"corded" poems
your hair appears darker
when wet.
black, corded,
thick as puzzlegrass.
a companion in contrast
to frosted
cupcake blue eyes and
incense burning
in the ashtray.
memories thrown
in the laundry pile
with the wet towel
swirling upon
your head.
your smile
bitter as asparagus,
staining my *****
for the next two days.
your frame
soft and slender
as balsa wood.
I’d eat your air
freshly oxygenated
and bend you into
an arc.
the waves would split
on your bow
and shower my face
wet
dark
corded
thick as puzzlegrass.
then
from your finger
the standard of a
dove leaving
olive branch in
mouth
into the frosted
cupcake blue
sky.
a miracle in
the eye of the
waning storm.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
You were my coffee today
Just walking along the road
to Hell knows where on the last day of July
My car made the turn onto Sheridan
and my eyes caught the motion of your swagger,
dark pants
Black tank
Probably a red shirt wrapped around your waist
corded arms slightly bowed to give the impression of a badass
your long hair flowing in the morning air
In an instant your head came up
Instinctively giving you the image of my nearing car
And then you smiled
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC
If it wasn't almost 2016, I would call you on your house phone from my corded phone in my kitchen, we'd chat quickly as to not rack up my phone bill, we would make dinner plans and call it good.
But it is almost 2016 and I'm actually looking at your Facebook and your girlfriends Instagram and I'm laughing / crying over the gag worthy photos she has you featured in.
If it wasn't almost 2016, I wouldn't even know you had a girlfriend and I wouldn't have tried to save the poor girl from your ***** lying ways.
But it is almost 2016, and when Snapchat helped me find out you had a girlfriend while still trying to **** me, I DID try to save the poor girl from your ***** lying ways. You told me not to say anything more, but I had to stop this because I know the feeling of a heartbreak like the one you were about to cause her.
If it wasn't almost 2016, I wouldn't have access to every social media platform that allows me to see every single detail of your life. I wouldn't be driving myself crazy with questions and no answers.
But it is almost 2016, and I get to watch your life unfold with someone else and wonder why I came in last, still no answers.
If it wasn't almost 2016, forget tinder and my quirky bio with the 6 best photos I've ever taken, you'd call me on my corded phone because you actually knew IRL how fun and quirky I am and you'd already have seen me in all my green eyed, beautiful brunette glory.
It is almost 2016 and that means I am just another girl that you aren't looking for something serious with because you're a boy in his early 20s craving freedom. Instead you send me ***** text messages because you're a boy in his early 20s and you met me on Tinder. I am a girl in my early 20s and when you met me on Tinder, you assumed I wanted less than a relationship and a little more than a "hey how are you?" convo.
If it wasn't almost 2016, you wouldn't have detailed all the ways you would make me feel good because would you ever really say those things to my ******* face?
But it is almost 2016, and you didn't say any of those things to my ******* face, you said it beneath the unsolicited picture of you naked in your bathroom mirror and you even added that ******* emoji with the sunglasses, like what you were doing to me was actually super cool.
If it wasn't almost 2016, I wouldn't have known that you were feeding lies to me on a silver platter, I would have gorged myself on your tasty sweet nothings.
But it is almost 2016, and I am starving myself of something worthy and filling because I can't stop reading the tasty sweet nothings you are feeding her.
It is almost 2016 and I wish I could have said **** you to your two timing face instead of via text message.
**** you, again and again and again.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Some decades back, in actual fact,
Being heard was feared.
Corded phones and dial tones
Were oft routinely cleared;
The worry was a 'wire-tap',
Domestic speech taboo.
The rumor was, in essence, that
If said, the White House knew.
Nowadays, this fear we lack,
And cheerfully obey.
Now we ask, "Hey, wire-tap,
What's the weather like today?"
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
Fists of iron
Steely embrace
A tumultuous tyrant
Ultimate disgrace
A burden beyond carry
A pain beyond name
Corded muscles harry
Face contorted with strain
Tired metal gives way
To the sound of ragged death
Dreaded tyrant of dismay
The sound of haggard breath
Yet the iron giant begins to fall
His weighty gait is sinking down
Tired legs slowly start to sprawl
As the hefty giant claims the crown
The struggle is an exercise
A ritual of deepest divinity
Yet failure tends to emphasize
That it is one done in futility
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
The snow berries are out tonight
In corded rows of silent lights
They decorate the tallest hedge
Float across a mission to address.
Little people stop and stare
Their wonder full of mystery
Then home to gather round tree
A yearly Christmas fantasy.
Love Mary ***
Love Mary x
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
He fumbles with the **** and clicks the door half-open,
blinking silently at us as we pile out of the van,
his owlish eyes peering.
He struggles to find words after so many long days--
good words for his grand-nephews,
words of strength for his grand-nieces--
and Chinese words stumble out.
He stands silent for seconds,
halted in the midst of a sentence,
searching for the English.
So we try to fill the still house with life and noise.
It is grey and large, with blank, staring windows and empty beds.
Our laughter does not echo well in its long hallways,
muted by the weightless, suspended air.
We eat at the kitchen table, and I watch him.
He seems so strong sitting there,
deceptively powerful,
corded arm muscles and heavily veined hands
and silver hair, carefully combed
in a wave that was dashing forty years ago.
Then he stirs,
stands and shuffles slowly to the sink.
The illusion of strength falls away.
He is a worn old man--
tired and sad.
Quietly I wait behind him as he washes his hands,
then pauses, confused,
wrinkled eyes
querulous and vague,
and slowly washes them again.
The rhythmic movements of his once sure fingers
rub in an unchanging pattern
from when he was young.
I remember many years ago,
--when I was even younger than now--
I remember him looking at me,
I remember seeing my dark and warped reflection in his wise, laughing eyes.
I thought surely he was the most dignified of men:
alive and slow and gentle,
quietly commanding respect,
his amiable face in permanent creases
from too much kind smiling.
Now those wrinkles have faded.
The faint lines no longer trace across his face,
and his house is quiet.
My great-uncle is alone.
Alone
with the countless photos of her.
They are fading slowly in the streaming sunlight--
together.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
I see you.
I see myself in you.
I see not the facade that you set like a mask upon your pale face
or the strings tied at your wrists, pulling your arms every which way
or your pain trailing behind you like a black cloud, thunder cracking, as a smile stays
your present is my past
i know you.
Our veins are corded rubber bands that stretch from our arms,
around our backs through every checkpoint joint in our bodies,
they slingshot feelings throughout
so that not only will our brain feel the hurt but everything else too.
We are every single broken person thats searching through the rubble of their own mistakes, hands bleeding, praying for shards of their splintered heart to appear
i am therefore you are and vice versa
im aware of the struggle you go through
that unbelievability that you can swing your legs from your bed and make it through the day
i am conscious of the crippling insecurity,
the four walled prison that you built yourself
the bars, stronger than anything even superman could bend, that are made of the insults that have been muttered
I identify with the confusion with which you feel lost
you don't know who you are
when you lean your head back and subconsciously search the starry night sky for your meaning
I'm there
I am you, and you are me
in a simple merge we are one
it has always been this way
and it always will be
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
The world has turned into a global village
No one can deny on that...
But..remember the phone we had placed on that beautiful table mat?
Yes...it was a matter of pride to have one..
The only fastest medium of communication we had at that time
It too had models...the rotary phone, the keypad and many fancy ones
We talked, laughed and sobbed sitting at one place as we were tied with the corded set with everyone.
It was safe.....no fear of radiation or loss of eye sight .
Though it was much too costlier than what it is today....people still communicated and talked their heart out
Now...every hand has a cell phone which comes with many features overcoming the limitation of the old one
People can connect anywhere in no time
Then why...?
We are so disconnected.....!
May be we mastered the art of telepathy?...or we are blessed with a magical wand...?
We talk no more
We only make groups
We love forwarding messages
We have become mute.....
So can we again move to landline?
Come out of the virtual world by talking to our dear ones at this time?
Can we try and understand what they are hiding behind their smiling whatsapp profiles?
Let's do things one at a time...rather than multitasking with phone on one hand and laptop on the other...
Let's give them the love and respect when one needs from your side.
So ..... sit back and dial a number of your loved one...and help the world again to become one if not through landline but may be your heartline!!
Bina Mukherjee
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC
obsidian profusion
(from pale scalp)
smothers my
understanding
i've lost my i
looking into
{your}
unimaginable
eye's
viridian temptation
envelopes my physical construct
(and for all my corded sinew
i am so weak to your nuzzling)
please
just
kiss
me
with those unbearable lips
;innocence is the worst sin
Apr 15, 2010
Apr 15, 2010 at 12:38 PM UTC
I’m laughing with you.
We sit at my piano
Video media records,
and I have the pleasure of watching us toss our heads back
Breaking neck smiles.
Play back our giggles
Mismatched notes
We don’t search our own accord,
Clash of chords
corded around each key.
Sitting on that bench is wearing socks of different pairs.
I am a fuzzy mid-calf, and you are an argyle knee high.
Socked in laughter.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
there is magic in concrete
if you believe
when you work the surface
flat, in circles,
the float tool buoyant
on a gray puddle
here’s the enchantment:
with fingertips on the handle you can
sense the wet concrete, the mojo
like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
sort of bouncy
as you stroke
pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is ******* cement
a final thin film, a pretty coat
over guts of gravel and sand
now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
unless you scratch a name
honor the skilled arms,
the corded legs and vertebral backs
the labor that shaped
this odd stone
sculpted, engineered
implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
Corded muscles of the neck ferry the voice of sky,
Charon of words adrift in a salivary dislocated sine,
A fracture of breath, the stenciled rowing of a sigh.
Psychopomps of moonlight, past-throated vultures,
Carrion of clouds even if stripped clean in vulpicide,
Even if our scorched and coining tongues tip at stars.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
wHat beckons is the silent Kingdom
a sanctum holy devoid. whose apt walls
are tawny bricks of quiet. the patrons
clamor somnambulant. and heaps of
proffered tongues litter the illucid
broken halls.
the forgetful powder piles neatly
limbs of gray on and about and
the pews drink the sun or the sky
is a plait of onyx feathers.
an arrhythmia of breathes struggle
daft lungs. the stillness beats. bleating
nothing lambs flocked in stupid silver.
the mouths are all corded sinew bound.
epitaphs scrawled untidy letters drench
cheeks apathetic. a corpse of hollow resonance.
step and stone; cadaverous hues, sallow indolent
light on every stanchion.
in
the cathedral, cloistered, is a stiff artery.
a heart stagnant veins. a king whose crown is
ash, a face whose efforts are unfleshed. no skin
has purchase. nor sight. empty hood scythe loaded
dreams the morphea plated scalp. a soft vesical
limpid chromatic fingernails scrabble festering
nodes.
he is waiting
in the comfort of his filth
lithe carpals flexing summons
to his cloak
the candles are making naked lips
kissing darkness; lovers uncut
bound fornicating. i sitting sat saturated
the valley fluxes.
and a tissue of blue decrepit
night dusting the sin of noise. a naked wind
so says
he
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
voices bubble babble 'cross quiet's soft ******* slithering into the cracks between city sounds oral profusions erupting rhythmically with staccato precision her pretty lungs make sweet vibrato with corded compliance i try to hear her i but my sanity blocks its oozing path
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
daredevil diving
base human conditon
adrenaline addiction
base jumping
girl in a gondola busted,
sliding door bungy corded
open
her face is clear her future too
nah na nah na boo boo
gondola a platform not,
camera captures his first and
only step,
it was a long one,
plummeted until he pulled the ripcord
eyes turn skyward
as the images seesaw,
his excitement
floats his boat,
while the cold air
gives lift to this dare
devil and the parchute he wears
but alas he lands, they joy ends,
once he is busted there will two
court dates, and besides he courted
disaster
reality of a trial will
bring
him
to
earth
faster.
©DWE022014
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
i have a rope around my neck
and it's sliding
tighter
and
tighter on my throat.
my life is in peril
for a string of corded jute has proven stronger than man
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
I sold my skin one evening
As I had times before
He was a pale man this time
But eyes and hair as black as pitch
Teeth of smooth and beautiful ivory
Light circles under his eyes
Smooth, handsome face
Marred by an almost imperceptible scar
It was only when I saw his skin
Beneath the neck
His chest, his back
The corded and worn muscles
Fatless arms and legs and torso
It was when I saw his skin
That I both feared and ached
Wanted and wanted to run away
Where was it then?
That old romantic and cinematic sentiment
Where a working girl
Finds protection and comfort
A change and better offer at life?
Where was it then
When I wanted and wanted to run away
I sold my skin to him
My guts and breath and sweat
And though I smiled and cooed
Surrendered more than my form
I cast off my want of romance
Wept and hated myself
Beneath the actress’ mask
Running makeup on top of raw skin
Sweated out my tears
Washed away and worn away
False tone and pigment of youth
He left his seed, coin
And a tip for his tip
Light bruising and dull ache
I sold my skin one evening
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 10:13 PM UTC
i will die.
the sun,
and by the way
did you know?
(i do)
in the summer it
leaps wholly freshness
into the sweating backs of knees
a yowl
a dream
a distinctly arousing
a corded and steeply ***** shyness.
it peters sharply
from girl cuts
into niceness
a cringing of night
to less darkly foil
the trees
(amongst 'em
where will sleep
me when i
cease my hands to try) roots
reachness of worms
and the rushing of oceans
wind
wind
wind
coolly teasing
with teeth so
cruelly pleasing
(upon which rise
the curving hushness
of body's plummet
isthe
falling of darkness' lushness
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
chain lightning blows across the sky like a radiant touch;
strikes the same tree in my hometown every time i fall in love.
what breed is it, this ruinous love? striking,
the white caustic light of it irradiating
the surrounding cornfields.
were you ever there to see it? from your bedroom window?
the arc and crackle? this tuning fork of astral flame resonating
between cloud and timber? this crippled elm where
my skinny suicidal teenage love bid me scale limbs?
where each time, like a surgeon, my shaky fingers stitched bark
with the corded sinew of raccoons and my fluids held it all glued?
in the dark? how so like an heirloom it seems now;
this lone tree, cordoned in scars,
all gnarl and char.
i turn to the map of my circulatory system in these moments,
follow the red army over a causeway of capillaries,
watch them fattened on oxygen.
how else to know that amongst all this,
there remains
a richness deep
down things?
make a supple leather from the hides
of the nights I knuckled crabapples down your roof.
It will be the color of a bruise; of a secret. all you do
is carve, slicing carefully to cut out my
silhouette projected against your bedroom wall –
all this, time and memory, just arts and crafts. molding
the vectors of us, hurtling through space
like coins drifting
to the bottom
of a well.
memory, the fashion and fashioning of it:
the way we wear our existence. our skeleton
to cobble and clothe. so while we’re at it…
let us forget the moments of trepidation.
Obliterate the clamminess of our palms clenched together,
the schoolyard drama of it all. pasted in layers
until it’s just a mess of glue. until the moments that matter
are traced with dotted lines
and lusted over
by the appetites
of scissors.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Time like a river has past.
Like an ocean, it has accumulated.
I, a captain, of land have I seen of last.
To the edges of oblivion have I, myself relegated.
Of the thousand steps have I walked.
Of this earth have I wandered.
Of solitude have I carefully stalked.
Of you I have dared not pondered.
So long in this desert, so long in this desolation.
So long have I felt not a motion nor a spur.
To the frost bitten isles, to the coldest snows, of warmth I have no relation
My skin has hardened of its shell my heart will not be lured.
And yet when I stop.
When my corded muscle ceases in its motion.
And in a hardened mind a sprinkle of doubt.
And weary eyes turn to look back and thus begins my erosion.
For there is no solace in this distance.
No comfort in this silence.
The emotion, my every action withstands.
Of all my efforts of violence.
I feel, and therefore I am undone.
I feel and my strength and will slayed, fall down
I feel and time reverts and it feels like it did when it all begun
I feel and my through my bedrock erupts anguishes sound.
I remember a face laced in roses.
Like a dream I am carried back into your arms.
And around me comfort closes
And again I am besotted with your charms
I remember it all and that is the source of my madness.
Of a loss of ones mind, not of reason, but of emotion.
To be left barren, in pain constantly empty and loveless.
Of our union I gained something that merrited my devotion.
And at its loss, my mind broke at the eight of its cost.
And so I turn away from the warmth of memory.
I toss myself into the fire and the storm of loss.
I grind myself against life's emery.
"Destroy me" I cry.
"For I cannot bare this cruelty you have visited upon me."
But I only become harder in body and in soul not matter how hard I try.
Of the end as I walk I cannot see.
Out of this darkness I cannot find my light.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
We are miraculous.
Ropes of corded muscle
Intertwined—
A system so efficient
We have spent centuries
Attempting to imitate it.
We are
Astounding.
Life is a miracle
No robot
Can replace.
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 3:02 PM UTC
I built this desk higher than was reasonable.
Apparently, I wanted the pleasure of my own excitement
more than a comfortable writing life.
The legs rise, Dr. Seuss spindling, a long
way toward ceiling, and I bungee corded an aviator
seat onto a tall stool at a breathtaking angle so that
I have to be very careful sidling my **** up and finally,
oh, er, off, on! This batting about of language, at great
heights is not for the faint of heart. It’s much
warmer up here, and I’m too high
to get down. So I stay a course through powerful urges
for Chips with Dip or One More ******* Load of Laundry
and occasionally, in my bored
willingness, I stumble
upon some shimmering confluence
of words that makes me want to rip out
my hair and buy a new howl, or spend
my life trying to become
a white sheet, hanging alone all day
with the sun and the wind and then the stillness of night
and the dew, leaping from blades
of grass to sway a ways with me in this
soft shiver of not yet morning.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC