"craned" poems
One badass chick,
she strutted like a peacock
all the way down the block.
Men craned their necks
just to catch a glimpse
of her,
flicking her cigarette,
shaking her wares.
She walked right on by me
& winked,
had a little smirk
on her precious puckered-lips.
Geez, what a head of hair.
And though it made me sick,
I kind of giggled
to check out her aftermath.
Guys just stood there in awe,
dumbfounded,
bug-eyed
& I counted
no less than
six hanging-tongues
drooling.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry
Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.
The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.
Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.
Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.
God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,
While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.
2.6k
I stepped into the house and removed
my rain-soaked shoes on the grizzled entrance mat.
No one in the kitchen.
Though the aroma lingered, the coffee *** had turned itself off.
I touched the glass -- cool.
No one in the living room.
Half a pair of sequined flats were in the dog's mouth,
half a lady's pantsuit -- the black legs -- lied on the floor.
A soap opera on the screen, the volume low, the gold-tipped ceiling fan oscillating,
and Serge Gainsbourg's Histore de Melody Nelson played down the hall.
I followed the breathy vocals and wandering baseline to my room,
and there she sat.
The blinds open, veiny rain running along the pane,
on the beige carpeted floor, next to my unmade bed,
criss-crossed Jessica.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said.
Jessica smiled.
When she smiles, her cheeks go flush,
she lowers her head slowly, embarrassed,
but yet when she laughs,
she laughs loudly, boldly.
I've never understood that.
Jessica was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap undershirt
and blue cotton *******
Her brunette curls -- down, reaching past her shoulders.
Her toenails -- painted purple and chipped.
Newspapers lied strewn about her,
with puddles of acrylic paint atop them.
In her lap,
a white canvas stapled to a wooden backing frame.
She sang,
*"Princesse des ténèbres, archange maudit,
Amazone modern' style que le sculpteur,
En anglais, surnomma Spirit of Ecstasy."*
as she painted two lovers growing together
like curious oak trees.
I sat behind her on my bed. Pushed aside the tangled sheets.
She craned her neck to kiss my cheek sweetly.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Oh, who cares," she responded.
Her eyebrows lifted, her fingertips traced my thigh,
"Tell me something beautiful."
"What?"
She dipped her paintbrush in red, in white and applied them
to the lovers' lips.
"Tell me something beautiful."
"I can't think of anything," I said.
"Try."
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
God visited our house last Sunday
a bright papaya orange butterfly
welcomed Him,
fluttering in loops like a kite
as He stepped out of His car
Embracing our dear friend Jon from
New Jersey
He entered our pagoda
indeed, not as a guest but
as an embodiment of God
The early afternoon was garlanded
in loving, intimate, animated conversation
and a delectable lunch was served to our
beloved brother
This was topped off with nectar sweet
chocolate coconut prasadam
Everything from matters of the spirit
to soul stirring S.R.F. devotional songs
chanting sublimely
suffused our heavenly day
Even the backyard birds turned out
in large numbers
their cocky red, brown and
sky blue heads
peeking curiously through
the patio door
craned to catch a glimpse
of our divine companion
Jon, His mellow, prayerful eyes
blessing all His gaze fell upon
leaned back comfortably in
the recliner chair
like a long lost friend
returning home ~
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
You can't find relief...
In reasons non existent;
In predicaments ill-explained.
There's no relief.
In trying to peer over towering walls.
With feet on tiptoes,
and necks sorely craned.
Relief isn't found...
In wishing upon droplets
that explode as they meet the ground.
Everytime it thundered,
and then rained.
Relief is in the trove
when the heart lets go.
To acknowledge the error,
to move on...
And commit fully to the lesson gained.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
Outside in the cold
darkness, neck craned
toward Orion’s belt
waiting for streaks
across the sky.
Leonids passing
by, your name
orbits in my mouth
like planetary moons;
shooting stars
reflecting
the past
in your
eyes.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
When the dark night came with her rain.
my body and mind had started to pain.
As I weighed the cost of my task against its gain,
I felt I was fighting in vain!
Little by little the night progressed,
the things in my to-do-list regressed,
with my work, my heart felt impressed,
which in turn, left my mind digressed
my blood drained
my heart pained
my spirit waned
my mind craned
I started worrying
my stomach started churning
my eyes started crying
my mind started burning
I looked into my past to find some solution
I had nothing left to accompany my determination
I was stuck in this camp with a prefix of concentration
And I was left with a ton of assimilation
Oh, how I wish I had a Nanny McPhee
especially now, when my heart sighed, Oh, Gee!
with no more fresh n fighting blood left in me,
At last, I took refuge in my old friend, Coffee!
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
Allan keeps forgetting that his knees are sacred
There is not always solace granted from the bodies he prays to
Neck craned howls for love
Some deity’s fingers running through his hair
Allen is not good looking
And he forgets that no one ever hated a man
Who wanted good things for other people
Forgets that true beauty lies in the hands
And is seen by what they do
Your hands are beautiful
She said,
They can buy someone coffee
When it’s cold
They can make people warm
They do more than his mouth can
They speak languages
Entire languages
In the 7th grade
Christy Turtch slapped him once
For making eyes at another girl
It made his face warm with pain
His eyes wet
Allan bought her flowers
Glued googly eyes to the petals
Gave her a note
See. Only ever had eyes for you.
What Allan doesn’t know yet
Is that to get into heaven
Peter checks knees for scars
Checks hands for beauty
Checks eyes for everything else
Allan’s knees look like the moon
From the ways that he prays
Spotty gravel craters
Dimpled with the fear of
Maybe I won’t feel so lonely this time
His hands can hold someone’s head
His own head
Can make someone fall asleep with them
Can hold them so tight
It keeps them from leaving
Allan keeps forgetting
He pushes against the ground to stand
Brushes himself off
Wipes his eyes
And smiles
He forgets
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 1:30 PM UTC
I walked around the lake
but it didn't feel like a lake
anymore
my path was paved
the trees were shaved
and the water
was quiet.
a goose stopped to ogle me
and the other passers-by
it craned up its neck
and yawped
like a cry for help
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
It's funny how many people
will gather around
just to see one man on a building.
They don’t even know me
I barely even know me.
I’ve seen the gate but I've
never entered it;
never could find the **** key.
It's sick really,
they’re not here
because they care
they don’t even know who I am.
They just want to
partake in ritual sacrifice.
I’ll die like a Viking
a heroic death in combat.
I’ll be caught by Valkyries.
My body will be
of fire
and I will steal their children’s innocence.
They can shield their eyes,
but I’ll
scar the Earth,
I’ll
paint her red.
A mural with my brain.
And they can see everything that’s inside.
I’ll break the **** door
right off its hinges.
You can’t make people care,
but you can force them to see.
It's cold up here,
and the city is beautiful:
constructs of man
breaking the sky.
And me, in her.
At least the wind
is on my side,
the defiled king left to die
in a labyrinth of stone.
The sewers as my
burial crypt,
rats and snakes
******* my blood.
But the remnants of a soul
long forgot
still feeds the mouths that
rely on the few with food.
Their stomachs ache and
their hearts pound to
the beat of one drum.
A drum that beckons me to the edge.
Who am I to starve the hungry?
They don’t need a break,
they need to push harder.
I planted the trees.
I planted the oak
and I killed the yew.
I’ve tasted its arils
and made peace with the Ibis
that guided me here.
And as it watches me
with craned neck,
and bent beak
I leave my throne
and descend to water those
whose shade I will never sit beneath.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC
Within the air, defined with moss and lichen, and casualties of wet rotting wood-depletion on the dregs of the summit, is a flicker of reality. Here, no naked cedars or fair-weather friends are bent and leaning along the sturdy, unadorned spines of rifle green spruces. The stone-crushed trail takes above the haze of tree lines, founding a path by and beyond the fickle trustworthiness of rocks, and the wind carries all of fog and cloud away, and whispers like one thousand ghosts, and deceives the shrouded mountain’s inclines, unfolding above unto the soft clarity of dew and silence. The only reality is a place where the neck can ease its craned crooked coils to view the now-seemingly distant and muted pale orb of a star. And nothing here cannot breathed with. And nothing that can’t be understood is here amongst the scarred-ancient black cliffs and fissions of olden earth-crust and time. And nothing scales above the lonely, opening a prayer in the sky and the space.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
I walked in step
with that old guy
beside me.
Watched as he craned
his old neck around
at every
sweet smelling
beauty that passed us
by.
We stay that way for awhile.
Walking ,watching the parade of
hometown and home grown
beauty's walking,driving and pedaling
their way past.
For a few moments
I fell in Love.
And they all lasted
just long enough
to watch the different
versions of her blend into
the streets and vanish.
We approached some boys
sneaking left handed
cigarettes while sitting
on a wall half hidden
from the world beneath a
drooping
eucalyptus.
A tall boy rose his
chin to me as his fist
went into a ball.
I smiled as the Old Man
and I continued on.
I casually tightened my grip
on the pistol in my pocket.
But I had already
decided to let
this stupid young
boy grow into an
idiot of a man.
I caressed the
warm pistol inside
my warm coat pocket.
I felt the idiots eyes
burning into my back.
The brave Bull Fighter
came to mind
and the idiot beast
whose craving for
the flag of
red draws him to his
doom.
Cruel I've been along
my way,
the slaughter is what
stays with you.
All the rest
was just
time spent in
passing.
The old man
who finds me
when I'm unsure and
afraid,troubled and
out of drugs and searching for
reasons to continue on shook his
grey head as I looked his way.
I did what I always do
at the sight of him.
I laughed both to myself
and at myself.
Once that started the Old
man got to laughing which soon
turned into coughing.
Then like we always do,
we took the briefest of
moments and said our good byes
with our eyes.
Two sets of the same eyes
both witnessing it all
together.
One set reminding the
other of how much longer he has to be
here.
I secretly thank
him and he always
reminds me that I'm not
going any where any time
soon.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
It is all now done in vain,
To pretend in a state of pain.
To look through tears like rain,
It still remains just a game.
We struggle to remain sane,
Even as the horrors are plain.
Who shall we seek to blame?
As we wallow in this shame.
Sweet nectar now bitter strain,
As the sacrifices are in vain.
Our honor now deeply stained,
Our wounds now so inflamed.
To the heavens our necks craned,
We pray the hardships to be waned.
© Perveiz Ali
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
what sadness is leached from your heart to your brow?
unable to show what you truly emote
scathed in darkness
your treachery lies there
hidden still by the magic you've used to fog my eyes
but i am here
standing in the street, neck craned up at the sky
searching for hope, light
but the moon does not appear
cloaked by your entity, your shadow
what light prevails there, beneath the darkest blanket?
what bought breaks past your distant window?
is it the stillness inside of you rupturing?
someday it shall emerge
grotesquely from your centre
and devour all that remains
and there your body will lie, twitching
a blood-filled cavity
useless attempting to repair the fatal blow
and i will miss you
for now all that remains is hollow
the lifeless look in your stare haunts me
so i will not return here
for in my mind, you died that day
and all that i had ever hoped for
went away with you too
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
past tense verbs with their pesky sense of definity
divinity
those who drink the water say
is the now and
already there
but what was makes me weep
and I can't breathe now
not with my neck craned around-intimately eyeing the ghosts of christmases passed
and oh god, don't make me hear "eventually"
I can't stomach "let it happen"
I've known you in nine lives
I've remembered you in all nine
and in the eleventh hour you've made a pearly bust of your apathy
but your lips are half parted
I drip with desire
but I only ever see you when I follow the hand around the clock
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
I met you by the terrace walls when we were young
I was more graceful and prettier, but you were more interesting
And from then, you'd snagged my heart
I found myself entangled in you and we became inseparable—
The tightest pair of friends that wall had ever seen.
From there, I moved on to my father's pergola—a beautiful sight
Surrounded by cousins of daisies and roses with thorns
You didn't feel special when we were not alone
And craned yourself away from me as far as possible to listen
To the wind and our cousins below.
Next you found me stretched against the columns
Of my mother's porch—as if we were playing a magnificent
Game of hide and seek. You climbed up
To meet me more than halfway and promised never to leave
My side again, be it for the wind or my cousins or solitude.
And at the end, I chose to rest on the walls and columns
Of my balcony and you followed me as you said you would.
We had grown so much although you were much bigger
And I could see how much we'd changed. Still, we were
still entangled. We were still the same.
And like vines, we intertwined.
And slowly began to droop with age.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 8:45 PM UTC
if you can promise me privacy,
then i can lend you all of me.
i could be the miscalculated rain,
intended for the sea-
but destined to be
splattered on a window,
exploded like the galaxy.
did i paint the pretty picture
in a way that you can only see?
pull me in, pull me close-
and strip me of my sensory.
if this is it, let's make the most-
and shred up old philosophies.
while i still have cancer-less *******
let's look past the human fallacy.
while my heart throbs with unrest,
come divide me with your symmetry.
while i still produce a shadow,
while blood still floods the wound,
while we still have tomorrow,
paint the words to me in truth
am i bound to live my life with a craned neck?
stiff from that which i no longer possess?
scared of the sunrise, starving for the sunset?
i'll never know the presence of now
unless you teach me to forget.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
he is like an unfinished painting
a song with secretive lyrics
he spills a line then retracts a paragraph
with his eyes; that wide ocean
of unending metaphors
he watches and keeps to himself
a bag full of captured moments
and i am a bird, perched on an ordinary tree
i craned my neck, yet he couldn't see
my subtle melody, another mystery,
trapped underneath the leaves
i beg for mercy from a worm
that was supposed to be my meal
there are no trees across the ocean.
even in the negatives
i will never be cleared
or towed away in his collection of polaroids
yet in between my words, there he is
coloring the spaces my ink left
filling and filling and spilling
on my bed sheet, in my closet
among the neurons in my head
there will never be trees across the ocean.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
A famous alumnus is visiting the university. I got an invitation several days ago to a small, socially distanced, masked, focus group. It was to be early on a Saturday morning - so, why not? I was excited to see her - I’m a fan.
We were a diverse group of about 20 (covid tested before admittance) students and I was in the back row. Seating was offset so everyone could see everything perfectly. I craned and swiveled, when her entourage came into the room. Then, there she was - I’m sure I was grinning ear to ear (behind my mask), we clapped, excitedly. She wore a navy business suit. A jacket over a black blouse with slacks and black shoes.
She gave a talk, about the challenges America faces. On YouTube, her speech-giving voice always seemed artificial, cold, harsh and brittle. Here, she was low-key, motherly, whip smart, personable and humorous - everything I had hoped for.
Then there was a question and answer session (NOT easy questions - did I mention whip smart?) followed by a no touching reception line. And *** she’s a foot away. She seemed a lacquered and corrected sort of person - professional - I guess you’d say.
Everyone was gently elbow bumping with her, so I did too. You’d say your name and class. “Anais Vionet, freshman,” I said. I wanted to say “I’m a BIG fan” but I thought I might come off as either fawning or even worse someone bent on wasting her time.
We both smiled, me behind my mask and I bobbed a goodbye nod, but as I went to step away she said, “How’s your Grandmother?” I was shocked but I managed to say, “She’s fine, thank you.” To which she replied, “Please tell her I said hello.” I just nodded, “yes” as a sort of “I will,” and stepped away.
I glanced around, there was no handler by her side and she wasn’t wearing an earpiece - how she knew me I have no idea - but now I think she’s considering a run in 2024. My grandmère would be a whale of a donor.
What a bizarre encounter.
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 12:25 PM UTC
There are ghosts that stir inside of her,
shimmering and wraithlike.
The desperate ways
in which she's mooned
have craned and fused
and become a part of her.
They've since dissolved
and left a hollow
in their place.
And though she knows
they aren't there,
she feels them
crushing, crushing, crushing
all the same.
Without their heavy presence,
she is left
with an idle ache.
Unable to separate herself from the ghosts,
she will indulge in the sickly-sweetness of yesterday.
She will enclave herself in the ghostly, glimmering fog,
breathing sticky recollection
that will cling to her lungs like ash,
and smother her.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 1:04 PM UTC
The brook keeps babbling away,
Telling the stones to hold their tongues,
The water to slow down for a bit,
For these days are long
and the nights feel ever so empty,
Daisies have craned their necks over the sides
Hoping to befriend whatever breathes below,
And the brook babbles away,
Telling all the secrets that sailed its spine,
As they pass by the banks
And wave goodbye to those still standing
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
A man walks through wood and brush,
range, and valley.
Delirious and disoriented
He stopped upon a gentle stream
and as the man bent down to drink,
The stream began to speak.
It told him things,
with a voice that moved so soft and swift.
It told him not to walk
any further than his legs could carry him.
The will of the soul you see,
has a funny way of tricking what you think.
Making you believe
that the mind can transcend
the capacities of bone and muscle.
Oh yes, the brain is strong,
but if your body fell fatigued
then surely not the mind
could carry you along.
So spoke the stream.
A voice now deeper
rough like gravel under foot,
said, look, the ground where leaves were shook.
Beware of what they hide,
Beware the hidden roots.
They snag and grab and wish to trap.
Beware the hidden roots.
Trees seem and speak like friend,
but in the dark of night
they wear different faces.
They laugh, they taunt,
they whisper things above your ears.
I hear them say,
Let us keep him here.
The stream spoke this time, softer like the first.
There was caution in the voice,
wary,
of the man’s impending thirst.
It said to him, the thing he cannot forget.
It reminded him of breath.
Reminded him that each one is borrowed,
traded in like gambling chips
upon one’s cosmic completion.
The laws of dirt and sky do not appreciate
a struggle from their kin;
unable to accept his final breath.
You must be like the wave,
momentarily breaking free
and then when beckoned,
returning to its salty sea.
It was then that the voice grew dim,
overridden by the roar of rapids.
The man’s neck was craned towards a placid eddy;
the “friend” to whom he had spoke.
Yet when he raised his head,
his only friend was birch and oak.
Looking down again,
he saw nothing but a muddied puddle.
A chill ran from spine to toe,
The man knew what was next to come.
Looking through the weave of trees,
he saw the setting sun.
His throat, dry and rough,
tightened and began to close.
It was then that the man looked up,
and his fear went with his gaze,
snuffed out like candles’ flame.
The trees began to speak,
but they were not talking amongst themselves.
The trees were addressing him,
whispering…
Remember, the Teachings of the Stream
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
i chew on the shards
of my broken heart
wearing out my enamels
bleeding out my gums
devouring the pain
slitting down my throat
you tower over keenly
i craned my neck beaming
doubtful eyes swept over
discoloured lips
crimson stained teeth
but a smile is flattering
so please don't fret
you can trust me
i am fine i am okay
the pain no longer fazes me
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 6:57 AM UTC
"So, where do I fit in in your life?"
You want to know where you fit in?
You're every meal I didn't eat in the hope that those missing calories would make you miss me.
You're every coffee I buy from your favourite coffee shop and every point on my loyalty card that I'll never spend.
You're every walk back home that I craned my neck in the hopes of catching a glimpse of you only to be disappointed.
You're every time someone lit up a cigarette near by and I breathed it in because even though I hate the smell it's still your smell.
You're every awkward silence on the phone or in the street in which I tried my hardest to be funny or cool but never was.
You're every time I drunkenly cried in a bathroom and I didn't even know why.
You're every time I rolled my eyes at your name because I didn't know how else to react without letting them all know what they already knew.
You're every party we were both invited to that I would spend wondering whether or not you'd come or if you did, whether you'd chose to talk to me or not.
You're every time I knew I shouldn't think about you, or write about you, or kiss you, or even talk to you, but I did it anyway.
So there, that's where you fit in. In all the places and in all the ways that continue to fit into my days even though you yourself don't fit in them anymore.
"Uh, I don't know. What kind of a question is that anyway?"
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC