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TomDoubty Apr 2021
They burst upwards

All around this evening

There and there and there

Trees, Trees, Trees

Smashing through soil

To a darkening sky

Limbs and fingers and hands

Trunk and twig

Coiling coronaries

Pressed to the sky’s last

Etchings

Monoliths

Earths loud art

Not solemn

Not peace filled

This evening

Trees , Trees, Trees

Explode from the earth

Like Kraken from the ocean

Belittling

Reminding us

Trees Trees Trees

Four hundred million years

Before you breathed

Trees Trees Trees
Shelby LoAnn Dec 2012
Intertwine our pulmonaries
Pull tight, tie together our coronaries

My superior vena cava resting near yours
Hear that, the sound of opening ventricle doors

Beautiful looking aortas fixed
Winding together as a double helix

This heart of mine will skip a beat
Just so my arrhythmia and yours might meet

This ticker will only continue to tick
If next to yours it may stick

Not a murmur because of bad health
A murmuring of loves bountiful wealth

Atrium to atrium, heart to heart:
Blood's continual pumping, so long as our valves never part.
Amber S May 2013
your body is my habitual enclave,
I know the roads, the routes, the rails,

the way it sparks in the night, how it creaks with the sun.
I coast your body like a map,
the compass in my palm quivers, the needle
whirls and swivels, disoriented, north left behind.
instead I will globe-trot through your anatomy,
with no concerns of foreign lands, with languages
of gibberish and people unfamiliar.
first, I will plunge into your shoulders,
gape at the brawn, the vastness,
compare them to the beautiful mountains seen in Colorado.
next, I will huddle in the wool of your torso,
stealing a quick snooze,
submerged in the berceuse of your coronaries.
afterward, I will drift among your hands,
skipping among the grooves,
stumbling upon the calluses.
then, I will float among your lips,
stealing speckles of salt while playfully
greeting your lingual.
and, and, and, my darling, this adventure
will exhaust me.
so I will traverse back, through your lips, your hands,
your torso, your shoulders, until
I come to my favorite monument.
they are waves full of sapphire, clashing among
charcoal thunderstorms, dancing along
fields of jade.
two orbs of magnificence (and mine)

you will smile, and ask how the journey was,
and I will reply, as always:

“unforgettable”
daisies Jan 2016
"What do you wish for?"
Stunned, I remain silenced.
Tapping the pencil, tilting my head;
think. Fast. Now.

Nothing came to my mind but extinguishing
the very thought of you.
I decided to grant my own solitary wish.

And so, I wrote. I wrote you.
I wrote all verbal poetry exchanged.
I wrote all smirks and grins you've let escape.
I wrote the mere change in your voice tone
when you called my name.
I wrote, because writing was my only savior.
I wrote you, my darling,
into *****, crumbled sheets of yellow paper.

Rolling them up like those cigs enveloped by your lips,
I embedded each one to my heart's core,
one after the other, stroke after stroke,
and I started bleeding all over.

My final endurance, hallelujah, this was it!
I detached my heart from all that's connected to it,
I almost died.

I gathered up what has remained from my frail soul
and fed it into my coronaries,
just to keep it pumping yet.

Removing it gently, I dug up a hole in the dirt
and slowly placed it. Here it was,
you, lying in utter chaos.

I was devoid of it.
Devoid of what made me who I am.
I was motionless, dull-eyed, insipid.

I continued my life this way
the moment I decided to bury you alive.
As I inhale,
I catch your breath
next to mine in the hallway,

your hands
are covered in blue veins
and you tell me
about the amygdala
and the chemicals
in our brains.

I tell you how
there are subtleties
in the dark coronaries,
there is a linger
that assembles in the blood
before it takes in the breath,
there are secrets to the cells
and the capillaries.

Your hands are shaking
a small bit, pale and blue,
in the middle of the hallway.
I grab them,
you close your eyes,
I know you wish you were elsewhere,

but you must remember
this life is a caricature
of biology;
we are all elsewhere -

I wish I could tell you,
that all I want to do is stratify you,
lay you out across millennia,
until you are everywhere
in every rock
every mineral.

Tell you to remember,
our birth is before the first day;

we are
                        the light
   before
    the dawn breaks -

we are circulated
me and you,
like breath,
like the morning star,
effortlessly,
orbiting -

do you think we would fall off
if the earth stopped spinning?

“I do wonder
if there would still be oxygen”
Adela Wilde Jun 2011
Then take me.
Reach out and wrap yourself around me,
Press your heart to mine, connect coronaries.

I'm not going to be the first one to leap
I'm too clumsy, I'll fall over my own feet,
And crash, tumbling at yours.

Thinking is a bad idea.
You need to catch me before I fall.
Rina Steinberg Feb 2014
Thoughts of ancient visions and past tribulations
leave uncovered scabs on my soul,
vulnerably marking it like Cain's.
Unknown forces move me to replay situations of what was and no longer is.
Ghosts,
pulsing through my coronaries,
leave me with a burning sensation
that isolates me in yesterday.
Catharsis is a joke.

Each hour or year I absorb my sins and the sins of the world.
They are beginning to clot,
And the tears do nothing but  inflame my eyes and my conscience.
Hark! conscience- swollen,
swollen like a cancerous infection of the mind
surging through my neurons,
covering them with concrete as it claims them.
There is no purging.

Quiet fears leap from my mind and
Trickle down my neck,
Clinging to hair follicles as they creep,
Slowly
     Tearing
At my focus.
I shiver.
With apprehension
Of a potentially empty tomorrow,
I tremble at the thought of satanic beings.
Catharsis is a sick joke.
Wk kortas Sep 2017
i.

The sky is, as it was the day before and the day before
And countless days before that, impossibly blue,
Wholly unimpeded by the possibility of clouds.
The hiker stops, taking in the moment, the entire tableau:
Clean lines of mesas rising abruptly in the distance,
The tangible, almost corporeal dryness of the air,
A silence so all-encompassing
As to be almost an entity in itself, and he thinks out loud
How the fingerprints of God’s beauty
Are to be found, even on a place like this.  
His guide, who has simply nodded along unconsciously
Like a dog or hula ******* a dashboard to this point,
Hesitates for just  a moment.
Mebbe so, he says with due deliberation,
Although I’d be perfectly content if your God
Was a little more disposed to look favorably upon humidity.


ii.

Well of course the beach is pristine, the cabby barks,
It never stops raining long enough for anyone to set foot on it.
He lectures his fare, visiting Thomas’ ugly, lovely city on business,
Almost non-stop the entire trip to the hotel,
A litany of woe  decrying decades
Of rising damp, unconquerable mold,
Picnics scheduled in fits of near-lunatic optimism
Invariably falling victim to drizzle and outright downpour,
And, just before he pulls to a stop,
The driver opines I’ve seen Heaven in my dreams,
And it’s a sandy place with nary a gutter or downspout in sight.


iii.

The lake, lovely and Y-shaped
(But deep and silent as death itself,
Holding swimmers and fisherman to its bottom
As closely and tightly as dark secrets)
Is just visible in the distance,
And it is not worth a ****, the glaciers which carved it out
Having left ridges and moraines
Making it impossible to reach with pumps and pipes,
No more useful for irrigation
Than a spigot on the side of a farmhouse,
And so they wait,vacillating between patience and despair
For the rain that will no more come today
Than it has not for near a month now,
A drought that no one
In this part of the Finger Lakes has ever seen,
Even old Jess Bower, who had long since seen ninety come and go
(But he was strangely quiet on the subject, a first as all would attest,
Saying simply Can’t tell ‘bout these things, sometimes)
And most nights the heat of August mocks them,
Stirring with thunder and the occasional bit of dry lightning,
But not a shower, not even a spit to go along with it.

iv.

******* Christ, how can you sweat in weather like this,
But he is soaked, layer upon layer, coat to tee shirt,
Having shoveled twelve, maybe sixteen inches of thick, wet flakes
Which have congealed together in great soggy clumps
Like so many forkfuls of badly prepared mashed potatoes,
The kind of snow that clogs streets and causes coronaries
And brings the kids with shovels strutting hopefully door-to-door,
Shovel yer walk for a ten spot, mister.
As he peels down to tightie-whities and turns on the shower,
He thinks to himself, ****, a couple degrees warmer,
This is all rain, and I am on the couch the last coupla hours.


v.

(Back in the farming country, everyone asleep
in spite of the heat and the long dry,
Only a solitary old mutt dozing on the porch steps
Is awakened by the roll of thunder,
The subsequent splatter of huge drops,
Which lead the dog to rise up
And saunter back onto the porch,
The rain upon his fur making him distinctly uncomfortable.)
Whilst Gandhi homosexed his homosexy **** across India's frontier
white captors shook under the Raj's prohibition of Leffe Blond beer
& proctologic probes, ****** lubes & other buggery-facilitating gear
that made it thrillin' to hang backside-up like a royal navy brigadier
whose furloughs were porked by a toothless, salt-gatherin' mutineer
reliant on the sedition of a Hindu ½-caste, 5th column pamphleteer
with the power to render a beggar from a Bihar Province financiere
in the wink of a pink eye dies a marginal, market-manglin' profiteer
castigated, beleaguered & burked afore burial in Earth's lithosphere
that tricks atop, beneath, under & underneath Indira's sloppy veneer
At a glance the dance pants of Vivian Vance were enhanced by ants
so as to put in a stance of advanced trance manse plants that prance
by ****** chance rants that lance the nuts of *****, slopes & slants
My *** belongs, along with my dead heart, to Anchorage, Nebraska
which is readily contused with the bloodily-bruised Omaha, Alaska
that's praised like Jesus God by tenants, overnight renters & leasers
& Texican-Haitian-barrio rats that spooks derogatorily call greasers
in Aussie hinterlands where flocks of sheep breed with gay fleecers
who flame out at 60 like Liberty Avenue's sick sock-cucking teasers
while they're sockdologizing a crooked clientele of ½-spent geezers
iced plenty for vicious crammin' into Maytag-coffin-model freezers
with a fiercely-frozen frigidity to flummox farting, chronic sneezers
tweezed out hollow sinus-cavity-wise by the rustiest of ol' tweezers
to the degree of dealin' coronaries to ***** Canary Island wheezers
unfit to dredge ditches, sew kites, buy radial tires, dig palm trees or
****** Miss America till she acquiesces without having to seize her

— The End —