"dunks" poems
Damaged people are dangerous because they know how to survive,
And if you've never been damaged you don't know how it feels to be alive,
See struggle is the sauce that gives success its flavour,
when life kicked you down it was doing you a favour.
Cos it's in your darkest hour, not in prosperity
that you will realise your true ability.
Life dunks you in deep waters not to drown you but to cleanse you.
And that's just the beginning of what it will put you through.
But it's chiselling you down, you won't deflate.
It's not wearing you thin, it's getting you to your fighting weight.
Prosperity makes monsters, adversity makes men.
I believe when you reach the top life will yank you back down again.
You didn't break down, you just had a flat tyre
so get back up and relight that fire.
keep it burning and churning at the pit of your heart
and keep on learning and yearning and never fall apart.
Stare life in the eyes
and say "no matter how many times
my spirit won't break if my drive never dies"
So throw me a burden I won't lose my composure,
It's for this very reason that life gave me shoulders.
Get better not bitter
This weather will wither
I'll turn wounds into wisdom
sadness into spirit
tears to tenacity
I will never quit it
Take a deep breath and concentrate your stare
because a road with no obstacles never took you anywhere.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:40 AM UTC
Lebron James, he's the man. Steve Nash? Get a tan! The king owns Miami any day, Bron v.s Kobe on tv, I'd pay. His dunks electrify the crowd ever night, if you like Kobe, you shouldn't even be reading this, go fly a kite. I respect Kobe, I can't lie, but Lebron, his legacy is up to the sky. Lebron brings his talents to south beach, there bigger than Halo Reach. I will admit, Michael Jordan is the best of the all, and Yao Ming is really tall, but Lebron is the king, and by the end of his career, his hands will be filled with rings.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
My sister is a quarterback
I rarely catch a pass
and she can run a marathon
I soon run out of gas
she pitches for her baseball team
I pop up on her curve
and she's an ace at tennis
I can't return her serve
My sister dunks the basketball
I dribble like a mule
she swims like a torpedo
I flounder in the pool
she's accurate at archery
I hardly ever score
She wrestles and she boxers
I wind up on the floor
My sister catches lots of fish
I haven't had any luck
she's captain of her hockey team
I can't control the puck
her bowling's are unbelievable
I bowl like a buffoon
she says someday I'll start to win...
I hope someday is soon
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
my mouth hung like an overwhelmed option
i swivel at the window facing
and stay out the entire day in this one gawked position
amazing heat and an ugg shy of thought
withdrawn in a mut of mental paralysis
by an alcoholic system
on a day off
the day dunks into the eve before i shift any movement
having sifted the ull
i mix a jar of *** and orange juice
in the open fridge door
Mar 13, 2024
Mar 13, 2024 at 5:58 PM UTC
tomorrow’s raindrops
falling on our shoes
our sheds and our attitudes
dead like winter
feathers turn red in spring
grief is a funny thing
how the mind hides from itself
its faults are shed like yesterday's skin
frequent lessons to be earned
and then dealt with
never make a bargain with the devil
rather let yourself listen
and then swiftly walk away
take your space
and face your inner demons
reside in the cave of safety
within your heart
we know that love is an art form
with more music and magic
bursting forth like fungus
the moment after the storm passes
i am drenched in your fabric
within a glass iris
lions dine on sunlight
and a kind walrus
dunks his head in your oasis
drunk on stone fruit
we drift into this music
forensics are freedom
as hungry lovers
lick loquacious diamonds
mined in eternity
dine upon my consciousness
and find the rivers edge
why do we no longer beg to taste
each other's lips anymore
as long ago i wandered
upon the ocean floor
and saw a tiny star
eyeing me curiously
from beneath the sand
but when i bent down to pick it up
i was surprised to find
it was not attached to anything
it was just lying there
shining like a diamond
within it i could see
everything as clear as day
and it had a musical way
of saying hello
and that there was no need to worry
because help was on the way
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?
My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.
My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.
I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.
My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.
A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.
My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.
I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.
That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
This object from high followed me
all evening. Sometimes, hiding behind
giant reeds shooting from the earth,
sometimes behind mist sprays.
The sea surging in the firmament
conceals it in her tresses now,
She who weeps her agony out
late every season in bereavement.
Her tears have filled up the valleys
on earth, with brackish waters.
Tonight the grilles that paint
the distance grey are wet by them.
I took a secret look, turning away
blushing on sudden reciprocation.
In the broken mirrors strewn
all over my lawn, it dunks winking:
ripples on the mirror, awash abashed:
light playing with shades of
delight, dejection, elation, suspension,
pulsation, susurration, salvation.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Words once spent cannot be refunded,
And harsh words between lovers
Cut twice as deep. I can erase the horrible things I say,
But a wound is still left on you, the person I love the most.
I will clean and dress that wound for you, until it closes
And heals, and I will kiss it each day, until the pain fades away,
And leaves behind nothing but the tiny scar,
which we add to the collection of the scars we both bear,
And the list of trials and tribulations that have made our love stronger.
Knowing my words hurt you so, rips my intestines out trough my mouth,
Flays my skin with a razor made of salt, and dunks my feelings
In a vat of acid,
And it is what I deserve
For hurting someone who does so much for me,
And grants me the freedom to be me.
I can say I'm sorry until the frozen hell melts again,
And it wont make a difference,
I will instead, show you I am sorry,
From this day forward
I won't cut you again,
My goblin of cruel words is dead.
Your love helped me **** it.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 6:55 AM UTC
Slam dunk crash
Loud sound, a thunder dome
Intense clapping; it's time
Michael Jordan, save us.
Janus, my ****
In my pants oopsies
Micheal Jordan, slams and dunks.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
Turning the pages of Sunday’s paper,
eyes spilling tears upon reading
of the ambush killing of a local cop,
and elsewhere, cops as killers,
the horror of the murders
of twenty angels and their guardians
at a small-town school,
people just having a holiday party,
going to a movie,
people attending church, for god’s sake.
I make my way to the sports section,
that fantasy-land of touchdowns,
home runs and slam dunks,
only to find stories of drunken outfielders
and homicidal/suicidal linebackers
wielding pistols
followed by a half-page ad
for the Guns and Gear store,
urging me to get in on the deals—
an assault rifle, only $649.99,
semi-automatic pistols from $319 to $549,
all the ammo a person could need
to shoot up a school, a theater, a mall, a business,
a synagogue or mosque or church,
even an army base.
My sorrow vinegars to frustration and anger,
that my letters to so-called representatives
must be written on thousand dollar bills
to even get a reading,
answered by a staffer’s reply that says nothing,
and, in the end, dear god,
I’m left with prayer and poetry,
the children of necessity, drowning in futility.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
They came without vision
None questioned their skills
They took a big lead
Then promply got killed
New England was battered
New England was bruised
Atlanta was lunching
And quickly got schooled
The halftime explicits
They blistered the walls
The bigger the lead
The harder they fall
Tom Brady's the gravy
In Belichick's cup
Coach built a big fire
And heated him up
There were some deep passes
Some ***** and some dunks
The hell of it is
It was done without Gronk
That tightend of legend
Who sat in the wings
While wiley Tom Brady
Conducted the thing
It's all big in Texas
Including that game
The hype, the excitement
For Atlanta, the shame
We heard them complaining
We saw them give in
With Julio to lead them
They still couldn't win
But, there is good news
If it wasn't from chocking
They stumble this fall
Then it must be bad coaching
In twenty-eighteen, we'll fire the staff
And bring in some retread
For minimum cash
He'll get the ball rolling
We'll win it, for sure
Or, ole Mr Ryan
We're showing the door
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
Eating. Nibbling.
A thousand times over.
On your succulent moisture
as you Drip. Drip. Drip.
I see you lying there
on glass ready
to be licked clean.
Drained of life you
will be.
I never wanted you
so I don't care
that John is enjoying you're
company now. We didn't play
as little five year old version of ourselves
at the local playground now rusted.
Not that I care but I hope
John enjoys your chocolate chips.
I hope he dunks you in milk
and smashes you with his teeth.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
don't know what it's like
to be super healthy
but I remember running at full speed
knees lifting high with long strides
fists pumping hard to keep my rhythm
with elite athletes cheering the fat kid on
I remember knocking down and through
every opponent on the football field
including my older brothers
no one could block me or get by me
I remember jumping shoulders above the rim
before slam dunks were popular
grabbing every rebound
and making court length passes
like they were nothing
I could kick a soccer ball
from end zone to end zone
and hit a softball into the next diamond
I could do more sit ups and push ups
than anyone thought a fat kid could
I've always been strong
my older brother called it my "brute" strength
meant as both compliment and put down
but I've never known lean and fit
they've always been strangers to me
health's basic formula has never changed
eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest
lean meats, fruit and vegetables
healthy fats and nuts
keeping fiber's eye on glycemic's index
portions are everything
green tea, vitamins, supplements
working out to burn the fat, baby
I've never known lean and fit
but we're going to get well acquainted
they're going to become my new middle name
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Globed
Perfectly round
Apart from a **** on top from
when it was part of a tree.
Ten year old me
Dunks flesh into flesh.
Sugary smells
as fruity balloons burst within,
Spraying juice in all directions.
I separate the segments,
No call to look at what I'm doing
Pulling at the thin membrane
gluing crescent to crescent.
And he looks at me
Cranes the neck he doesn't have
In a questionmark shape.
Little me starts back
in wonder.
A White and wriggling worm
Has won his plunder.
Mar 23, 2011
Mar 23, 2011 at 3:17 PM UTC
a two year old
runs me ragged
stubborn
persistent
and bright
total mass of energy
whizzing by
i can barely perceive
his speed of light
he keeps me busy
fatigued
but well entertained
whiny demanding
frustrating
straining my brain
my baby's growing up
and getting cuter
every day
but since he's only on loan
i'll keep watching him play
-------------------------------------------------------------
He dunks his corn dog in his milk
watches the drips trail his plate.
Innocence not realizing the improperness
delight obsessed
and couldn't be bothered with no's from Momma.
She stops rebuke to question why
can't one dip corn dog in milk
and watch the drips trail the plate?
Is it too radical
anarchical
does it harm another
or must be governmentally sanctioned?
The child knows none of this.
He takes a soggy bite and licks his plate.
Tomorrow he can learn etiquette.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
In the time when,
A simple toy with bright lights was enough to amuse me,
An hour in the bath tub was a day of high-adventure,
An extra cookie, from the cookie jar, made me feel like something special.
In the time when a nap with mom, in the crook of her arm,
Was the high point of my day.
During the years that,
The darkness behind my lids squeezed shut was, somehow, brighter than the darkness around me,
Mr. Teddy snuggled so tight in my arms gave me a sense of impenetrable protection,
Drawing my feet way up from the edge of my bed assured me that I would not be dragged away.
During the years that warm milk and a lullaby were my gold ticket to a peaceful night of sleep.
That era is over.
This year,
Darkness is darkness, such is the peril that lives within it.
My once precious Mr. teddy has found a new home, in the back of my dark closet.
My feet dangle carelessly, over that dreadful edge, after all, drawing them up is pointless.
This year, warm milk makes my stomach turn,
And, it takes more than a lullaby to drop my heavy lids.
This time around,
It's the neon lights of the midnight town that send thrilling shivers up my spine.
I've traded the great splashes and dunks of bath time for flickering candles and violins.
An extra treat is a starry-eyed dream, for fear of the guilt to follow.
A chat with mother is work enough.
This time, I nap alone.
---
I pray for the minutes,
I counted, until,
I heard dad's keys singing in the lock.
I want for the days,
When I'd anger a toe,
And think my world was falling apart.
I dream of the years,
When I'd be hurt by a friend,
And, the next day, share cupcakes over tea.
I wish for the time,
When everything was simple,
And problems were solved with sweets.
---
*Maybe, I could pull Mr. Teddy from my closet's corner,
Warm up a nice, big cup of milk,
Draw up my feet, from the bed's cold edge,
And learn to revel in the darkness around me.*
07.2008
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 10:01 PM UTC
i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane? which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
The themes and figurines,
Of poetry and of art,
Play upon the dreams,
And by candle light depart,
Initiating hanging strings,
That leave traces in the dark,
Alleviating callous memes,
It’s meaningless completely stark.
The toys and trinket of the epoch,
Now rusted and despair,
Give way to the migrating flock,
With brutal traps that tightly ensnare.
The baubles and the jewellery,
Decorating trees and trunks,
Falderal expressions that pointlessly debunks.
For there’s ecstasy in the lunacy,
That haphazardly dips and dunks.
A trifle merely gesture,
As words become the furniture.
The fragrance in its potency,
More potent than the last,
Has lost some of it majesty,
When spending time thinking of the past.
The abstract and surreal,
Will open up the doors,
And what was once concealed,
Now delicately implores.
So there it is, driving matters forth,
And from and too,
The compass points to north,
But which direction does one go,
When imaginings move and grow?
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
No dunks in prime time show
The fans still cheer the same
Silent gifts rule dashboard pens
The results displayed show passion
Scripts reveal a distant voice
A talent that sees guest smile
Destiny's windows offer hope
Curtains that cover where we are
Nov 4, 2009
Nov 4, 2009 at 6:48 PM UTC
Dearest Love
My archive comes to me
Memories of my path of acts
I twigged you vividly in absentia
Glazing your file ribboned with golds
It's more years and six
We bade to say adieu
Oh love! Sweet love
When again shall I feel you skin
Is it still skinny fresh as your youth
With the micro-pores breathing fresh air?
Oh! Sweet Love, my pearl
Do that pink lips exist fresh?
Little blustery, many zypher
The words that therein, I recall
Behind, laid a glowing teeth
Set of bullets in your arsenal booth
How many times has your tongue
Licked my coy blushes?
Oh! That damning eyes of yours
The mirror I see my face
How many winks of your beauty,
As recorded to me the smiles?
Your touches rose my hairs.
My dearest, I have given you my love
I have seen many cute faces
But none is rated than yours.
Have you ever felt same as I
Ploughing on our twins day
My lay ups, your dunks
On spirit court we rollick our love
Which profers like an everyday neon
God be with us till we meet again
My naming-sake got this
Adewumi *Adewale...
St. Ylexinho
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC
I am being made new.
The egg, cracked in half.
Taped together with scotch tape and super glue.
The yolk entirely devoid of its once-consistant home.
This is emptiness.
This is being renewed.
This is what it is to feel and not feel.
To be and not be.
The hand dips me.
Reaches for me.
Dunks me in a solvent of cement and tissue paper.
I am rock.
I am eggshell.
I am tissue paper.
I am two parts vulnerable,
one part entirely indestructible.
I weigh 1000 tons.
I would sink in a river.
I miss the yolk that once inhabited me.
Golden yellow:
So much promise. So much desire.
A gray mallet cracks me open.
It ecavates me.
I miss my terrible weight.
A hot glue gun binds me back together.
I am neither egg nor rock nor air nor yolk.
I am all and none at all.
I am egg soup.
Egg solid.
Egg squared and solidified.
Egg smashed and built again.
...The limitless persistance of life.
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 1:12 AM UTC
There is a self-assurance when driving alone in a car,
A broken leather bag tossed in the passenger seat, sunset at his back,
Sweat pooling under his shirt at the valley below his chest;
Earbuds pressed as far as they’ll go in
Blocking out violent winds as he goes over a perfectly photographed bridge
Fog rolling in over waves and through the painted orange beams of streetlights
He is living in someone else’s fantasy:
dressed to the nines,
the eights,
the sevens
Counting down shirt buttons to the way his belt sits a little too loose around his hips,
Black undershirt and unauthorized jeans smelling like stale convenience-store coffee
And strange sanitized emotions that unkempt grocery stores bring to mind--
He is beaming and
Expressing the love he has for this moment in the purest way he knows how.
He doesn’t believe that it is a singularity, an expression of a single thing
A tangle of words that knot into something unnervingly detached from
What he knows how to wrap someone else in with trained fingers
Under the guise of practice
Love is something he has found is undefined
He is not sure he believes in a staying love.
It comes and goes as it pleases in the moment,
It is the word he leaves reserved for the way yellow makes him feel;
How he felt when he saw green as green as green could be through rose-tinted glasses;
The steam rising from named coffee mugs, light streaming through windows;
It is the word he felt when he fell asleep entangled in someone else’s arms and legs
Socks kicked off at the ankles,
And in the sudden realization that he wanted soup;
In seeing painted purple pauses in thought scattered across his chest and shoulders;
In moth wings and bee stings, in smiles and kissing curiosity
It is an emotion he can’t take ownership of
Rather, it is something that dunks him into a washing machine and
Cleans him of the exhaustion that sinks into the minds of men who don’t cry
Honey-colored bubbles rising from bent fingers and wide eyes
Like jellyfish that don’t know any better than to pop when they reach the surface
Of water below a perfectly photographed bridge.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
the cars on the road
and descends past naked trees
into the field still
dry despite snowmelt water
where she alights and
closes her wings, ruffles her
feathers, and dunks her
head. She drinks. The
wind stirs ripples on the pond.
Then she comes up, bobs,
floats, and dunks her head again
and again with wild
thirst that will not be sated.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
I drift away in the LA sunset every evening around 7.
The sidewalks swallowed by cultured faces,
The road paved with burnt rubber,
The sound of children running with untied laces,
The palm trees sway in a smooth shutter.
This is where I was born,
This is where I will die,
As the sun dunks over the deep waters,
And the stars kiss the sky.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC