"crocodilian" poems
Crocodiles catnapping cuddling in cordial cliques,
Loafing, lollygagging, lurking low like lounging leeches,
Protective postures pouncing prey with piercing pinned precision,
Brilliant belligerent beasts basking boldly by swamp beaches,
Agressively angry attitudes among alluring adverse animals,
Deep daunting jaws of death damage drastically when dropping down,
Scales shaped like stabbing shards scrape while swimming strongly,
Opposing opposition order obedience of outrageous odious opponents,
Raged ravenous rapacious reptiles rank repulsive ratings and resourses...
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
don't you dare shed those tears
that you've been holding onto
for so long, in all these years
don't you dare mutter in grief
the single moment you sagged
in overwhelming simple relief
don't you dare cry out in pain
or tear your clothes, nor rip your
hair beneath a perfect summers rain
don't you dare try for sympathy
holding another's hand, randomly
for she is not random but your
epiphany
don't you dare weep for me
if a single tear drop falls
and burns a path so endless
let it be your downfall
you wept at nothingness
don't you dare weep for me
I'm may be the willow tree in winter
the barrenness that left you blind
I'm may be the heat of summer
that sweltered you so unkind
yet you dare to weep for me
when the seasons decide to change
it's not your tears that bring relief
it's the history you try to rearrange
Your tears are crocodilian
steeped in lies and treachery
sitting like empty salt lakes
don't you DARE weep for me
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
I saw my knuckles in sunlight.
Seems I’m doing alright,
in that their crocodilian terrain
showed survival
I recall a science class
where they asked us to pinch skin
on the back of our hand
to see how quickly it returned
now, it appears
I’m learned
#age #skin #morphology #longevity #content #knuckles
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 11:13 AM UTC
Crocodilian jaws,
reptilian claws,
an Everglades heart
and swamp-gas ****
A bayou brain
that's not quite sane.
Mud for blood.
A rhyme of slime.
Moss in my eye.
Goodbye!
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
because there is nothing, there is something
an engima, some colorless-genderless name
that holds me by the scruff-nape of my neck
and pours me a glass of water that now fills
fills me up more than a garish kitch thing-y
with a name and a brand and a plastic case
I sweep up the broken glass and pay,
to make it better, I'll pay for mistakes
I wish I could have a big cry or a big bitter laugh
or bind up a wound, but, they would be falsified
it'd be fake and contrived, all crocodilian in ways
but there is just nothing, which is something,
which is to say that in here there's not a thing
I will wait on the banks, I will shine my little scales,
and I will be golden, and not be a thing really, at all
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
My wife's family
is a pack of wolves.
One will be chosen,
and the others pile on,
tugging and tumbling
the lucky winner,
looking like they would tear
the chosen one
limb from limb.
At day's end
they huddle about
the battered cub,
licking its wounds
and nesting
warm and huddled.
My family was crocodilian,
cold-blooded and
waiting in preternatural
prehistoric patience
for a spot of blood
as the excuse
to pull the wounded one
beneath muddied waters
and devour their own.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC
She waltzed in wearing lavender -
not the bruised blue hue of dried buds,
but the soft, delicate shade that makes you forget
poison can be pastel
and alive.
The cerulean seas of her eyes
surveyed me with a crocodilian smirk
an undertow ready to clench and drag
for its own amusement
She smiled like silk,
shiny, delicate, costly
as she handed me a cedar latched spice box.
Inside
red cords, scissors
pressed flowers so fragile they'd shatter
with a whisper
and a single letter sprinkled
with cayenne
sealed with red lipstick
too heavy to open.
"Time doesn't belong to you," She whispered
like it was a flirtation
like my hours were hers
to unwrap
to discard
She kissed my questioning forehead
soft, sealing, dismissive,
answered nothing
just reached for my hands
with perfectly manicured cold fingers
I gasped awake
my mouth full of cinnamon
dry and hot
a goodbye I didn't choose caught in my throat
that I prayed I'd never have to speak.
She's reappeared now and again
in the corners of mirrors,
fond of the elevator's reflective surround
and the hammered copper coffee jar
that stays open like a lifeline.
always twirling her ashen ringlets
waiting? warning?
When I glimpse her, I open the lace covered windows
and let the sun reclaim the shadows -
until even her perfume forgets my name.
May 7, 2025
May 7, 2025 at 10:02 AM UTC