind.
My walk, resembling more of a bowlegged wobble, allows me to stand out against the crowd.
(My walk isn't that bad, by the way, I was merely exaggerating for stylistic purposes.)
What's more, the fact that I am prone to blushing at even the slightest glance my way is kldjaf;ldjfoiad;htija;ji;ajf.
I love it.
My clumsiness only adds meaning to the moments in which I am fleetingly graceful.
Yes, my posture is rough around the edges,
But it signifies that I have been around the world a few times.
At least I don't jut out my pretty decently sized *******
You're welcome.
I find my lack of arguing skills in the moment cute.
My mistakes are adorable, and my obvious flaws are endearing.
The fact I can't **** an ant without showing sympathy is amiable.
If only somebody thought the same way about me.
If only people looked and analyzed others as closely as I do.
They would see.
That way I wouldn't be the only one loving myself. (Or trying to.)
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
who is she?
i’m not saying that in a cute, quirky, self-confident way either, like
genuinely, who is she?
i don’t remember when i morphed from a
bony, pimply, bowlegged teen into a
soft, dimpled, hunchbacked “adult”.
there are still remnants of her--
my forehead still bears the marks of farms of blackheads
and my collarbones are still visible when i allow them to be--
but her
this “woman”
looking back at me is still as foreign as blood pudding.
i still feel the same, relatively, as i did when i was 5 years younger.
i still tend to wear clothes that are comfortable over flattering.
i still feel my stomach tied into itself at the thought of making a doctor’s appointment on my own.
i still feel like me.
but her?
i don’t recognize her.
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 4:54 PM UTC
Where the hell did you go to
with your fancy two dollar words?
What happened to the flaunt-er,
the flirtatious ******* fornicator?
You tempted me with daunting thoughts.
You teased me with your pornographic pics.
Posted HTML induced *******
leaving my C.P burning for U!
Where the hell did you go to?
you said you were protected.
What happened to your anti-viral software?
I thought it covered all your hardware.
Don't just ignore me, or flood me out...
you have a senseless, sick sense of humor.
You kicked me from your room,
out in the cold of cyberspace.
New address, different text,
but now I've found you!
Hiding behind a new facade.
Yes now I've tracked you down,
don't you know me, can't you see?
It's you that's done this to me.
Barefoot, bowlegged,
and pregnant with you cyber-child!
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 5:57 PM UTC
That day when I met the Eskimos
they were sitting by an ice cube house
On the hot Caribbean Island of Brim
I was about ten
The Tourism Board parade them like cattle on an auction block
Somehow, this Trinidadian floosy remind me of Eskimo Nate
All eyes in the shop were on her hips
those
bewitching and enticing moves
As she walked away,
Her long dread locks swing from side to side
I knew it wasn’t black pride
who was she trying to impress?
There wasn’t a man insight
just a beauty shop full of high volume of estrogens
and mixtures of hair bleach and toxic fumes
so difficult to consumes
The hairstylist just knew how to work it
with her deep orange outfit,
her usually looking pouty lip;
would make a Godfearing woman turn tricks
The **** bowlegged female *****
Never seem to quit.
She remind me of a younger me
a very long time ago looking for a mate
stylish, feminine young thing
But look where that got me
An unfriendly divorce and years full of hate
The youth of today will carry on the old Madame tradition
If you got it flaunts it.
Make the cowboys want it.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
Kyoto rock garden:
mist rises among the pines...
where is that remote?
Bashō-san help me !
That big frog on lily pad
scared me with Haiku.
Shinto temple dawn...
monks ringing the temple gongs:
what a hangover.
Island of robots
poetic soul of *****
and those weird soft drinks
From bowlegged troops
invading the entire East
to bland consumers.
Japanophilia:
weakness of the western mind
grass no greener
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 7:29 AM UTC
For sale: One body. Used. Glitters in the sunlight but only when wearing illfitting, ugly, boring clothes.
Hair, though not much of it, but too much for the company of wolves. Fuzzy. Generic. Drips a lot after hot showers. Not black. Not brown. Not red. Maybe blonde.
Lots of freckles in shapes that may or may not be cult objects.
Lips bitten, but not as much as nails. We regret to inform you that this model has the ugliest hands you’ve ever seen. Skin breaking up, peeling like sunburn at fingertips. Red. Cramp in the cold and every other climate. Small. Fit into spaces they can’t get out of. Inky. Spew words.
Scrawny, disproportionate legs and arms. Knobby knees. Stuck-in toes. Crooked from hips-down. Bowlegged. Beastlike.
Woman hips. ******* that used to be perfect until nineteen. Now they’re just a bit useless. We apologize for the inconvenience.
****** Not a ****** Clawed. Friction burn. Too much hair. Too little hair. More hair down there than there is on one side of the head. Razor marks. Blisters, sometimes. Lots and lots of blisters.
Thighs are good for holding, not much else.
Weak. Scrawny. The ********* meal you’ll ever have.
Gateway eyes that tell you she’d rather be anything but a body with a ****** and **** and lips and all of the above.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
Jumping from bed to bed
like a thief in the night
A real charmer talking his way in and out of tight situations
Doing whatever he please with no real consequence
A true ladies man
Bedroom eyes that will have any women
try hard to look away to no avail
Strong physique that glistens with sweat as he works
He has a way with words that makes your body tingle with each syllable
Hands thats rough enough for labor and built for power
but gentle enough to caress your soft subtle skin
When he walks in the room he commands attention
His bowlegged frame makes you take notice his swagger
Simple dressed no fancy trimmings just straight up pure man
Something hard to ignore
Its a challenge to stay away from him
Easing his way to a women's heart
With his smooth talk and boyish charm
His soft lips are intoxicating make you follow his every word in a trance
Head and face trimmed to accentuate his gorgeous features
Nails clean and cut neatly
Clean cut and neat in every word
Women draw to him like flies
What ever he does to them
treat 'em sweet or rough
They keep coming back for more
QNA
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 7:44 AM UTC
in the morning
comes a little mist
creeping bowlegged
thick as flies
You breathe & drink at
the same time
& you pretend not to
find the white lines
and safety wire
useful to build yourself by.
the clock hand points along
you lay something down
to remember your way back -
a statuette of a little mouth
Speaking the name
That you forgot you had
Day rises.
You remember what you are.
You talk to god as-you-know-him.
You stand in a basin of beads and sand.
and you sink & you sink & you sink
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
You come home bowlegged and saddled with the weight
Of your love for me. I shrug at the sight and say:
“Dinner’s over there on the counter, I already ate;
Now go take a shower, the TV’s on and you’re in the way.”
You will undoubtedly move to obey my orders
But in the end fail to notice and process
That the air kiss from my mouth’s borders
To your back is a testimony to feelings I won’t confess.
I will weaken and fall to your revenge later on
When late that night I find myself in bed, alone,
As you turn to the favor of a coming dawn
With solitude and beer at your side, instead of a phone.
We are like this – together and alone – you see,
Because we, as one, don’t know how else to be.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
stumbling bowlegged through the last subway car,
loose-fit black rags bandaging frail limbs,
face twisted in a permanent scowl,
matted grey hair jutting from a flaky scalp,
she jangles her paper cup of coins
each flail of the arm a sharp crescendo;
I flinch.
She extends her hand with a gaze that says: pity me;
I cannot look. I don’t want anything to stir in me,
my own pain is already too heavy,
but --
here they are: spoiled thoughts wafting over me like the waves
of her robust stench: warmth
between my thighs,
tattoos
bounding up thick muscular arms that aim at me in such earnest that my disillusionment melts away, and I am paralyzed
by the lure of pheromones and the smell of skin
which doesn’t quite leave you after you leave him.
And then truth clangs hard in my chest:
but her bones are made of steel!
So who am I to look away?
Maybe if something were to crash into me,
I’d pulverize
into
dust.
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
The woman with the suitcase walks past bowlegged, She bounces as her violet scarf shuffles around the base of her neck
A mother, I know, Just by the way she holds her coffee with such elegance making sure not a single drop falls onto her non-manicured fingers worn from washing crayon off walls. She walks forward with no worries of whats behind her, a mask to the world but its all too real for her.
We call her Monday.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC