"crink" poems
Lost in dreams
You see them think
With strands of hair
That seldom link
Eyebrows with
A puckered kink
Eyes that cry
Will also wink
Pointy noses
For fragrant stink
In dismay will they
Often crink
Cheeks that glow
With hues of pink
Have dimples in
Their beauty sink
Lips that frown
And lips that drink
A tooth that aches
And teeth that clink
Even jaws and chins
All move in sync
Formed expressions
All lost in blink
Faces like faces
Can’t be inked
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
tempest aroused weather throws a crink in the atmospheric pressure,
sun lazy long weekend planned rejuvenation, disrupted,
all day rain and wind gusts
that whitecap/kneecap
the river-fed bay forcing a
couch-curling up, a doozey dozy,
cozy writable assessment, a
tempting
answered with
positivity
close your eyes and all that can be felt
is memorized by your
forefinger cells,
a stroking upward gesture,
your stroking. your finger.
the children you have brought
into this difficult place
and a woman’s face as she rests uneasy and needs calming
but the memory of your own cheek as a living fired thing
being stroked is a gone,
because it was not frequent enough,
is longer than long past than what matters now
my pointer finger remembers though
pointer finger points at my chest
stoking, pushing,
what does your artistic heart remember?
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
Such is the sound–
These hearts are a'breakin'.
Snap.
Only I know that crink in my neck–
that sprainin' a'joints grinding 'gainst disks.
I know how the cold creeks do get in October,
sheets and slabs, it's wet in October.
Listen to those frost-ridden reams underfoot!
Snap.
Cold conversing, I said, "A'hush off. . . Now, now. . . smirk'd, yea-sayin' open an ear–"
Listen to that shard, to them shimmerin' sheets of ice underfoot: Snap.
You'd think them finger-snappin's was some jazz! Jam! Jubilate! Just do it again.
I want an iced, ambient encore; chilled to the bone-core, I grab that glarin' a'glistenin' glass.
The median is near the middle, give that shard a shove, I want to hear it again–
Snap.
That's my kick, my wake-me-not whistle borne of creekwater:
That single soundin' o'shatterin' of sharded sheets,
two halves of a once-whole gripped,
glistenin' a glass singin' as it snaps:
*I, ice, do hiss!
Listen: it's in the hiss, man!
And my snaps sound ballistic
when I break, balletic, in two!*
'Twas a hiss indeed.
that ice does as electricity:
O' it does cry when it cracks,
it does fizzle as it fragments,
it does spark as it splits,
it does bend light between bubbles,
it does melt in my midst,
things do get wet in October.
O' it was by the creek that I told her:
"Such is the sound of two hearts a'breakin'–
'Tis only ice underfoot."
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC