"flexes" poems
I walk in this world not quite a part of it.
I see events around me unfold.
They nether change me or define me.
I muse at their hollowness.
They do not exist on my plane.
But, they are stones to tread on.
I watch as oppression flexes its strength.
I smile to myself
My world, my life.
I exist above oppression and violence.
My mind, my intelligence is free.
Take my land, loved ones, treasures of this world.
They wait for me in the dawn of eternal round.
You have no power over me.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Stars shine on in a night sky so black
you can see the truth.
What is that light but an interruption
to progress so blinding
the sun blushes–
as if another light vandalized
our ever darkening sky.
Closing out on reality,
opening up to ideals,
it’s the rays piercing through the layers
and the yea-sayers nodding
off to sleep in a darkness so deep.
When the genius strips off the latent,
flexes its manifest intelligence,
and puts down thoughts
that flare into the darkness.
No effort from a sun fibbing eternal.
The end might come but the hand
who writes eternity can’t see
the end coming.
Who are the geniuses
expelling the light
and who are the receivers
not likely to admit their stupor
for fear of fantastic phantasms.
Fleeing from their folly,
straying into strange, insipid
serials, unending, not rerunning–
only growing obese with weight
Of chances not spent.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:35 AM UTC
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.
Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.
Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.
Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.
But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.
The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.
Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
And they sear me with words not for me, mental!
Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
Flavored hukkas are passed around,
Alcohol and paan bring the mehfil alive,
The Ustad ji sits down and flexes his fingers,
He knows he’ll be working all night.
Dha dhin dhin dha, dha dhin dhin dha
Na tin tin ta
Ta dhin dhin dha,
Move the Ustad ji’s fingers on the tabla.
While with a veil on her face,
And feet dipped in and henna-colored,
Lips in cheap red lipstick covered,
She unfalteringly, gracefully enters.
Her steps are matched by the chhan chhan
of the ghungroos tied around her ankles so slender.
Eyes set on her, feast on her youth,
Just right for the taste of all her customers.
Bejeweled hands placed on waist,
She stands at the centre of attention,
She lifts a foot, readies to dance,
And begins the nightly convention.
Skillfully, perfectly, sensuously move
Feet well-trained since childhood days,
Harmonizing with the timbre
That the Ustad ji creates.
Tin tin na dhin na dhin na
On the tabla, experienced fingers beat.
Chhan chhan chhan chhan,
She dances, repeating the rhythm with her feet.
Metal bells strike against one another
And chhan chhan chhan-a chhan she goes,
Making breaths prance and jump,
As she strikes on the ground her heels and toes.
Then suddenly she stops and gasps,
Over disgruntled, impatient groans she tries
to hear the sound that flows in, only to her ears.
Several rooms away, a baby cries.
Naach! A voice booms,
Arey naach! More join in.
A glass of wine is shattered by an irritated one.
But she stands still, clutching her chest, frozen.
One sways up to where she stands,
For the veil covering her face, his hands dive.
He uncovers her, but is blinded by the sight of her beauty
And her tears that fill her kajal-smeared eyes.
She’s shaken back to reality as she looks all around.
Her sparkling pall is off her face.
She sees all those drunk men who’ve paid to watch her dance.
She knows she has to make the sound of the cries fade away.
So she stomps her feet on the ground till it hurts.
Hair flying out of braid, bangles clanging,
Anguish replaces her innocent loveliness,
The music in the air is now shrill, jarring.
Her steps match with the tabla’s rhythm no more.
But she dances, planting her feet so hard they weep.
She silences every sound with the noise of her ghungroos,
Praying that the night will lull her wailing son to sleep.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
Spider flexes wires
mosquito pasted spirals
caught in spiderweb
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
As I raise my morning coffee cup
my right bicep muscle flexes
and my right forearm muscles flex
and I am
enjoying
my muscles flexing;
I play
a music video
on my kitchen television
and dance
around my kitchen
flexing every muscle
in my body
and I am
experiencing
Muscle-Flexing-Joy.
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 5:02 AM UTC
Love is like,
A man born without arms,
He lives his life accepting his disability,
But Constantly jealous of those with arms.
he sees people with arms of every variety; skinny, tattooed, bruised or muscled, and even some like him.
Everyday he watches people use and missuse their arms,
Yet Barely appreciating the mere existence of their own arms.
One day, he hears about a new procedure that could give him fully functioning prosthetic arms.
He is hesitant about the cost and risk,
but decides he must try.
A week later after a successful surgery,
The bandages finally fly free, and so do his arms.
He flexes and bends them every way possible,
testing the boundaries of what feels like a new world to him.
There is an endless beauty in their function.
He feels a joyous wonder,
to experience the touch and precision
of his sweetly sensitive fingertips caressing the surface of anything in their reach.
For the first time, he finally knows what true freedom feels like.
Months pass as he becomes familiar with a new world under his fingertips.
But as time goes on he begins to notice occasional malfunctions in his daily tasks.
He thinks hes losing touch with the connections used to communicate with the main circuits,
But doesn't think it could get worse.
As Weeks pass more connections falter between him and his once perfect partner.
The day starts like any other winter morning,
an icy cold, cloudy drizzle.
He's driving the windy back roads to work,
rounding a sharp bend in the road, when he suddenly feels a spasm ripple through his arms
ripping his hand from the wheel and all control.
His car veers off the roadside cliff
leaving gravity to doom him to an icy river below.
The car careens through the droplets of rain in the air.
His world slows down as the car begins to plummet downward,
only seconds before impact.
The freezing icy rain and air rip
through the broken windshield,
but nothing feels colder than the betrayal of the arms he once held so dear.
And in that moment,
he wishes that he'd never had arms at all.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Christmas
makes you realize
how lonely
and pointless
you are.
Everyone's at Jared's,
laughing with the overly made up
thirty-ish
forty-five year old
behind the counter.
Making jokes about
how
the bride-to-be
"lets him get away
with certain things,
but he knows who's boss."
While the groom-to-be stands beside her demurely
as she flexes that nice glinting rock.
"So when's the wedding?"
Or seeing people
going to Micheal's
for some string and
beads, and wood-carved letters,
to make a homemade
necklace
for her,
because commercialism
ruins love.
Real love comes from the heart
and necklaces made out of heartfelt twine
glistening with green and red beads
that enclose her name
in wood-carved letters
that have probably been chewed on
by a progressive four year old.
I think it's the whole idea
of togetherness.
This feeling of closeness brought on by the cold.
The need to be warm and vitalized,
while realizing
that you are rubbing your own shoulders.
you are shuddering against your own pillow.
you are curled up inside your own covers.
you simply are
and there is no one else around
to affirm
with love
and ***
and ingenuity
that
you are.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
Why is Jesus consorting with the wizard man?
If I were the wizard,
I’d need the beard…
Apparently beards are in now.
But if I were the wizard,
I would change the sky…
The sky is good but it could be better.
The swirled spray of technicolour patterns.
Then if I were the wizard,
I’d live with the cows…
Cows are the divine creature,
Spending their days extracting the golden spirit of the grass,
Four stomachs, one psychedelic voyage. Even waste isn’t wasted.
Now if I were the wizard,
I’d shrink the universe…
I want to see the stars burning in the brilliance.
I want the vast, spiraled arms of the galaxy to greet me by my window.
See if I were the wizard,
There wouldn't be fat people…
We would all be huge and slide around on greased up silk rugs.
The wizard’s power,
will forever sour,
the final hour of flight.
And in his hat,
the fat rat was sat,
and deprived of all natural light.
This albino creature,
was his newest feature,
and preacher to his army of mice.
With a forked tongue,
the call would be sung,
“Semper Fidelis”
Don’t think twice.
This rodent beast has a task from the wizard.
He is to watch you. Why?
For security that’s why.
Those beady yellow eyes shine in the darkness above wizard head.
The ragged ears can hear everything that is said.
What if I were the wizard?
Well, I’d see no need for hats…
The hair is too long for the sun.
His flowing robe of royal blue,
His perfect ideals, misconstrued,
A great top hat with stars and stripes,
And a gnarled finger prodding at the night.
He wants you,
He needs you,
Don’t answer him or he’ll find you.
The power he flexes has come from the masses,
We loved him,
We chose him.
He has barked out the command, “Semper Fidelis!” and we have answered him. Hell has descended on the sands by his feet and was trodden flat by his army of mice. The sands and stones and dusted hills, all plundered to flex his might.
Can you hear him bellow out the curse?
The holy mountain shakes loose its earthly foundations. The sky cracks and returns his call with flashing fiery ferocity. He has summoned forward the Deep and the Dark, and deliverance has fallen. He has loosed these beasts upon us, weather was changed by his hand and the Earth has spit fourth these.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
If you are falling in love with collar bones,
Defined abdomens,
Back dimples,
Visible rib cages,
Thigh gaps,
Straight, white teeth,
Long, endless hair,
Spakling eyes,
Dainty fingers,
You are doing it wrong.
If you are falling in love with the way his collarbone slight juts out,
How his abdomen flexes when he's stretching in the morning,
How his back dimples are indications where you can rest your hands,
How her visible rib cage only means you have something to strum your fingers across before bed,
How her thigh gap is just apart of her exterior,
How her straight, white teeth look when she's smiling,
How her long, endless hair is perfect to run your fingers through,
How his sparkling eyes are always fixated on you,
How her dainty fingers always find yours,
You are doing it right.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Some people have *****
Better known as ignorance when reacting onto a matter
Others have heart
Those who engage their feelings with the cause; although, the conclusion might result in heartache
The risk is worth taking
No blame nor shame
Life is what you make it
And decisions should first be feelings
No one should answer life lessons
With ******** clinches and chest flexes
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
Greatest Ever (GOAT)
The greatest ever,
don’t hesitate for the Haters,
I stand here united in love,
while you’re divided as the Equator,
or better yet division equations,
no hesitations I’ve got now don’t care who has later,
baskin in the Florida sun while ballin’ in the fun,
on a beach in Miami with my belly in the sand call me a Gator,
got Florida sun shine in a New York state of One Mind,
in California at Greystone getting more wine from the waiter,
feeling like He-Man at Castle Greyskull getting great skull,
both reckless and tasteful variety the spice of life I like to savor,
and yeah they call me a player but better a player than a hater,
and yeah they call me selfish behind my back then face me and ask for favors,
but I cut through the BS with my lightsaber half Luke Skywalker half Darth Vader,
with no time to waste and no mind to spare so catch me now or see you later,
in the meantime you can find me at the beach,
between just laid and self made plotting revenges and favors,
went from being on the street on my *** with no glass to Best Ever,
fully clothed now with all the bells and whistles from minor league to major,
dressed the nines with my thumb on the button,
and my finger on the trigger,
and I won’t hesitate to detonate,
on any fool that flexes hate because I’m the Greatest Ever,
I’ll spell it out for you,
G.O.A.T.,
and that is the truth,
for real for really,
I’m the GOAT,
setting records and making goals,
so while all the losers are lost in hesitation,
I’m non stop always on the go,
the greatest ever,
don’t hesitate for the Haters,
I stand here united in love,
while you’re divided as the Equator…
∆ LaLux ∆
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
The breeze is forceful, but not stiff,
it is the tropical storm's long lasting,
Arthur's lingering kiss goodbye,
(like the ones taken and given at airports and train stations,
volatile, wild passionate)
the breeze is anything but stiff,
it flexes, gusts, whipping sleeves,
coffee coolant excellent
the waves are rollicking,
revealing their white underwear,
but wise sailors say no thanks,
the bay pure, no vessels surface contaminant this morning
the sun apologizes for its yesterday absence,
claiming the aquifer cried out very thirsty,
so it took July Fourth off,
but now the water table rising,
the sand colored soil dark, rich, wet,
the grass cleaner, greener,
but the lawn, branch littered,
the wounded of the weather wars
the sun, a bit embarrased by his absence,
waits patiently for that odd fellow
by that dock, in that chair solitary,
to do his best poetic explanation well enough,
so that all summer rainy days will be
past and future forgiven
and the odd fellow taps and tends
to the living crowd surrounding him once again,
recalling he once wrote of leaves frothy waving
like cappuccino foam, and was that not
years ago and how could that be?
though the atmosphere is modest agitated,
the poets heart now, leavened and levitated,
for rain must have its due day,
purposeful, somber, serious, endless repeating,
(some say cleansing, but not he)
laughing at himself,
outdoors he writes
differently,
lighter than air, crafting careful
a single sonnet of suntan lotion odors,
and natural songs of bass drums in ear thrum,
and one thought alone,
criss crosses repeatedly,
yes, that one,
"wish you were here"
and he goes inside to get fresh coffee,
greet the woman sweaty fresh from yoga.
she delayed, the ferry captains paying obeisance
to the self same breeze,
but the seagull observer,
stands in place of the odd fellow's guard and watch,
during his temporary absence,
bulkhead posted, cawing in his stead and on his stand,
in seagullese,
which the poet speaks oh so well,
mantra chanting the poets
and the breeze's refrain too,
wish you were here
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
My buddy the quarterback said to go long
music to my ears the chorus of my song
I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –
the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.
We were all better at football on Lillian Street
beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.
Now mulling my interests, passions and such
I wonder why I love football so much
what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching
my football mania seems a tad overreaching
but still my arm flexes watching that heaver
connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.
Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king
probably explains something of why I’m so keen
and my pulse quickens as I remember
the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September
to meet them in our favorite autumn spot
down the street in that vacant lot.
Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes
connected with ideas and English classes
no novel for me, I fell for poetry
nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.
Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong
to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC
Complex indirect energy effects
Dominos tipped in motion from years ahead
Solar waves continue to rollover again
Subtle state flows felt beyond present tense
Self reflection an important order
To step forward in the right direction
Fear not the unknown events
Souls sewn into space with grace
Shadow self flexes when stressed
Amongst absent minded friends
Less of our conscious contempt
Form learned actions instead
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 4:45 AM UTC
I swim in bare walls,
Dark tide, images:
glass meets tile, crashes
Ricochets,
Stings; sheets
Tattered. Life
through a grinder.
Splintered.
Unnatural menagerie,
The tiger crawls,
Surfaces. Escapes the well.
Breaks cold links:
Steel, Iron,
Indestructable spiderwebs
spun fervently,
Silent explosion.
The tiger flexes, nails
Grip flesh. I am torn
inside Out.
Vertigo.
The tiger paces,
restless among confines,
spinning eyes.
I will the world
to Burn.
Drown.
End.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 2:40 PM UTC
in time
the lens
turns large and flexes
small
and the colors of hands
the shapes of days
stains
the wallowing stream
the hanging chord
for god is change is time
is infinite is ends
is frozen is stagnation
is a self
a sculpture in ice
glittering melting
a tale the same
in every telling
till
gone.
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 9:25 AM UTC
I see him in the fields
His pretty hair, uncombed
Swimming in the wrought shoots of wheat
His smell travels faster than sun
Of dry grains and weeds, bathed in sweat
Of moist soil, burnt by scarlet sun
His colour, a theater of wheat grains
His face, an album of old trips
Different shapes play in it differently
Drowning in the rain of dust
His brows are tired of tightening
Over and over, poor them
He waves me, while trying to stand
On the leg that always refuses
Almost there, it flexes and he falls
The brows relax, reality is welcomed
He apologizes in a low voice
A god in the lap of golden soil
I see him in his garden
Where on his fine knee
He is on a fine soil, fine smile
Tomatoes playing in his hands
Leaves slipping through his fingers
And this fine son, does all he can
I see him in rains, when on one
He concluded what i should like
A fine man with fine two legs
(But) There is this one man i like,
Who smells of wheat, who has a fine leg
He who ever liked me
Pk
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 5:16 AM UTC
Coiled, in stiff repose
The green frog flexes, it's nimble toes.
Locked, it's muscles test
The green frog's will, proves the best.
Straining, to hear the flap
The grey hawk stalking, the green frog's trapped
Cringing, it hears the dive
Hawk-eyes lock, on a bright green prize
It leaps! It's spring proves better than
The plummeting hawk, an experienced veteran
Adjusts it's flight, as the frog leaps right!
Then soft green flesh, bleeds from a **** made fresh
And talons stained red, left the frog dead.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
What good is a life, is a life without living?
A body hollowed out, from her constant giving
No one ever cared, no one ever listened,
So tonight tears run down her face and her eyes glisten
She holds the gun to her head, just waiting to pull the trigger
Hoping to erase the past, and find a purpose bigger
Her finger flexes,
And the bullet shoots out of the barrel,
Blood splatters her porcelain skin,
A hit,
Forever fatal
What good is a life, a life without living?
A body hollowed out, from her constant giving
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
The tingle of magic
In your fingertips
As your palm flexes
Above the keys
This is your papyrus,
You modern-day scribe
Feel the flow of electricity
Beneath your hands
And release the magic
That lies within
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
Power flexes
downward:
a hulking, indifferent
appendage
obscene in its
obviousness,
but the obviousness is the
point,
you remind
me.
This latest one was only twenty-
six
and seemingly healthy, but no
matter—
in Hokkaido by now the
larches
have all dropped their
needles,
and the fumaroles of Mount
Asahidake
still hiss, even while
covered
in heaps of snow. I wish
that
you could take me there. I
wish
that we could set
off
into that pale oblivion and never
return,
immersed for the rest of our
days
in the frigid, accurate
waters
of Nature’s
reality.
But she has no dominion
here,
you remind
me,
and we are all just tourists in this place
anyhow,
sidling beneath cornices and sidestepping
crevasses
aslope an angry volcano in
winter,
that warm, glowing lodge at its
foot
seemingly never
drawing
any
closer.
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 11:51 AM UTC