"deftness" poems
It struck me tonight
How impressive it is
The deftness of your tongue
Coaxing life
Out of shy, windless nights
I still remember
Sitting by your side
As your laughter floated westward
The bashful heavens made to blush
And you
Conducting an orchestra
Of sweet vivid flowers
Wet petals falling from your lips
Kissing me gently on the cheek
Painting cursive
On the sky's horizon
My words will never be so
Delicate
They are stiff; they are tired
They are made to roam abandoned alleys
And grow old in the open hands
Of a book
So speak to me
Drip your honeyed breath onto my chest
With shallow sighs
Wrap the fingers of your conversation
Around my hand
And don't let go
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
for Nave
Busyness makes one idiotic and forgetful. And we nearly sunk the night
didn’t we darling, leaning on the wrong swing.
(It is always the peach tree.) Katrina doing her Harpy on Fullblast thing
with such deftness and professionalism she leaves us no room to respond
to legs and offers of spread cheese. And poets cave in like lonely black holes
if they cannot response as fully as they have peaches in their coffers to do so,
or at least they think so and so do we so I escaped to shower, and tried to make
the water hot enough to round me straight again, but my skin still gets in the way.
I wanted to peel off everything and douse my soul straight in the hot and the lavender, questing
for a readiness beyond the pale, some state rare, and infinitely usuable.
It was only when, and this is true, when I decided to make a list of
why I love you that the water went in
and the lavender grew instantly between my toes. And Rosemarey Clooney
danced you in to me and you were a happy Papa at last, and we knew enough. And there
was finally room enough to
mambo home.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
Dude! Disco dancing dogs devouring Dill duds
Digging ducks drew dreads
dreaming don't devour drool
Decked duet
Dimples dandylion deftness
Drink dead danimals.
Discharged!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 4:02 PM UTC
I, after difficult entry through my mother's blood
And stumbling childhood (hitting my head against the world);
I, intricate, easily unshipped, untracked, unaligned;
Cut off in my communications; stammering; speaking
A dialect shared by you, but not you and you;
I, strangely undeft, bereft; I searching always
For my lost rib (clothed in laughter yet understanding)
To come round the corner of Wardour Street into the Square
Or to signal across the Park and share my bed;
I, focus in night for star-sent beams of light,
I, fulcrum of levers whose end I cannot see ...
Have this one deftness - that I admit undeftness:
Know that the stars are far, the levers long:
Can understand my unstrength.
1.9k
My calico looks like the Lion of Judah
preamble her deftness with cooked chicken
and a sprinkling of lactose
Poor dear , perfect though she is
we all have our travails.
I am finding it hard to believe
age does not make her wary
in fact shes grows deeper into her role
A totem and a sustainer curled up in the one.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
At the height
of their pursuit of elusive light,
in the inner core deep,
they set about
translating the ardors of night
in to a sublime fire
that would lead them
to a new awareness.
She had a deftness
that crossed limits and
found new possibilities
in any thing she did.
Art of body coupled with
urges of the heart
she transformed with her magic:
a tree full of scented flowers
that are dreams of eternal spring.
He had spread creepers,
on the foliage and chunky trunk,
with his caresses,
she forgot herself completely as the pleasure
swept over her every cell.
Continued embraces tight and passionate,
anointed them with perfumes,
in their quest they collected star dust,
from her swelling sculptured *****
he inhaled narcotics and got high.
Sea breeze covered them
with fine grains of salt from far away waves,
and an ancient mariner's quest.
A sublime fire simmered
in their nerves.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 6:59 AM UTC
It struck my chest like a train carriage,
and smashed my ribcage to dust
The last of my hopes held hostage
My very best hand, gone bust
Through the dark I see your eyes glinting
The deftness with which you aim
As all my universe is changing
All of yours just stays the same
Bare feet on the edge of the precipice
Beneath me, an ocean of glass
Is there any deed more gracious,
than being alone at your last?
But for you I'll save my last smile
My final act of defiance
This game was mine all the while
All great tragedies must end in violence
For every moment you daydream
Every time the wind blows your hair
When the world seems too extreme
In the background, I'll be there
Through time, you'll come to miss me
As metal begins to miss rust
I never thought I'd live to see
My very best hand, gone bust.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
Not the romantic.
The control.
A single white digit,
the sprawl of cool
smiles extend to
taste and see.
Their lives like
hyacinths that drink
the air in books,
plastic lips.
Slime from the marble.
A widow-dream.
Metal midair that
speaks a rat's tongue
with the deftness of
a seasoned lover.
His eyes can see your circuitry.
Her mouth the tree of night.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 7:39 AM UTC
The bard spoke this night to me with concern
Cautioning should I write a sonnet fair
It would in the pages of history burn
Yet I'm pursuing the course with heaps of dare
Thy hand is set to work to prove him wrong
This composition will not in ashes fail
Determination is my consort song
Syllables ten to each line to couplet tail
A challenge put forth by musketeers three
No doubts yet have arisen of deftness
In completing the task given to me
The bard's classic form will cause no duress
On this journey one has taken a bet
The end product is now forever set
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
her it
the soporific
very dreaming
split of
easy night
falls so lovely
brushed of balmy
hair short
in tender heap
of girlness heat
it the deftness
of a wrist
hangs
softly loose
uncurled
lightly the fingers
in
her such steeply wonderful brain
a song is me
by love's lips it
i
the earth the
night
echo primly
kissing
and
couth
so a fancy
is all the world
to her in lovely slumber's keep
such as i would like to enter
and of its beauty reap
a flower on who would rise
all youth in me to crown
and lay my middle finger
in crimson parting's drown
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
He Who Presents Visions
He personally fills the frame with a largeness broad shoulders wears the western hat perfectly the
Quintessential westerner handsome he projects comfort he stands good in tall trees he meets life on his
Terms confidence he projects easily with ease he takes his surroundings from their settings transfers
Them to canvas with deftness perfect tone and hue he captures his subjects he takes breathing living
Creatures and landscapes projects his vision of them in intricate detail he creates their life anew in
Flawless demonstrations he prepares this depth of understanding in the studio it is compelling it will
Touch draw ignite your emotional will into the viewing of his work you will see strength exhibited as
Naturally as if you were observing the original in the sight that he had the same light and shading the
Boldness that crosses from ordinary to beautiful his eye never wavers from magnificence and his
Fingers delicately follows the mental picture soft to strong the essence of being is being told wonder
Lives large in his expressive paints a telling by a master in full power of his talent nature is fused
With every ounce of reality that she gives of her proud display structures rise their presence
Phenomenal they have an essence that grabs holds your imagination only lets go when it has given all
Of the pleasure it contains one represented beast of the field causes a staggering effect that empowers
You to make a connection with the heard that is unseen but in your mind you know that it is there the
Billowing cloud and blue sky activates sensations that flow out and over you overwhelming feelings
Burst over you like a cloud burst on a rainy spring day flowers in profusion carpet the land they start
At the edge of the coral at the end of the barn and gently climb up the sloping hill far beyond the snow
Capped peaks shout of grandeur untold sweeping you to the end of a world bordered in a frame and
told on canvass
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC
The colours swing in a pendulum attached to the mind
as if
each shade knows its final resting place
in a landscape packed with the purity of clarity.
All of the brushes have been tenderly placed
in a potholder soaking
up the sensations of previous lifetimes
now slowly turning to ageing grey shades
of temperament
To touch the sunflower grey would be a sin
against the sun it glints off the minds magical array
but green beckons in an eversoft seduction
with silver on the undersides to offshoot
the tantrums of the painters reflection.
The scene emerges from a warm blanket of texture
into a tone so gentle that it seems to whisper its presence
in a vase of rounded personality.
I watch
as she loses herself in every stroke of deftness
stepping out into the limelight
taking a bow before an audience of murmurs
soon retreating into that world
that has captured her for today.
She will return when she is ready.
to live amongst us again.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Letters
With a little paper and ink and the time it takes to think you can tie time and space together
Hearts warmest caring tucked and folded speaking stands in neatest rows sweetest love it shows
Mathematics consoled in problems extolled reaching bearing the load of heavy thoughts they to know
Some lines are like stairs they climb to heights the reader brought so far to enjoy pure delights
Some expression organized in quiet detail meant to push and move the listener beyond normal thought
Or in playful tunes the idea has no other content or purposes it only design is to leave you amused
Some would care to drive the point fast but the object is to assure you find what is urgently sought
Some contend and desire they be perceived with style they stand clothed in grandest attire
Perplexing other seems to go for the childhood game of hide and seek who isn’t intrigued by mystery
Others harder to define surely a secret communiqué these twist and turns truly cloak and dagger
Your mind devises images of stories that are found like currents ebbing and flowing with telling history
Stages are set everything in finest detail is set for viewing and dramatic effect your guest expect the best
Then for the end you must paint with deftness this portrait of words will be kept only in the heart
At first it enters the portal of the mind only the anteroom there the decision where does it belong
Then after careful study to deduce the senders true meaning you search a place for endearing art
What a read in the still quiet the mind smoothly draws the blinds closing you in with sweetest thoughts
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 9:31 AM UTC
He Who Presents Visions
He personally fills the frame with a largeness broad shoulders wears the western hat perfectly the
Quintessential westerner handsome he projects comfort he stands good in tall trees he meets life on his
Terms confidence he projects easily with ease he takes his surroundings from their settings transfers
Them to canvas with deftness perfect tone and hue he captures his subjects he takes breathing living
Creatures and landscapes projects his vision of them in intricate detail he creates their life anew in
Flawless demonstrations he prepares this depth of understanding in the studio it is compelling it will
Touch draw ignite your emotional will into the viewing of his work you will see strength exhibited as
Naturally as if you were observing the original in the sight that he had the same light and shading the
Boldness that crosses from ordinary to beautiful his eye never wavers from magnificence and his
Fingers delicately follows the mental picture soft to strong the essence of being is being told wonder
Lives large in his expressive paints a telling by a master in full power of his talent nature is fused
With every ounce of reality that she gives of her proud display structures rise their presence
Phenomenal they have an essence that grabs holds your imagination only lets go when it has given all
Of the pleasure it contains one represented beast of the field causes a staggering effect that empowers
You to make a connection with the heard that is unseen but in your mind you know that it is there the
Billowing cloud and blue sky activates sensations that flow out and over you overwhelming feelings
Burst over you like a cloud burst on a rainy spring day flowers in profusion carpet the land they start
At the edge of the coral at the end of the barn and gently climb up the sloping hill far beyond the snow
Capped peaks shout of grandeur untold sweeping you to the end of a world bordered in a frame and
told on canvass
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:43 AM UTC
an uninterested archaeologist studied the bones of eight
dead citizens who had a gradually tightened their grips around our dreams, tapering
as furling curtains swathed the incoming light, swirling, forcing it into nonentity
one would steer the ill-fated course of all.
bury the hatchet that was used to hatch you
put all of your eggs into one spermicidal basket
only the heavy-handed preamble to my funeral
could weigh against such lofty comparisons
we commuted to separated isles, each with their own emulation of truth
with cathartic perspectives, trees wait to abed in your predestined lynching
placing viney nooses into mother nature's scrapbook, a cherished keepsake,
your freckled dna, an infinitesimal page in her tattered cookbook
only in an afterworld will you be allowed to read your book's foreword
know that there is no snooty producer to create for you a cash-in sequel
they all watch you from afar, hungry, salivating
failing to make a distinction between your life and demise
their story's nothing but an interminable sad ending
a null conclusion with nothing to conclude
it holds its breath, crosses its fingers
hoping again to come through
as I placed defeat to my temple and squeezed
I veered into a claustrophobic brick encasement
colored with lifelessness, detachment
and learned infinity is combustible;
an unfolding polygonal paper
forever unwrapping
I've walked with wrecked leagues
casually entered fiery caverns
and the chilling daytime before me,
never is it compelling
I resigned my mind, contemplated grave comprehensions
redid everything, coughing opuses, deftness, drugged insight
my tactics turned to taciturn. no one was conducting
the open metaphor of your eyes, rendering
internal captions. endless captive renditions
my adoration:
the thickly-caked rust in the kitchen faucet
if you catch my spotty, deposited
despot eyes in direct sunlight,
you'll realize their dimness
staring vacantly
into oncoming traffic,
looming passages
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
I crack that ****** spine
with the deftness of a pro.
The scent of her potential wafts
into the deepest recesses of my brain.
It's enough for only a moment,
a cursory glance at the supine sides
already becoming supple beneath
my nimble fingers as I push the edges wide.
The anticipation is beyond containment
as I lie back on soft pillows and take
a sip of wine. There is no point of return
the weight of my deed is filled with guilty pleasure.
And I sigh...
I gently remove the cover and peer
hungrily upon her bold delicious title
and we begin our journey together,
I turn the pages, and she, tells me her story.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
i'm so tired
of the lightning
in your words
the ensuing
tightening
of my heart
the deftness
as you practice
your killing art
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 2:15 AM UTC
Hope is a fragile thing
When it rests on any shoulders.
You've carried my hope, at times,
Like a juggler carries his apples;
Other times, like a young mother
Who cradles her newborn babe,
Protecting him,
From the wolves that circle 'round the yard;
Other times you are the wolves.
There was hope then,
Where butter knives tripped locks
And shoulders broke down doors;
The landlord was not pleased
But I had to make sure that you would still be there
Holding up your half of my life,
My dreams still cradled in your palms,
The deftness of your green fingers still tending them.
There was hardly room for hope
As soles of feet became crusted with eggshells.
I never learned to stand still
When the floor was littered with them,
And the floor was always covered.
"When did we replace hardwood floors with these?"
I chanced to ask once.
February's gale was my only answer,
Coming early
To strip bulbs, tinsel, and needles from branches.
Our hope turned to stone
In the furnace of our anger,
Each wagging tongues of flame
At the splinters in the others' eye,
Each too full of pride and fear
To stand with tweezers before the mirror.
The sudden rush of crimson humility
Could have healed the wounds that Pride inflicted,
But Pride was wrong at the top of its voice.
Hope has fled now,
But it has not gone far.
It has fled into the wilderness
And come back to watch for me
From the woods outside our door,
Where no adventurer worth his salt
Could ever fail to find it,
If only he has the courage to begin the search.
What will we do here, my beloveds, without hope,
Here where knees scrape carpet and hardwood,
Where backs, once straight, bend in equine condescension?
Saddles and bridles made of love we have,
We have no need of hope,
Here where tomorrow will always be forgotten
In the long, golden now.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
there's a definite skill in tugging strings
marionette controllers understand these things
cords of manipulation pulled left and right
to keep each puppet working for his might
a deftness of tasking beyond compare
this capability he'll show with much dare
an accent always being on the wire's desire
as to how he'd like his wooden figures to fire
we marvel at the maestro's astute vigour
in employing his expert's toggling rigour
commanding all the dolls by ace orchestration
he's a supreme professional of the vocation
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
°
*a bardsong soars as waters
soaking
my rooted, versant digits
boundless accoutrement
caressing
each, with tendrilled deftness
liquid crystals frolic
cascading
envelops my vision
of your solicitude
we will rise together
and float, forever
descending
into each other
until there is no breath
within music
rising
on spray roused crags*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
impromptu drug adventure.
(terrible incrimination)
at an end, at least
enough to pass out.
M-dude hit me up, years
out; i'd given up.
things fall apart.
shoulda trusted in time and
let allow what will.
NEW AGE HIPPIESTER.
been alone a while,
had lost faith. still doubtful.
always aware of kindness,
sighting with hoped deftness.
mind over matter,
just keep swimming.
(Mariner's Revenge Song)
to keep their nursery
nice and neat.
***** Den
of present has been
christined
to almost pinnacle;
the list requires
a few more things.
yeah?
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
His younger sister was the bride
And he sat facing the gushing girl
He fondled the **** of his walking cane
As he waited for her eyes to meet his gaze;
When they finally did, he smiled a knowing smile
A vexing, blackmailing smile
That sought a response- a glint of acknowledgement;
It sent chills down her spine, sweat broke out on her back
She now regretted having been the one who'd started-
The impetuous demands that violated the natural
And made them feel like some Old Testament pairs
He'd become relentless, with pickpocketing deftness
At the drop of a hat, he'd drop his pants
Now, rising from his seat, he blew her a kiss
And that did her in
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC
A mind in conflict
with his spirit
will find judgement,
permanence,
possession,
unreality.
The human spirit
exudes the ultimate power
in the stillness of thought.
A spirit
that cannot discern
between a man from a woman;
a white from a black;
a christian from a jew;
a child from an adult.
The spirit of mankind
is the same breath
within us all.
Intensity of being the spirit
is the only difference.
A spirit
that contains strength,
serenity,
and deftness.
An essence
that can beam through
the windows of our soul
and inspire
with even the faintest glow.
A spirit
that is fully experienced
as a youth;
boundless and ecstatic,
allowing the world
to be the teacher.
Even as a dark cloud
of misery and torment
invade upon the child,
shall the tender age
be optimistic:
living out the human essence.
Only until
confusion and pain
catch up to the learned action
of mind chatter,
will the growing heart
turn cold.
Yet,
this spirit
still dwells within.
Even as rage and hatred
poison the body
and earth,
the human spirit
still lingers underneath
the layers of unconsciousness.
With the magnitude
of the spirit's power
still intact,
this entity
will sometimes break
through the mind
and into the heart.
A sense of immediate presence
that astonishes the being,
if only to entrance
for but a moment.
In those moments
of acute stillness,
a perverted human
finds peace.
A bliss so deep,
and so vast,
this state of being
surpasses any written language;
a happiness
that surpasses
any emotion
that could be felt
in the pleasures
of society.
To sense your essence
is one aspect,
but to sense the essence
of others
and the universe
is a completely different state.
A state that bounds you
to the impermanence of life.
A wholeness
that is realized;
an interrelated connection
between the influence
of your own action
and the entire universe.
And this essence
is within us all!
We can choose
to live the essence,
or to impugn it's presence.
And many have denied,
not because they disbelieve,
but because they fear
the power they could posses,
the power of the human spirit.
Many tremble
at the thought of responsibility;
at the thought of control
over their own life.
Yet,
those who think
about the power
of the human essence,
is missing the reality
of what is.
They are missing
the presence
of that power,
that arises
when thought is still.
The human spirit
cannot be grasped
by the intellectual mind,
but only felt.
And in those who feel
their underlying spirit
is a joyfulness
that rivals
with the jubilance of a child.
And those people
are the envy
of the ones who suppress
their inner essence.
But,
what they have yet to realize,
is that they posses
such a solace already.
They merely need to embrace
their human spirit.
For this spirit
is the state of being;
a spirit
that knows no boundaries,
who knows
of no right or wrong.
A spirit
that cannot,
and does not discriminate
a man from a woman;
a white from a black;
a christian from a jew;
a child from an adult;
one life from another,
for all lives are precious.
A spirit that can cease
the inner wars,
and bring about
an eternal peace.
If the inner wars
still wage,
the outer wars
will too.
Bringing harmony
to the strife
of unconsciousness within,
will bring harmony
to the unconsciousness without.
Realize
and live
your human spirit,
for the peace
that is your essence,
will bring amity
and union
to ourselves
and to the world.
The spirit of mankind
is the same breath
within us all.
Don't fear your power,
embrace it.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
Poets together perform for climate survival,
the world and its children
Absorb this online
in languages of passion
and deftness
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 9:41 AM UTC