"craning" poems
Tunneling thoughts like rain
Craning through light clouds
Unsuspecting victims.
The fear
The tears
The temper tantrums;
A kind of rebuttal
That won't let our feet find land
We adjourned to rehearse,
but our efforts were null and void
Only to appease with flames
that licked our shriveled bodies
D r
i p
p i n
g
Kerosene
Tainted like ink Spilled on
Reams of paper
ruined like Christmas
A house warmed by Open flames
fallen candles Adorning
A naked kitchen My limp body,
Splayed beneath the oven
As
darkness indulges, It
consumes
The smoke, Fills
Each crevice
In your mind
Can you ever fight it
Burn your way back
To blissful ignorance.
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 1:59 PM UTC
death bursted into my room tonight
awakening a deep slumber
outstretching a cold boney hand
as if offering for me to go with him
I felt no fear or sadness
I have been waiting for death to greet me
I have admired him from afar
a lover who took no chance in courting me
Until he was ready to give me an embrace
That could be defined as loving and warm
but it was sinful and alluring
flickers of sparks in his eyes
ignited a fire in my soul
a passion that I had longed for
as my hand grabbed onto his
he pulled me close in the middle of the room
he began to dance to the tune
of our heartbeats synchronizing
a beautiful symphony rang love in our ears
craning his neck
he leaned in close
inhaling the shakiness of my breath
moonlight illuminated the poison dripping
from his puckering lips
as an offering to taste
what afterlife was
it held soft undertones of an earthy aftertaste
but an overpowering intoxicating sweetness left me hungry
for just one more dip
in his suicidal serenity
moving in one fluid motion
sweeping behind me
a boney hand placed on an unclothed forearm
slowly slid up my shoulder
as another arm was placed around both hips
he pressed himself tightly against me
icy breath grazed across my neck
making hairs stand up on my arms
as a moan escaped between closed lips
he whispered a seductive I love you
as he tucked hair behind my ear
the words I longed to hear
were met with a sharp knife
placed in open hands
and a crooked smile
spread across his face
it was at that moment
I came to the realization
to become his fully
my beautiful souls light
must burn out
to match his souls decayed state
no persuasion was needed
I longed for this moment
now the time was finally right
steady right hand raised
the elongated blade
"together forever..."
death breathlessly whispered
as a swift motion
punctured my abdomen
breath was taken out of my lungs
knees buckled
as death dropped me to the floor
tears of bliss flowed from my eyes
staining mascara streaks on flushed cheeks
I peer around the room to greet my lover
in another embrace with my final breaths
but im alone
left with a bloodied knife in hand
but this forbidden passion of a deaths dance
was only used to take ones soul
not give it the life it craved
laughing through the flood of tears
not even in death was I loved
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 8:21 PM UTC
Burns Creek
Climbing Chimney Rock.
Dad and David Scoville
In their mid 30s,
Two men out to prove
Their bravery,
Their derring-do.
Nervous,
My Mother,
My brother and I,
Five and six,
Necks craning,
Wait and watch;
Dad moves up and up
Clings to the top.
Inept and six,
I stand below,
Admiring my Father's
Fearlessness.
I am nearly blind,
The myopic, thick-lensed gawker,
Peering upward.
The men climb down,
Victorious,
The day’s challenges
Vanquished.
Heading home,
Choking dust.
Old land,
Deep ravines,
Rattle snake domain.
My father's old Ford
Bumps over red scoria,
Billows burning dust.
Ancient land,
Cindered clay,
Open grazing land,
Dry and hot.
Memories churn
From sixty years ago.
Feb 2, 2022
Feb 2, 2022 at 9:08 AM UTC
Paper people crackling and folding
Under life's pressure
Blank pages, empty paper void of purpose
Paper flowers, swans, trees and cranes
Craning to find a crease that fits them
Brittle dry leaves waiting to be made into a purpose
Feint margins replace the wrinkles of a face
Origami organisms awaiting nimble fingers
To form features, emotions, life, purpose
Like a Samurai sword, the paper has been folded many times
Yet now blunted, pulped, set alight by a match, reduced to ash.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
I’ve got plenty of ghosts I promised her. I leave them wherever I go.
At the house on 711 Ellen St there is the ghost of a dog named Hessa and a dog named Mac. They don’t play together, but they pant heavy, waiting my return.
There is the ghost of a cat named Charles. He chases a raccoon out of a busted window that my mother fell through.
There is the ghost of my mother pacing the living room, contemplating suicide.
When ghosts die, they become useful fire, burning as long as necessary, and then blowing out forever.
There is the Ghost of Louie, helping me fix my car. There are the ghosts of our tall cans crushed to the curb. There is the ghost of their fullness. Little drops that are left sit in the rim of the mouth.
Every moment makes a ghost. Every time you move something from stillness, there is a ghost for it.
When I come to see you, I will leave behind the ghost of laughter, the ghost of my warmth growing colder. Miss it if you want to.
There is the ghost or your taste in my mouth. Certain foods bring it back to life. I let the Bud Light sit on my tongue. I almost tasted it. Something is missing.
There is the ghost of your smell. It tricks me into craning my neck, eyes searching for you. There is the ghost of your smile which haunts me when the ghost of your smell tricks me into thinking you’re there.
There is the ghost of my cool breath dying on your neck, then dying again. The fire it becomes extinguishes quickly.
Behind your couch there is the ghost of a cricket. He has stolen a harmonica and plays only the high notes. Tell his family that he misses them.
There are the ghosts of apples that I skinned when I learned to make pies in high-school. I have made many apple pie ghosts since then. I will bring one to you. It will be a slow ghost. The steam rising from the middle is its spirit returning home.
Home is your chest. Breathe the ghost of my pie, the ghost of my cologne, the ghost of my eyes wet with poetry I have just read.
There is the ghost of poetry as it mixes with my breath and exits my chest. Let it die and die again. Let it haunt your heart, your belly, the back of your neck like a gentle hand.
I make graveyards. I make ghosts. I leave them behind wherever I go. I miss some of them. There is the ghost of my irregular heartbeat, when I feel the ghosts that I miss pass by. I breath slowly trying to feel them, but too soon they are gone.
Ghosts don’t stay long. I can stay long. Make ghosts in the meantime.
When I come to see you, I will leave you with ghosts.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
to cast an enchanting spell
A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
hastily, halting , frozen motionless
Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
In the blink of an eye,
with a vigor too rapid to capture,
as the nowness of urgency flashes ―
She stretches the earthworm
with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall becomes the long winterlude.
The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
of the giant tree’s golden splendor
Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.
Harbingers of spring…
Blueberry sneakers…
Gleaners of fall and winter..
“Teeek” “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
fills the overhead air
with a beautifully chaotic verve
The flock returns repeatedly to and fro the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash
The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
as if it were only an unspoken allusion
of the passing seasons
The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
into a break in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…
In the blink of an eye ... life’s senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
of a migrating beautiful mess
The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…
November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
I glare at it
During last period,
Jumping too high
But not high enough
To reach the swinging rope.
I'm in history,
And some glazed-over teacher
Is pointing at the
Chalkboard which has
Tiny scratches that look like words
Scribbled all over.
But I don't look at my notes,
Because my neck is craning
Too far back
To look at the rope
That is
My two and a half hours of freedom.
A single note is released into the halls
And the students chace it
And I leap into the air
Because the rope
Is reachable
And I grab it.
I begin to climb.
I sit by you on the
Dirt-dusted tile floor
Outside the gym
And we work on algebra
Or english if it's a good day.
And don't get me wrong,
I hate the familiar stench of homework
As much as
The next
Hunchbacked highschooler.
The rope stings my hands
While I climb.
You numb the burn.
But I have practice
And the rope is easy to climb
And I reach the top
In two and a half hours
And you get into
The yellow sardine can
That goes to your neighborhood.
And all of my muscles ache when you go.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Have you ever stood,
craning your neck to look up into the canopy
of the ancient kauri, Tane Mahuta,
while peace and birdsong permeate your soul?
Have you ever felt
the crusty spray and the satanic whiff
as the Pohutu geyser shoots aloft
while a dozen languages bubble through te reo?
Have you ever shivered
in the receding darkness,
standing in the china-white sand as you waited
for the first sunrise over Makorori Beach?
Have you ever sat
on the summit of Mt Taranaki
and eaten a well-deserved sandwich
while cows grazed far below on the lush, volcanic-rich pasture?
Have you ever experienced
that mixture of fear and awe
as an orca’s dorsal breached beside your too-fragile kayak
in the shining waters of the Abel Tasman?
Have you ever paused
atop a ski run on Coronet Peak
and reflected on the reflections
of sunlight dancing on snow and water?
Have you ever felt sorry
for tourism chiefs and advertising creatives
trapped in offices in the Auckland CBD
dreaming up “100% Pure” and “Clean and Green”?
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
We must live in a zoo
The way that you do
Cry Crocodile tears
Always on cue
As you Monkey around
With every guy in town
Slick as a Snake
With the decisions you make
Craning my neck
Like the tallest Giraffe
As my Elephant mind
Never forgets
And when I bring it up
Say that I've had enough
You scream in my face
Like a wild Whooping Crane
Are you serious
Says this Laughing Hyena
I can't take it no more
Like a Lion I roar
It's hard to keep up
With you Miss Cheetah
Thick skin I have grown
Like a Rhino
I'm tired of your lies
This Owl's become wise
Now that I think of it
This all seems to fit
So I'll see you later
Alligator
It's too hard to cage you
I'm outta this Zoo
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
Traveling (with Frost) down the lightly trodden path,
with shoed soles sauntering over thawed earth,
twisting down the narrow trail,
away from the prying eyes of tour guides—
Encompassed by flowery heads who mirror the sun,
who burst forth with fluorescent green necks
craning from the dirt,
delineating our path in cascades of springing splendor.
Sensing the ostinato of ambulant waters crescendo,
we soon break from the budding foliage—
To be greeted by gentle winds
and the lapping of placid waves
who break onto the languid shore
onto shoed and socked feet,
who sense holy ground and immediately
kick off their bindings—
To sink into the earth,
and gritty sand reaching up between toes;
the water deceptively inviting,
is greeted with delightful shrieks in its refreshing chill.
Secluded in our cove,
we gaze over the waters where to our right
rests a breathing reconstruction of the Dove;
we stand awed before these waters
both the settler and the native.
What gods were praised on these lands,
and in these woods,
and in these skies,
and in these waters?
And on March 25, 1634,
in the promising onset of spring,
what had they to sing in the calm airs
as the settlers crossed the threshold of the Potomac?
She whispers,
“Funny how the water appears green on the shore,
and clear on the river.”
--St. Mary's City, March 10, 2016.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
The butter’s too hard.
The pressure of the broken knife handle
leaves imprints of alien-like creatures on her little palm.
Slicing through morning rays like a red-hot blade through butter,
she raises her hand, and inspects the outlandish patterns with curiosity:
A school of koi carp,
teeth as sharp as prison razor wire,
are using their fins to harvest two-headed sunflowers
which are growing from within the tip of a giant scorpion tail.
Dark clouds are looming over Dragon’s Fang Mountain. The wind is howling.
Ten Bone Warriors
emerge from a grotto— a cavity
at the foot of the mountain, where their bows shine bright,
even in the fading light; wild puffs of excitement steam-fills the air—
the riders’ horses’ nostrils flare— a dance of death tramples over all things white.
The koi sense trouble;
some dive away and hide between the roots,
they disappear into the scorpion tail’s cracks and craters,
others harvest as fast as their fins can work, craning their necks.
The Bone Warriors’ arrows rain down on the sunflower field. Lightning strikes.
Pop! goes the toaster;
she walks towards the refrigerator,
and rubs her hand on her Spongebob apron.
Her mother inquires how breakfast is coming along;
Nika shakes her head and giggles, says it’s going to be the breakfast ever.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
A paradox in itself
But then I saw her there across
the room
through flocks and flocks of 'beautiful'
silly seagulls --
frivolously flocking,
pecking at
the shiniest trash that flutters by
Only to swallow
pass
flock, peck again
--------------------------------------------------------------
She intrigued my mind
through
the eye I saw her beak was flat y
no craning,
crooning neck l
and could not f
for she had no wings
... maybe we do not care to fly!
--------------------------------------------------------------
Like the Red Sea
She-Moses split through the flock
to me,
beakless
surrounded by chronically cocking faces
all but one,
all alone
She had been too
-------------------------------------------------------------
Now next to me
No wandering eye could care
in soundless conversation
proclaimed we
are together
as one we surely gleamed as gold
too bright for gulls to see
...Mastur-consolation?
-------------------------------------------------------------
And so it's true
we were alone
together
perfect paradoxical bliss
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
I left the plantains you sent me
on the counter. Wiped
around them on cleaning days.
Eyed them as they sat there,
expectant and unwanted,
for hours into weeks.
Let them blacken and soften
until they resembled
the dental records of a corpse.
Were they lifted from the soil
of your Dominican hometown?
Did you farm them yourself?
The bruises speckled on its skin,
were they hand-picked? You always
had great aim with that sort of branding.
I'm awake at the birth of morning,
early enough to see dawn's rosy sun
crack onto the horizon like egg yolk.
From my bedroom window, I can also see
a garbage truck craning its rusty claw
towards the pile I set out last night.
Talk about a metaphor.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
the black night is stiflingly humid, eliciting
a glistening sheen of beaded sweat on the
tanned faces of any being who dares to
enter the boiling summer evening.
a thick smattering of clouds create a
downy blanket, the foreground to
hundreds of intermittent stars and
the round, glowing face of the full moon.
i seat myself on the stair closest to the ground,
and as it is passed around between us four,
i light one long, chemical cigarette and place
it carefully between my lips, cracked
by the harsh rays of the summer sun.
jagged, angular faces grin and laugh
at us, formed by the gaps and holes in
the beautiful, intricate cloud cover.
suddenly, a summer breeze softer than
than the winged seeds of a dandelion
caresses frizzy hairs and cools the dew
drops upon our moist foreheads.
a split-second shift in the clouds creates
the most resplendent sight my eyeballs have
ever encountered in their twenty-one years.
like an imposing rock formation, or the
billows of smoke from a great forest fire,
the fluffed gray structures have aligned
themselves with the radiant orb in the sky,
and her face casts beams of light through
them, projecting long, fragile arms of
brilliance through the dull backyard.
with our four faces stretched upward as
far as our craning necks will allow, we
absorb the sublime, pure moonlight.
i lock this picture in my mind, certain
that this moment, trapped in infinity like
a mosquito trapped in amber, could be
the refreshing breeze or the hurried gulp
of ice-cold oxygen imperative to survival.
as she shines her vibrant headlight through
the cloudy fog, i breathe slowly and allow my
cigarette to extinguish itself, and i think that
this must be how it feels to really, truly be alive.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
Freckles
comma
made of sinuous threads
Between your thighs
What is a body
But bread and wine
question mark
craning like a swan apostrophe s neck
Is love supposed to happen like this
colon
With no one watching
Kneeling before the queen
Tying your shoe
Is love supposed to happen like
Blood in the park
red earth
semicolon
Like hearts pounding in
rooms with no mirrors
We start with the physics
period
The graceful art of movement
Up down in around
Blacklights
Punctuated
by sound
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:24 PM UTC
Yelling at a screen after-hours
With old friends and passersby
Getting drunk in desperation
And hooking up with a boy I didn't know at all
After smoking a jointswith a boy outside
Who I cared to get to know, quite a bit
Dancing around the house that I couldn't have known
Would become a strange sort of home;
Covered in candle wax and visions of Depropheria
With brand new, beautiful friends
Neck craning upwards in the Grove of
Titans: the closest thing to God on Earth
New beginnings and transient visions of forever
On a magical bus ride to New York City
Making love for the first time in my bed,
Our bodies joining and intertwining while
My future slept on the couch downstairs
A teary goodbye and a journey to a lakeside
In the middle of the night where that future,
Which blew through like a whirlwind of a summer storm,
Was foreshadowed once again
Empty bottles lining your counter and you
Tearing down, just before leaving,
All my fences too
Making love for the last time in your bed
Right before the bubble of us popped,
Leaving me only with a bowl of soapy water
And a bendy straw: so many
New chances ahead
A whole community: the family to get me through
That love just passed and the happy moments too-
Falling asleep next to someone new
And clinking glasses on the dock
With a vegan pizza to top it off
The final falling apart of April to August
And a new heartbeat pulsing in
The quiet spaces between my fingers
Trying a new drug at the top of a tree
And laughing all through the journey,
The LSD nothing and your friendship everything
Flickering fluorescent lights reminding me
Of all I've lost; of all I've gained
In this beautiful year
Of 2013
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
I asked what's a home?
And she said
"a place where we know how to turn on the water."
And I thought maybe it wasn't my home.
So I'll go get some midnight coffee down the street.
And pretend there's no one back there to yell at me
Maybe then I can keep these words in my head long enough to write them down
Or maybe I'll get drunk craning my neck to see the stars
And realizing it's the lights of on-coming cars.
The streetlights in this town are too dim.
I think that's why there's no hope here anymore.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
to look at the moon
on full-moon nights
to feel the dark
on no-moon ones
remember?
we used to go to a place
in the shade of pines
remember
do you?
birds flew past
they recognized us
the air had unknown smells
under the stars
we used to sit
and tease and talk
kiss
remember
do you?
now they're craning that earth out
and making a building there
in our place
where we'll never be
ever again
those smells
are now lost love,
lost love
there isn't dark
no pines
the moon's gone too
and so are we
that place has forgotten us
just like
you've forgotten me
darlin darlin
everything's over
over
now it's no more us
just me
only me
until i can't
hold my breath
sans you
everyday
i see that building come up
i try to ****** this belief into me
that you're no more
but can't
and
no verse
can even begin to convey,
to say
how much
i miss you
and want you
so much so
that i would rush back in time
to then
and
just hold on to you
darlin darlin
..
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
She always wanted to be
as famous as
Shakespeare.
Bawling dramatically in the cornfield.
My flip flops stuck
in the oozy mud
as I followed her for safety.
She sobbed on my shoulder during Titanic because she wasn't as beautiful
as Kate Winslet.
The rest of the cinema
gave me funny looks.
Soggy shoulder,
everyone necks craning to listen
to my therapy phrases.
"Sshhh. It's okay.
You're beautiful in a different way".
I never told her that lipstick didn't suit her.
And she still wears it now
on Facebook.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
sweet child of the stars-
never forget these bright lights
and pages of gold
blaze of fireflies-
momentarily trapped in
mason jars; glass-hewn
a saturday evening in july of 1987, pottstown, pennsylvania. the moon peaks over the horizon, craning its neck at the carcasses of lost dreamers littered across the landscape. denim jacket, stone wash; unintentionally half-popped collar. a glass of cinzano bianco in one hand and store-bought iced tea in the other. eight wicker chairs on the deck; chittering and smiling and shuffling and laughing. an evening soirée illuminated solely by stars and citronella candles. sticky, humid night. grill roars heat as yet another batch of burgers are flipped. step down into the murky dark.
fireworks ignite-
brilliance across nightsky
eyes gaze in wonder
new-age americana at its finest—
we are here and we are now. the product of every moment leading up to _now_. smoldering remnants of infinite reactions, extraordinary in their own right. what are you cultivating within? what will stay and what will go? what will take hold and manifest? what legacy, what footprint do you dare to leave on the sands of time? in this sublime psalm of life, we can only dream.
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
It felt like a weekend night, and I was curled up on my couch waiting for you come over. It was so cold in my apartment that I had wrapped myself up in all sorts of patchwork quilts. I heard a knock on my window, but when I looked out, no one was there. I opened it so I could stick my head out and get a better look. I must’ve scoured every direction, saving “up” for last.
Craning my neck, I saw you there, in a little plane, hovering just as high as the trees, just below the streetlights. You were dressed like the Red Baron, scarf and all. Your plane looked just like his too. You yelled down, smiling, “Sorry I’m late, I forgot I had promised everyone that I would make it snow.”
Sure enough, you had a contraption on the back of the plane that was making a cartoonish putt-putting noise as it churned out fresh powder all over the sidewalks and streets. It made me laugh, and I pulled my quilts even tighter around me while I watched.
You dropped a rope ladder down from the side of your plane, “You can come with me if you want. It shouldn't take too long.” I immediately ran out the front door to meet you. I was so excited, that the patches of my quilt began to light up—all different colors, humming electric. I was really surprised by this, and I thought maybe I had done something wrong, but you just laughed and said, “Don’t worry—it will be nice to have the ambiance up here.” (Yes. You said “ambiance” in my dream— because that’s just how my mind works. )
So I climbed into the back of your plane, blankets and all. You turned around and said, “Just a couple of things…” You proceeded to tie my quilt around my neck like a cape. I watched the colored lights catch the corners of your eyes and your smile while you did this. You were right, the ambiance was nice. Handing me a pair of goggles, you told me to put them on and just said, “There, that’s better.”
We flew up and down the streets, both of us lit up in a warm, multi-colored glow, letting the snow fall on everything below.
I think I’m really looking forward to winter.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
I taste your lips like the cotton candy
of a Newark sky, laced
with smog and dysentery. You lift
me up, roll me over and draw
me toward you. The gravitational pull--
'on my hair and tell me you love me'--
of your shoulders
and the intoxication of your
voice. Craning my neck
to hear--'you love me'--the grip
of your hands
on my throat.
The city is loud. Just
loud enough to gasp
through the static
of your car radio, pressing--'up against
me'--all the buttons.
Just change
the station. Where we rock
and undulate smoggy windows and
candied skies.
This last goodbye
tastes different from
my first time, clutching--
'my back and etching out lullabies'--
the shift stick. Put it in
neutral. We can just coast
from here and take it
easy--'she's so'--easy. Easy
falling into and letting fall and keeping--
'next to me forever'--from falling
over and over the bricks
of your building, shaking
the foundation, the exact
same way. You loved me
like a super dome and expanded
the words of your cityscape: a nice
addition, in need
of renovation. The cycle of
recycled buildings and veiled skies.
The monotonous gossip
of a Newark morning drawn out
past the night.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
As we lead our lives,
Boring or interesting,
Calm and caring for it,
Dealing the problems,
Elevating our quality,
Freshening up daily,
Greatly upscaling,
Happy smiles,
Intimately,
Jerking threats away,
Kissing happiness,
Leading brighter,
Much more long,
Newer & higher,
Over the clouds,
Pouring hot love,
Queer above all,
Resting relieved,
Staring night sky,
Treetops craning,
Up onto the stars,
Violins of nature,
Waking up fresh,
Xenophilia popping,
Yearning divine sin,
Zesty opera of our lives.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Had a kite
colourful sight
swishing and swirling
and fluttering so high
craning my neck
looked at my kite
he looked so grand
I felt a rush of pride
flew him high
flew him wide
felt him dip down
gazing at me
what more I want?
he is mine
held the threads
that connected me and him
had the total control
just a tug will have him snug...
Sudden swish
another kite
not so grand
came to his side.
thought will play
a game of war
fun to watch him
coil her pretty neck
thought they were fighting
as he tried to pull her
and she fought too
swaying and twirling
as i watched
she gained control
saw him slipping
going her way.
I tried to right him.
but before i knew
he stopped fighting
losing deliberately
i knew that moment
he fell for her
she charmed him
she wooed him
followed him with zest.
with a slight dip
he looked at me
it was that moment
he chose her for me...
the threads were cut
he left with her
No backward glance
not a moment of regret
watched him fly by
dancing a passion dance
coiled to each other
she breathing his breath
My thread to sanity
opted to leave me
I stood still feet firmly planted
gazing at him
with a loose thread in my hand.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:19 PM UTC