"cartwheels" poems
Her lips constant at the utterance
Of sweet and serene words filled
With adoration, praising him,
He who made endless hearts
do cartwheels and somersaults
Of multiple, millions nigh and far
their hearts loving
As long as he’s living
Nonetheless, changing courses
Of history was what she excelled
One glance, one encounter turned
Her lips managing
to do none but stutter
To his shielded heart
no one managed to flutter
His deer like eyes observing
With admiration, eyes sparkling
every look, crook, nook
Of her smile that shook
The worlds and heavens
Devout in his heart and mind
His earth's plates shifting
His massive planets orbiting
He witnessed it all in one being
The gravity of the universe on her
Shoulders heavy from responsibility
The heavens challenging her capability
Her hardships conveyed as she blinked
their dilated orbs communicating
language barriers unstoppable
To what her eyes held
He understood his needs
To care, to cherish, to love,
Feeling his heart pumping blood
Faster, quicker than light
Travelling the dark domains
Undiscovered, just like her soul
That he felt the need to explore
As his heart finally fluttered
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
Mind is a super computer they say.
It can think of millions of stuff in a matter of day.
From the bombings in Iraq,
to the hurt in my best friends heart.
From the moment its up,
It never stops,
To stop. Blink or breathe.
It keeps running at night.
The subconscious consumes power.
Often leaving the mind tired at the break of dawn.
When it meets people,
it reads the signs at many levels.
Subject of talk,
Body language.
Positivity of the vibes,
The way the person jives.
A handshake.
A wink.
A hug.
A swiftly made jug*
It notices everything.
In all this processing.
It accumulates a lot of clutter!
And the mind with all the confusing thoughts,
becomes like hot butter!
Sparks fly like an electronic of fire!
And it needs something to distract it.
What works best is a bit of exercise.
A bit of chattering,
Or writing it all out.
Some find solace in Games or Movies.
Why do they work?
Because they engage all senses,
And make the mind groovy.
Smoking and doping do great too.
But reducing the processors of our mind to grade two!
Hallucinating and dreaming 80% of it.
The mind thinks its being more productive that most of it.
But illusions destroy us further.
Making the mind believe it’s just another wonder.
Wonder though it is.
Using only 10% of it we create,
Science, History, Mystery,
But this wonder has a lot on bate.
If it goes in the wrong direction.
Even thinking too much is an addiction!
Original thoughts are like endorphins to the mind.
Making it jump and do cartwheels inside.
Stimulating discussions are named that way,
Because engaging in one makes us jumpy all day.
It satisfies the mind that,
I have done something constrictive besides,
Whiling my days in sorrow,
and waiting for the morrow.
Mind is like a baby that need attention,
if not given that it runs in all directions.
Mind is a super computer that needs,
the dedication of a programmer.
Be that programmer and feed your mind the right numbers,
And see it become the eighth wonder!
*Jug- short for juggle.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
The London*
underground
Shoes Chatterbox
Choo Choo train
Mr. Earl Gray
Greyhound
Doing cartwheels
Head over heels
Milk the Cow
"Going Moo" in her
Jimmy Choo
Yahoos
Kickapoos
The Odd Mom
Cocker Doddle Doo
Goody Two shoes
'Peekapoo"
The women living
in her shoes
All Mighty God
The dog to chew
Her most expensive
shoe
Lasous
The genius
La Cruz
Goody two shoes
That's show biz
Vacation Dr. Seuss
John Hughes
The master of clues
La mousse
Love truce X-File
Instagram, please smile
In her ballet slippers
He's at the Hub
drinking beer
In the London Fog
Her wooden clogs
Ladybird chirper
He's down to his
goulashes?
Got sidetrack hot
fever lovesick
La muse shoes
Cozy at the caboose
Playing golf in the
Gulf of Mexico
You ain't got a thing
if you don't have
the shoes to swing
Kick up your shoes and
start to sing
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
The milk in your breast has
soured
and silence of desert tombs
echoes through your heart
Those eyes,
once whirling gypsy skirts
mouth red cartwheels, tambourines,
night fires, dark and moist
invite — wilderness
Birds caught on thorns
flail
like arms that reach out to
nowhere
slowly delivering HIM, piece by
piece
to lurking crocodiles
Your children, tiny white candles
gather flowers to fill the chasm
form a human bridge, a link
an aisle for you to walk down
only this time
Alone
Marble eyes weep real tears
Trumpets greet
ISIS resurrected
takes her place, whole, strong
Transcendental
inside the chamber of
Kings
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
"Memory is more indelible than ink."
—Anita Loos
~
*Europe, after the rain,
the sun lending warmth and comfort.
fringes come into focus.
shadow journal,
fiscal dreams,
becoming ****** lines on a page;
procession bells
for young brides,
veiled in lace.
a touch from her
outstretched hands,
this honeymoon phase
running up the thigh,
the holding quite still until
she smiles for pendulum.
at first light, breakfast in bed,
granting pastel wishes on
boxing night,
then a letting go of the kite string.
new fingers in the medicine bottle,
tiny geometries
inside a house of reciprocal numbers.
paradise in mnemonic children:
cartwheels and handstands,
coloring books of
neglected spaces,
future ruins.
one hundred violins
play to isles of ignorance,
stray embers settle
along the solemn Chemin De Fer (railway).
a catalogue of afternoons
on the bike path
thru propeller seeds and dragonflies.
arriving in the haloed flesh:
skin dive,
the place of couloir descent;
**** beach,
the place of odd glances;
gun chamber,
the room of secondary light;
all horizon variations.
an algebra of darkness,
this dense Roman twilight,
their exiles unreflected
in blind lanterns.
our brightness will become
refracting silhouettes,
a broken yolk in the incendiary sky.*
~
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 12:38 PM UTC
The sweet sound of innocence
from rampant fits of laughter,
Lemon bars embellished
with a coat of sugar,
Cartwheels in
the freshly mown grass,
the taste, the smell
forever engrained in my mind,
The sweet, syrupy
cherry lollipop,
tinging my tongue,
ever-so-slightly reminding me,
nagging me to feel
this nostalgic desperation,
for a time and place
that no longer exists.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
And off he goes,
He does cartwheels down the beach
and into the ocean
He chuckles as he sinks
He smiles as he drowns
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
She' s seven years old
She's too young to worry about her thighs touching as she walks
too young to know the what she wants is to be less
less in size, becoming less of herself
She's ten years old
She's too young to feel her stomach knocking against her empty rib cage as if someone was knocking and never getting a reply
She's too young to refrain from cartwheels on the beach, too young to no longer leave foot steps
She's too young to already have a monster that follows her around
She's 13 years old
She's too young to inhale that first cigarette because she hears it will help her not eat as much
Too young to understand that her lungs are on fire, next to a lot of things that have burned long ago
Too old to go to mom's bed at night when she has another nightmare about taunts they give her at school
She's 18 years old
She's too old to deal with the ******** anymore
Too fed up with the ideal image that burned in her brain like she was branded by it
She wears the names she has been called her entire life like a crown
for she is too young to know what beauty is, but too old to be imprinted by it
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
It was a perfect sunny day in June
the day our fourteen-year-old fingers met,
our palms lined with a thin barrier of sweat,
under the Hyde Creek Bridge that afternoon.
After skipping rocks, we sat on the ridge
and Bobby granted my most desired wish
when he offered me my very first kiss
that afternoon under the Hyde Creek Bridge.
With his tender hand just under my chin,
(and my heart doing cartwheels in my chest)
he pressed his lips against mine and I sighed.
His tongue flicked my tongue, like an expert, he grinned.
"Was that your first kiss?" He accurately guessed.
"Of course that wasn't my first time," I lied.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:37 AM UTC
they always seem to ascribe the stone age
with inventing the circle,
dinosaurs and the loathing of
x-ray via Archaeology -
ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript...
got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah!
this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation
of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh?
you've been a peasant and you're still
curating a chance sharpening edit?
where's the ******* wheel with romans after
ancient egyptians and the babylonians
and for fuck's sake Hindustan!
O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels?
the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up ****
if this makes sense... forget the universe,
alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense
as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with.
hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia!
banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed
in those days: Lion Kong or King...
oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too.
they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically
encode it with something similar...
runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O...
but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging
on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can
slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang
and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex
wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon
and da dwarfin of a shadow.
**** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the
romans to write the O... and it was music by then...
suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up.
no wonder.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
And so as a man, a job,
a cactus wearing a business suit sharing relations with the hydrant down the street.
A ***** strapped to a baby carriage with plastic baggie cellphones
yelling "run away now"
to the grass at his feet.
A man devoid of water, rather.
These are the times
A well, emptied.
Rather death
find waves of spilled milk and
all the fat people, skinny.
A dry mouth desert, kneeling
In either breath of a living feeling
or the one that talks of so much
for only the wealth of his screaming.
Some tiny furniture talked all night about running through wheat,
ebbing and flowing against the end tables,
then falling short as crumbling tree leaves.
An ottoman as recycle bin holding stem
from stem of watermelon children
and vine-ripened acetaminophen.
Some odd truth told the blowing wind that
God does cartwheels with Lucifer at random.
It then billowed out about
his ***** underwear and holy fodder for memorandum.
I would say a man, a vision,
A little girl using a GPS to calculate the distance from the rest her teething.
Instead, she found a funny barbeque ***** playing hog-tied pharmaceutical reps into neoprene
mud-flapping pigeons.
I would say the sinking plastic six-pack islands revealing trash limbs,
sunken,
honest,
grim.
Life, itself, must move in tandem to only fleeting geese.
Though in plan, the artisan-picking fruit of word must be depicted.
Live in sin and ignorance much like the
breaking news walking on broken record.
And so as a man; a fear.
He looked down, staring at no one
with bare feet and shaken, coconut flavored palm trees.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Shimmering limbs pour through the air behind my eyes
Hazy summer thoughts swim twards the lazy ceiling fan
Missing the cartwheels of your hair dripping prisms of lakeweed
Even the dazzle of your sunscreen smell
Come back soon, July.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
you make my tongue want to do cartwheels in a mouth
who's already taken such a beating from your teeth, it’s almost unfair
(so cruel, so kind, to bruised lips)
(would you save a little loving for hungry hips)
that tongue can be so uptight, sometimes.
the only thing that can loosen her is liquor, love -
(sweet, sharp, a little too much - who does that remind you of?)
spills from a clumsy heart -
i imagine it soothing the flames of burning bridges
and leaving them to rest in ash.
Let the ghosts roam where they may -
leave it be, my lion
you have me
and my
reckless
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Everything can be poetic if you look at it that way
The way you smile and good off at yourself while brushing your teeth
The way the laundry does cartwheels in the machine
The way your curly hair falls right behind your ears
The way you smirk whilst trying not to laugh
The way you stifle a giggle at your crazy life
There is extravagance in the most normal of things we barely glance over
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:07 PM UTC
Since ever he came to live at our house
We’d never felt safe or sure,
So late at night we’d turn out the light
And block up the bedroom door,
We’d slide a heavy old chest in place
That he never could push right in,
We knew, with just one look at his face,
The man was riddled with sin.
Our mother, bless her, was long divorced,
Our father was gone for good,
He never called, and we were appalled
That he never came when he should.
‘Why do you need that man in the house,’
I said, ‘You have me and Drew.’
But she would smile, ‘Well, it’s been a while,
And there’s things that you can’t do.’
We didn’t know what she meant back then
For we were too young to know,
How a woman’s won, or she bears a son,
Where a man and a woman go.
We only knew he was far too nice
When he first came into our home,
His creepy fingers, they felt like ice
So we wished he’d leave us alone.
He’d wander about the house by night,
We’d hear him mounting the stair,
And feigning sleep, not let out a peep
When we heard him breathe out there.
He’d come to a halt by our bedroom door
And stand and listen, we thought,
The tears in my brother’s eyes would glisten
In fear that we’d be caught.
His frightful stare gave a mighty scare
When he fixed on Drew and I,
Our mother said it was really sad
That he had just one good eye.
His other eye, it was made of glass
He had lost that one in the war,
It never closed, so we both supposed
That he slept, but still he saw.
Our house lay at the top of a hill
And a milk cart stood outside,
Its great cartwheels were covered in steel
And to hold it, it was tied.
One day we loosened the holding chain
As he came out into the street,
And watched the cart as it rolled on down,
Knocking him off his feet.
A wheel rolled slowly over his head
As he gave a deathly sigh,
His brains on the road were grey and red
And the pressure popped his eye.
It lay and stared at the two of us,
Was accusing us then, and still,
The memory sits and stays with us
For we’d never meant to ****
Our mother wailed, and our mother mourned
And she kept his one glass eye,
She propped it up on the mantelpiece
‘So he’s with us still,’ she’d sigh.
Drew would shudder and I would shake
As it followed us round the room,
We both grew up with a complex that
We’ll never get over soon.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
I lay here open
Open to possibilities and opportunities that present themselves for me with you
But i Can't seem to break through this wall I have put up
A wall made jus for me to protect and keep me from harmful situations
Many contemplations about how am I gonna get through this again
So I kept building and building on my personal wall
Yeah see I built this wall with pain over and over and over
A lil dab of betrayal
A pinch of some scorn
Oh and shovel full of layers of scar tissue covered with stitches for recovery
Yeah I built this wall meticulously
I would sometimes feel like I'm a guest
Sometimes like an outsider in my own skin
Moving along like a night rider
Nobody seeing me or believing me
So I carry some heavy footgear
Holding them in my rear stow away I use it to move along through life without any scars, or that's what I try to do
This footgear feels great because I can stomp, jump, and even do cartwheels over all my enemies
Ancient conviction
Shindy misleadings all leading up to my success
Leaving me blessed
Riding along this pack train saying hello mufasa and simba
Oh and rifiki is there
What's up....
See I admire their strength and agility
I even know who continues to keep me
A higher power and His name is Jesus
Love Him to pieces
But someone came outta nowhere
Out From left field Try to catch the Foul ball
Jumping over bases and even some left field men
Trying to Break through my wall
Shining some light on my night rider journey
Complicated feelings taking many meanings
My head is spinning
Fear rising...leaving me paralyzed even though I still feel your touch when I'm away from you
I'm scared...even some what terrified that I lie here and all I can think of is you
Wondering if my brain waves can send out a signal over to you so that you know how I feel
See night riders they don't open up
Staying closed
Sign on the door...
No more customers...the day is over
See We ride in the dark
Trying to keep feelings secret
A loner when it comes to sharing emotions
Commotion on the inside but calm on the outside
But maybe you can be my knight in shinning amour breaking down my walls
Chipping and chipping away through all the dust and the rumble
I may even stumble over you but at least I'll be in your arms
Feeling safe through your touch that even peels away some of the hurt
So right now I may be a night rider but I'm moving towards the horizon that is the beginning of some light
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
Thin air is hard to breath
When your running up a hill
So run back down
The air is thicker here
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 10:18 AM UTC
Every day is Grandparents' Day
when you sit outside and watch them run
play, kick ball, laugh and cheer
it makes it all worthwhile
their loving smiles
their joyous laughter
hoola hoops
somersaults that soon
become full handstands
and cartwheels
Have you ever watched the ball game
if not, you need to go out back
and root for your favorite team
or even kick a ball or two with them
oh, but it's worth every minute
the joys, the smiles...
they're not always the children's
but it's definitely Grandparents' Day
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
What mares did you see, your mind all at sea, the girl with van gogh eyes?
What smiles you give, what lives do you live, with no lies to give - the girl with Van Gogh eyes?
The mud in your toes, the potions you brew, the singing of her voice, the girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your dark pool windows cast bright light and dark shadows, oh how they spark me, the girl with Van Gogh eyes.
Dark voids I fall into, portal or eternal loss, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your pale moon skin, troubadour clothes, firm curved within, girl with Van Gogh eyes
cartwheels in the grass, you fiddle away in a beautiful way, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Starry nights twirl, earth flower I unfurl in avarice and in care, girl with Van Gogh eyes
Your butterfly child helped temper my sin, the girl with Van Gogh eyes
It lies within, curves womanly my chagrin, oh girl with van Gogh eyes
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Tara is a little girl…she does pinwheels and cartwheels on crowded traffic signals and yeah …she has a small baby monkey who helps her…
Tara
Little Tara
Tonight I leave my
Pen to sniff
hunger ghosts
Rumbling in your belly…
Yes..
sniff from
Miles and miles apart
From your own
Ragged world
Of pin wheels
And cartwheels
Emaciated monkey babes
Ah ! In this hollow
Poetic world
Is it only rhythm
I seek …
Even as cold winds
Enter those gaps
Expanding forever
In your innocent
malnourished psyche…
Tara..
little Tara
tell me ..
how to give
a closure
to this verse…
Do I ask
You how
Your new year
Had been
Or..
Do I
Fish that
Rusted coin
From the bottom
Of my purse and
Toss it on
To your eager
Waiting palm
Tara..
Little Tara
Tell me
Helpless as I am
Shrouded
In my opulent hypocracy
…
As you are
…shivering
In your humble poverty
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
i never would write until the night fell
you laugh at me from the light
and every smear of honesty
betrays me
and you stand a thousand stories tall
but i have to leave my shoes
in the door way
the stars arent your eyes any more
they are only the fire
the flame that scorches my rib cage
its as though i payed a mask maker
if everything was in its right place
my reflection wouldnt seemed so skewed
remember
a lemon is a fruit
with every car parked aside the avenue
all lanes free
you can run
lumber
in the turn lane
beneath the big sign
that changes colors
that blinds you with its fascism
with its charges against you
that youre given ninety to life for
***** and beanie weenies
a cats purr
pecans
the writings of a mystic
purrs
and the mask maker
and a sneeze
then love
to stretch out
to cuddle up
to fail at cartwheels
we cant loose
i hear you cheese over the phone
every single hormone
cresting and waining
here i am
the mind of the eye
or vica verse
if you cant
then i will
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
We sat in the shade of that old pine tree
inhaling the fading October sun
twisting lyrics to ancient songs,
and
fixing rules to faltering fantasies
We searched the inky midnight sky
for clouds, but were blinded by
the endless stars so instead
tiptoed through the moment, said
if come November all would fall
into the box of things that used to be
We sat by that flaming river until
the embers engulfed our dreams
as darkness cloaked our moonlight skin
we dissolved into the vanishing breeze
I still have that bag we stuffed
with our meandering thoughts, and
it still has sand that smells of rain
Barefoot and empty handed
Our callused feet held the universe at bay
but it poured through,
poured through the cracks anyway
Do you remember?
Can you hear the echoes of our teenage dreams?
They were something, those dreams
And we danced through near half of them, we did
sure as our ****** bruises, we did.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
the fostry boys and clair-n-tine hills
will wrest away their fears
like marcks-alarns and floaty badge
and puffer-nickel stills.
they'll bother beat with ever chills
and lime-lack in the surf.
I'll wait for time appronaheed,
I'll ferret out the mirth.
you'll not buy wick-ends in their fall
nor taste their merton soot,
you'll waste your fully throtton ball
and save your lamest foot.
as they're the childs of never-been,
the cartwheels at street and rue,
unghost their face as your beating slows,
these boys, to res-cue you.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
If I were to pour out my bag, myself, there would first be numerous scraps of paper, doodles and small notes. Then maybe some pieces of brightly colored cloth. There would be coins, representing all the change in my life. Miles and miles of film would fall down to the floor. Notebook upon notebook would slam on top of each other, filled with writing. Stick-on-the-ceiling-stars would fall down from the darkness inside the bag. Those are from my childhood. Caps from jars full of summer fireflies would drop down, making a ‘klink’ as they hit the ground. Socks with holes would float slowly to the landing. Pieces from board games, little Candyland men would tumble out, doing cartwheels through the air. Past trinkets and toys, a few postcards, jewelry from past generations, all things that are or were a part of my life….
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 8:33 AM UTC