'Footwork' poems - Hello Poetry

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marion Mar 2018

Footwork

I keep my feelings on a leash,
locked in a cage like the perpetrators of crime.
Sometimes I take them out for walks
to test out their rarely used legs on the ground.
Only too reel them back in,
too scared to let them wander,
wander towards those who let theirs loose freely,
not caring where they step.
For I have learned that this only leads to hurt.
Stubbed toes on the curbsides called love.
Failed attempts at crossing the crosswalk,
into the depths of someones shallow, unforgiving arms.
Not paying attention to the Stop sign right next to them.
Over and over, I wish I would've noticed that sign sooner..
Before all the heartbreaks and fallen tears.
And that is why
the footwork of my heart, kept captive in the dark,
is sleeping in silence for perhaps eternity

this is the poem I used to apply for this community. not my best work, but still, I thought I should share.

#love #feelings #feels #deep #dark #silence #tears #broken #mind #lost

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matthew scott harris May 2017

HOW TO CONTRA DANCE

(twas where aye met thee missus, but mooch as a natural euphoria experienced, i rarely returned to said venue, especially for many years when thy now na grown lovely lasses merely toddlers).
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Go ahead and AskJeeves (or another available partner yea, that lonely looking gal or guy in mom genes), who can never refuse to kick up heals in this rollicking shenanigan – the rumor holds that said activity the most fun one can have with being clothed to another.
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The caller will usually do a walk thru, which begins with the first two couples closest to the stage crew of lively musicians (frequently filling the makeshift hall with music aligned the genre of irish jigs and reels) beginning to pair off.
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After couples one and two (nearest the band) complete their quartet, this process (sans participants coupling off) continues until the foot of the line.
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Actually each duo of dancers within the foursome nearest or furthest from the podium dons the role of “first and second” couple respectively.
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The walk thru can be helpful, especially for those unfamiliar with this social activity, which encroaches on the ordinary comfort zones because eye contact plus physical hand to hand fusion necessary.
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Many of the routines utilize various combinations of approximately a couple dozen unique moves, where each distinct extemporaneously choreographed fancy footwork utilizes a unique variation of such movements.
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The most frequent array of moves comprises the following terms, which I located at hyperlink - www.theyken.net/don/PDF/Glossary.pdf
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Glossary of Contra Dance Figures:
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Allemande Left - Two dancers join left hands about shoulder height with elbows bent down and walk a circular path.
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Allemande, Mirror - Two couples, facing, starting with one couple going between the other couple. Give the person you are starting to pass your most convenient hand, right for two dancers and left for the other two, and turn as described in the allemande right and left.
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Allemande Right - Two dancers join right hands about shoulder height with elbows bent down and walk a circular path.
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Balance – The simplest balance is a step forward and backs. Another type of balance is a step on your right foot and swing your left foot over your right foot and then step on your left foot and swing your right foot over your left foot.
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Balance and Swing - Face other dancer, take both hands, balance (as above) and swing the other dancer.
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Baskets - More that two dancers, step in so all the dancers are in a very tight circle, place your hands behind the backs of the dancers next to you and join hands. Put your right foot in closer to the center of the circle and start to turn this basket by pushing with your left foot (like in a buzz step swing).
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Box the Gnat - Partners (usually) join right hands, raise joined hands above the woman’s head, she walks under the joined hands, as the man walks around behind her. The dancers not only change positions but they end facing in the opposite direction.
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Cast Down – The dancer faces up and turns away from the center of the set and walks down the outside of the set.
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Cast Off, Assisted - Two dancers, facing the same direction, put an arm around the other dancers waist, one dancer moves forward while the other dancer moves backwards.
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Cast Off, Unassisted - One dancer, usually moving up the center or up the outside of the set, walks around an other dancer until they stand next to that dance facing the same direction.
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Cast Up – The dancer faces down and turns away from the center of the set and walks up the outside of the set.
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Circle Left – More than two dancers join hands and form a circle. Hands are joined at a height somewhere between you waist and shoulders. Dancers walk around in a circle to the left or counter- clockwise.
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Circle Right – More than two dancers join hands and form a circle. Hands are joined at a height somewhere between you waist and shoulders. Dancers walk around in a circle to the right or clockwise.
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Contra Corners - This figure is done in proper sets. The first couple turns each other by the right hand until they can turn their first corner, The person who was standing on the left side of your partner. The first couple then turns their first corners by the left hand, until they see the partners. The first couple again turn each other by the right hand and then turn their second corners, the person who was standing on the right side of your partner, by the left hand.
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Courtesy Turn – Two dancers with right hands joined and left hands joined, about waist height, facing the same direction, woman on the man’s right. The woman walks forward while the man backs-up until they are facing the opposite direction.
Cross-Over or Pass Thru – Two-dancer walk by each other passing right shoulders.
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Cross-Over is usually across the set. While Pass Thru is usually up and down the set.
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Do-Si-Do – Two dancers walk forward pass each other right shoulders, pass behind the other dancer, and backup, passing left shoulders into the place where you started.
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Do-Si-Do, Left Shoulder (also known as a See Saw) - Two dancers walk forward pass each other left shoulders, pass behind the other dancer, and backup, passing right shoulders into the place where you started.
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Do-Si-Do, Mirror - Two couples, facing, starting with one couple going between the other couple. Then dance a do-si-do, the two dancers who pass right shoulders dancing right shoulder do-si-do the other two dancers who pass left shoulders dance a left shoulder do-si-do.
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Down the Center, Turn Alone – Two dancers, usually a couple, walk down the center of the set, turn toward each other and return to the place where they started.
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Down the Center, Turn As a Couple – Two dancers, usually a couple, walk down the center of the set.
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Turn as a couple, the woman walks forward as the man backs up, until the couple is facing back in the direction they came from. Then return to a place across the set from where they started.
Figure of Eight – Two consecutive Half Figures of Eight (see below)
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Forward and Back – Dancers join hands with the dancer next to them and move forward four steps and back four steps.
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Gate and Post - Two dancers facing in the same direction, join most convenient hands, right to left, keep hands about shoulder height, one dancer will walk forward in a circular path as the other dancer walks backward in a circular path.
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Grand Chain - Three or more woman, make a right hand star, and turn the star until you meet the third (or designated) man, join left hands with the man and courtesy turn.
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Grand Right and Left - Two dancers, join right hands, pull by and give left hands to the next dancer, pull by, and continue this until you meet the person you are told to meet or until the caller tells you to stop. Can be used in squares, contras, and circles.
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Gypsy - a couple, walk once around each other, clockwise, and end where they started while looking wistfully into each others ' eyes.
Half Figure of Eight – Two dancers across from each other, in a contra, cross over while moving through the couple below (or above), the woman in the lead, they then cast up (down) to end in their partners original place.
Hey for Four – Two couples, facing, usually starting with the women moving to the center and passing right, then pass the opposite man who is moving forward by the left, the two men pass right in the center while the two women do a small loop to the left to face in, again the women pass right in the center as men do a small loop to the left to face in, women pass the men by the left, men pass right in the center and all return to original place.
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Honor - Bow to your partner.
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Improper – In a contra, when a man is in the women’s line and/or a woman is in the Mens' line. The women’s line is the line on the left when viewed from the caller’s position.
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Ladies Chain – Two couples facing, the women join right hands and pull by each other, then give their left hands to the opposite man, finishing with a courtesy turn to face the other couple.
Lead Through - Two dancers facing in the same direction, join most convenient hands, right to left, and walk between the two dancers they are facing. Often followed by a cast to original place.
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Pass Thru - Two couples facing, both couples walk forward, passing the person you are facing by the right shoulder and ending in their place (do not turn around).
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Promenade – A couple, with the man’s right arm around the woman’s waist and her right hand in his right hand, and left hands joined in front of them, move in a forward direction, sometimes ending with a courtesy turn.
Promenade, Single File - All of the dancers in a single file or circle, facing the same direction, follow the dancer in front of you.
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Proper – In a contra, the men are in the mens' line and the woman are in the women’s line. The mens line is the line on the right when viewed from the caller’s position
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Right and Left – Two couples, take right hands with the person across the set and pull by, on the opposite side of the set courtesy turn the person next to you.
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Roll Away - A couple, both facing in the same direction, woman’s left hand in the man’s right hand, the man assists the woman, who rolls across in front of him, as he moves to his right. They both end facing the same direction as they started but they are in each others' place
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Star, Left Hand – Two couples, take left hands with the person diagonally across, then they all walk forward in a circular path.
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Star, Right Hand – Two couples, take right hands with the person diagonally across, then they all walk forward in a circular path.
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Swing – A couple, in a position similar to ballroom position, except the man and woman are right hip to right hip. The simplest descriptions I have heard is assume the above position and then try to walk behind your partner. The dancers can use a simple walking step or a buzz step.
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Turn - See allemande for right and left hand turn. A two hand turn - two dancers, facing, take the other dancers right hand in your left and their left hand in your right. Pull back slightly and both dancers walk clockwise until you get back to where you started.

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Xander Duncan May 2014

My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so

My inner demons are over dramatic children
     They do not wage wars
     They throw tantrums
     They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
     When they do not get what they want
     And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
     Then fall asleep when they get tired
     Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
     They call themselves demons
     When they are more like imps
     They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
     And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
     They broke something
     Then press on my heart
     Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
     They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
     And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
     At inopportune moments
     As I tremble due to the ones
     That have tripped and tangled themselves
     In my heartstrings and vocal cords
     Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
     And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
     They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
     With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
     Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
     They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
     With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
     And hold themselves still against my capillaries
     As if their presence might distract my blood from
     Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
     They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
     With reports and analysis of too many situations
     And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
     Of each ventricle and aorta
     Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
     Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
     Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
     They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
     Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
     They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
     And pry open old ones with feathers
     They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
     They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
     They tie my tongue with other tongues
     And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
     They are self depreciating and they know that they
     Are not worthy of their title

My inner demons are pathetic
     I suppose they're right where they belong

#demons #emotions #self-loathing

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Anubis the Philosomancer Jun 2013

Footwork

What do:
Martial Arts,
Dance,
and working in a kitchen on a busy night
all have in common?

It's all about the footwork.

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rsc Sep 2014

Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?

Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.

Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?

Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.

Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.

The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.

Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.

How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?

#love #desire #power #control #communication

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Abraham May 2021

Not the Place for Salsa

I bang my elbow in the shower,
takes a second to realize why

not that I was careless
or enjoy pain, again

but the cascara
cowbell, saxophone,

hands around my shoulders
that are not my own

sunlight squeezing lemons,
flower dress upon the hill

potato enchilada
still
digesting
messing
with my footwork

possibly

maybe

I was careless.

Showers are not the place for salsa.

#salsa #dance #love #touch #longing #dreaming #carelessness #music #sunlight #pain

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laura Nov 2013

Free Write - Lambs Ear

I have been held between calloused fingers with
courage caked under the fingernails.

I've watched the tribe of white knuckled girls with the knobby knees
fall off the jungle gym.

Their mothers would sit on the park bench and smoke Virginia Slims.

Must be getting old, the way their skinny fingers combed the better half
of their crinkly silver hair.

They get carried away out there, how they invite themselves into strangers cars, fire up another cig and tell their stories to each other.

And the kids are wild and all footwork, thinned lips the color of roses, questioning whatever confuses them.

I am uncomfortable with their softness, mumbling syllables or whispering fairy tales.
They picked scabs until they bled and their mothers pretended not to notice as they soaked in late night stands and whiskey;
I want to say to the girls on the jungle gym, “you were born to a mother who wore pain like
trees wear their rings, as marks of bravery and battle cries.”

But because I am forever bonded to this earth, I will feed myself with their
feminine giggles carried by the wind

And for now, I will carve myself down to nothing more than water and remember that
observation really is a lonely science.

This was a free write we did in my workshop, and we were supposed to write about an organic thing and I chose a lambs ear. So this is in the POV of the lambs ear.

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Christopher Tolleson Oct 2011

Undone

There is a veil,
with no eyes and no ears.
It sets like a stone,
between love and its fears.

Totally unfleeting,
no laughs and no jeers.
To be ever-present,
for all of man's years.

Truly diseased;
synaptic in nature.
Stumble the footwork
and words of thy taker.

Creates blindness,
no sense.
Through silky folds,
made too dense.

There is a veil,
with no eyes and no ears,
but somehow it hears
and it sees all its fears.

It tears all but once,
before, never again,
will it restitch its wounds,
only gasping as wind.

*Collaboration, William Connelly.

Mr. Connelly does not think this poem is finished, so it may change one day, but until then, I leave it as is.

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Barton D Smock Feb 2014

deep still

ghost of snake.

an adoration
of atypical
young mother
fear.

mouse needs a toothache.

footwork
heads north.

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RH 78 Feb 2015

Foresight of a silky smooth professional

I looked the other way but saw you coming
I heavily subsidised you and acted on impulse but I saw you coming.
Like a leach unable to find it's own food source I saw you coming but let you take a sip before you could bleed me dry.
You ducked and you dived but I saw you coming.
No fancy footwork though, you tried to bulldoze your way by acting out a false reputation.
No one works for someone who barks. That's your style. A riddle makes more sense than you do.
I saw you coming.
You're a sugar loaf!
I'm golden syrup!
I saw you coming!
Seeing is avoiding!

#fool #enemy #foresight #avoid

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david mungoshi Nov 2015

dancer from dombodema

his lean body promises something flawless
and his athletic gait and poise gurantee it
this dance carries the joyful pulse of centuries
filled with the aura of a communal choreography
driven by a pulsating talking drum in expert hands
the serene contours on his contented face -
how they belie the ostritch feathers ardoning his shaven head
such artistic grace and coordination are truly phenomenal:
his dancing head shakes in rhythm to the urgent vocals
of the melody section of the dance troupe
he blows a whistle to blend perfectly with the rest of the percussion
his right hand plays a pair of shakers with amazing dexterity
even as he directs affairs with a fly whisk in his left hand
his left leg does some fancy footwork in the dust
while the right one beats time in time to a silent dirge
the beat of the drum is insistent and demands obedience
to the dictates of heritage that require fluidity and excellence
the dancer is happy to oblige with a maestro's rendition
his smile and energy from the ages speak of art almost divine
who is it that speaks of multitasking as a tiresome diversion?
in this dance where one man does six different things at once
multitasking is an indomitable brand as well as art incarnate!

There is a community, in my country Zimbabwe, domiciled in such places as Plumtree, Dombodema, Madlambuzi and so on. Their dances are absolutely incredible and I have always wanted to capture each dance in words. Here we are at last. I hope I succeed in sharing some of the wonder of the Kalanga Amabhiza dance.

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Al Sep 2018

Hitting the bag hard.  Contracting the muscles. Pushing the limits.  Everyday is a workday in the gym. Boxing is a tough sport and injuries do happen, but the main draw is the test, and the endorphin high.

Outside the ring, time is more fluid.  The clock continues to tick but, for most people, the seconds don't count.

A knockout can arrive in the blink of an eye.  You think you know the ropes, the footwork, the patterns, and then wham!

Like a car-wreck.  One minute you're buzzing down the freeway, listening to tunes on the radio, and kaboom, what the hell???

Instant change, up becomes down, and for some it's down and out!

Twelve rounds, the bell sounds, points are tallied, did you make the grade, did you put in your best?

It's everyday life played out as spectacle. Twelve rounds in the squared circle and then your time has passed.

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Michael DeVoe Feb 2012

Patience

I'm sorry that my spectacular patience sometimes goes wandering through the grape vines
Leaving me here frustrated at the fact that you can't tie your shoes without getting your pants *****
And sand in your underwear 150 miles away from the nearest beach
And I know on a few occasions the only way to get my patience back from the grapes
Is to drink a bottle of wine and take someone else's
But I'm working hard for you

On the days I forget clean socks
I know it's hard to believe that I'm the best choice
But I promise the judge had a good reason
I know you've been doing this alive thing for like three and a half years now
So you've had time to adjust
But I've been doing this father thing for like six months now
But you have to know I'm working hard for you

When you look at an S and call it an R
Can't figure to unbuckle your car seat and wont eat a green bean to get a cookie
I wish the guy who wrote
"What to expect when you're expecting"
Had written
"What to do when you weren't expecting"
Or at the very least
"How not to **** it up"
Your aunt says if you do the footwork the results will come
I am walking the path I will get there

You were born at 7am
I wasn't told until 11pm
I was late
But I held you
You squeezed my finger
I smiled
You're turning four soon
I'm late
But I love you
Hold my hand son
I will smile
We will walk this path
We will get there

A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae

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dex Oct 2015

Can You Hear It?

Were you silent the day he left?
He'll crush you, but at least you'll feel something...
at least you'll feel something...
I've come to the conclusion that nobody's actually in control anyway.
We all want to be, but none of us are.
And if you think about it,
The comparison of people to mirrors and windows,
Well...
We aren't either.
We are opaque and non-reflective,
And what you see from the outside
Rarely scratches the surface of what's inside.
And I saw the moon in shades of red tonight,
And stupidly mistook the color as blushing.
But then the realization struck that it was fury;
The moon was furious with the sun
For his constant indecision,
For his periodical love for her,
For the ease with which he would change his mind...
The thunderstorms are continual these days,
And I know it's cliché,
But it really does rain all the time.
The rolling sighs of the water against the windowpanes inside my mind
Have become a habitual dance
With footwork as intricate as any fire and ice rose,
Any tango or waltz,
And nothing has really felt like this before,
but at least I feel something...
At least you'll feel something...
I just want to feel alive again.
Make me feel alive.
Can you even hear my screams?
I know six feet under is too deep to ask,
But could you try to listen?
Can you hear the divorce that didn't happen because of us kids?
Can you hear the bitter resentment in every exchange?
Can you hear your fingers combing through my hair in my dreams? Your lips on my forehead? Your heartbeat underneath my hand?
Can you hear the anger he spits at us everyday?
“I didn't want you two to grow up in a broken home.”
But we have. Just not in the traditional sense.
Can you hear the sound of ***** pouring over ice?
Can you hear the television so loud I have to close my door to think?
Can you hear the mascara stains on every pillow in the house?
Can you hear the distance between each member of this "happy family"?
Can you hear the regret?
Can you hear the bitterness?
Can you hear the frustration?
Can you hear the solitude?
Can you hear it?
Of course not.
I've learned by now that no one hears a silent goodbye.

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Tristan Claude Oct 2011

Chapped Lips Never Felt so Good

I thought you were beautiful,
With eyes that melt me, forest greens and browns,
My thoughts like clouds, don't know where they go, but they go,
And dissapear into magestic sunsets, the colors of blush,
If a mirror saw it's reflection, would it be embarressed,
I've danced with the thought of being here or not,
And she doesn't have the fanciest footwork, this thought,
Or hear the music very well, but she leads,
She leads me so much more than I lead her,
I thought you were beautiful,
It was leaves like those green leaves,
From green to yellow, and down to scarlet red,
My heart forgets to think, as a pianist forgets their place,
And it's melody slows, as your breath breaks the edges,
A sonata, with written letters to oppose it,
I love to travel, from feet to eyes and ears,
Adore, the hills and valleys,
The lips of local songs,
A neck of paradise, wrapped up in anaconda whispers there to stay,
If your smile was a lie, I'd worship treason,
And live for lies,
If goodbyes were hellos, I'd always want you gone,
And if staying means cold and winter winds,
I'll fall, and I'll autumn and I'll never spring to summers heart.

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E A Bookish Mar 2016

Post-Apocalypse Liturgy

Post-Apocalypse Liturgy

0.
These are the days in which the dead outnumber the living, and in which most of the living
                                                                                                                                     act like the dead.

1.
The wind in this place is a howl that never gets tired.

Still, I march on, a lonely soldier in a foreign land, desperately trying not to feel like a refugee.

The remains of my regiment left me long ago and are now buried under grey sand-dust or are walking, but away. This does not mean I am walking to anywhere, or that I know what I’m looking for
or what I will find.

                     I once knew a girl, and then knew that girl as a woman – two distinct and different people who would be strangers to one another if they ever meet.
                                                                   I once knew a boy, who did not become a man because I couldn’t **** the other man with the axe fast enough. There’s blood flecked under my nails and it is not his but it may as well be. I carried his keychain with the rabbit foot on it for the longest time, but in the end bartered it for clean water.

These are two of the people who are walking away from me.

2.
Here there is only a scarf over my mouth and nose, scratched sunglasses and my battered boots moving, always forward. There is no longer a North Star to guide me so who knows what direction my feet are taking me.

I see hollowed trees and cracked tarmac peeking out from the dust. The sand and the dust are the only things that move here, swirling, like us, directionless and in circles.

But not like me, no. I am moving                                                   Forward

Through the shimmering haze ahead I see a smudge, a smudge that is not a ruined tree or a ruined building. Just a ruined person, and they’re coming towards me. I check my hands, my knife, my pistol that has no bullets but does have a heavy **** and no one needs to know it’s just a glorified club.

We stop a few meters apart from each other. He’s wrapped in ***** bits of cloth and smells like turpentine and fatigue, but he holds himself like a wire. He’s looking at my pack, the blade at my hip.

“Howdy stranger. Any sign of life your way?” I haven’t spoken in weeks and no longer have a voice. I shake my head.

“Got any water to spare?” Again, I shake my head. He keeps looking at me, all wire and tightly wound desperation.

I’m going to have to **** him, so
                                                    I do.

3.
It’s a lonely dark, trapped between the teeth of suspense and resignation - an abandoned parking lot at midnight where an old drunk man cackles at nothing.

And I made
          ****** sure I was surrounded by nothing.
Sing to me silence
                   Remind me that I can still breathe.

4.
I still talk to you sometimes.

“Remember when we met? You smiled and looked clean and told me there was water nearby. I didn’t trust you, didn’t believe you but followed you anyway. Maybe because I couldn’t smell anyone else, maybe because I hadn’t been clean in what felt like years

            (but only dead gods can tell time here, so who knows really?)

Maybe because I still had a bullet left or maybe because I was

Lonely.

Were you lonely? Is that why you trusted a wandering wretch like me?

Or were you one of those dead gods who could see the Future, who could see the Forward, and what came at the end?

Sometimes I ask you things forgetting you are no longer there. When I’m thumbing the sharp of my knife and say

“Pass me my pack would you? Need the whetstone.”
                                                            Or
“Do you remember Before? Were you old enough?

I remember,
Before
        Before
Before
         Before…

Do you remember if it was better than this?”
                                                           Or
“Stop hogging the blanket already, just lie closer to me.”

And I wake up thinking you’re there but it’s just my own arms wrapped around my own waist.

5.
When I see the first sign I imagine I am hallucinating. I saw a bird earlier this morning, and that can’t be right. I saw you this morning, and that can’t be right either.

But I walk and soon hear something I haven’t heard in a long time. Someone is laughing.

And the town I wander into is not really a town, just a place to sit and sleep, cobbled together with people and plywood and spit.

‘Hopetown’ it’s called. And that would make me laugh if I remembered how to.

I’m greeted with a mixture of caution and curiosity. There must be a few dozen of them, ***** but alive and they smile at each other and have the energy to talk with their hands. There are huts and there is a circle marked by stones and a fire pit in the middle that is a meeting place. There is a hut with a table out front that is a ‘supply store’. There is a row of bicycles, some more battered and twisted than others, and I look at them carefully.

I come in peace, I come in pieces.

Stranger, stranger, become a bard and tell us of distant lands.

But there is nothing to tell about distant lands. There is only sand, and ruins, and those people walking away from me.

So I make something up.
It seems good enough, I can stay for the night.

I trade a battered toy doll with only one eye for a refill of water and a can of some food with the label scraped off. I ask for boots in my size because mine are broken and giving me blisters. They say sorry, don’t have any, and ask me to sleep with a woman with dark red hair and bird thin wrists. Plant a new seed, they ask me.

Don’t they know I’m shrivelled and hollow? There’s another woman and a man I’ve seen who I’d rather sleep with, but I’m a guest here and I say yes.

Rozelle, her name is, and I forget it immediately. It’s safer that way.
I can tell she doesn’t want to sleep with me and I’m still thinking of you so we talk for a while about things I also forget immediately (safer, safer, safer) and then we fall asleep next to each other. She can always tell the others it didn’t take,

It’s common enough.

I wake in the night like a ghost has tapped me on the shoulder. I don’t like it here, can’t remember the last time a body was so close to mine… It was you, wasn’t it? Then it must have been centuries ago.

So in the dark of night when there isn’t even a moon I steal the stallion of the bikes. I have to knock out a sentry to get it, but I don’t **** him, I put him to sleep quietly.

Because I am the villain here.

Maybe that means I should have killed him, but I don’t want to be the villain. Bad is what this life has painted me as, and I don’t want to be that.

Not that it matters because I’m only ever going
                                                                                                             Forward.
So I ride,
Going
                 Going
                                 Going
Gone.

6.
They might follow with pickaxes, but townies don’t like to travel. They have water, they have each other. But still I ride all night and into the rising sun but
Still don’t burn.

Two days I ride and nothing happens but                                         space.

Wait, that’s a lie. I rode past a graveyard for the elephants: huge trucks, hollow, huge trailers, hollow, huge dreams, hollowed out.
hollow                                               hollow                                          hollow

I peddled faster, then, because I don’t like mirrors.

And now the sun has fallen out of the sky and I usually stop before then and find a place to camp but I was caught up in getting past the graveyard and forgot about it.

Now it’s pitch black – no stars anymore – and I’m walking my stolen bike, looking for a dune I can crawl behind and sleep with one eye open, bike tied to my wrist with a bit of rope I found several suns ago.

And then I see the glowing shadow of a fire. I smell cooking meat. This cannot be a good thing. I consider riding on but without giving myself a why I lay down my bike and crawl as silence up a sloping hill so I can spy on the people gathered around the fire.

Apart from my hunting knife my most prized possession are my binoculars. I put them to my eyes like a spy from a Before movie. There are three men and a woman around a sad fire.

A leg is being turned on a spit.

The leg belongs to a middle aged man slumped on the sand. He has no limbs left, and there are ***** bandages on the stumps of his arms, his left leg. The Eaters kept him alive for as long as they could, taking a hand there, an arm here, an ear and some toes there, but now he is dead and they will cook and eat the rest of him. Feast, feast, and starve until they steal another body, another soul.

I turn to go but see something else. A girl
Hogtied and *****, tangled hair.

She’s a scrawny thing but they’ll eat her anyway. I wonder if she knew the man, if he was her father, or a friend. Or just a stranger.

I once ate someone:
She cried and cried and cried and I devoured, devoured, devoured until there was nothing left

But her flesh.

“You’re a cannibal of the heart” she said, still crying.

And I shrugged, because I no longer felt anything (this was before you, of course)

Because this is the book of our lives:
          Read it and don’t weep
There’s not enough water to spare.

And she is another person who is walking away from me.

7.
But I want to be the hero.
I want to be
                 Something someone will remember with a smile
And not with tears, or rage
                Something someone will remember without reaching for a handgun.

8.
It takes a few minutes of planning, and some sneaky footwork. They have weapons but so do I and I have surprise. So I get behind the one with the shotgun by his knee and slice his throat.

Surprise!

Can’t remember much of what happens next but it ends with three bodies on the ground with the man without limbs, a blossom of red on my forearm and a lot of sweat, a lot of kicked up dust.

And the leg on the fire has burnt now.
Ashes to ashes, and so on and so forth.

The kid is looking at me as if her eyes could slice. And who knows, maybe they can – she was certainly born After and no one knows what is possible anymore.

“I’m gonna get this off you, ok?” I say, holding my knife and touching the gag trapping her tongue. She doesn’t move and I slice it off and she still doesn’t move.

“What are you going to do with me?” She asks. And I don’t have an answer.

I didn’t think that far
                                               Ahead.

“Nothing. I’ll scavenge that lot” (I **** a thumb at the bodies behind me and repress a wince as my bleeding arm screams) “and go.”

What she says next is unexpected.
“Can I go with you?”

I look closely. She’s feral and ***** and reminds me of jungle cats from Before. She might jump me in my sleep and leave me for dead, steal my knife and bike and name and ride into a sunset and burn in it.

But I want to be a hero,
I don’

Continue reading...

Marco Dec 2020

Clad in plaid and leather, silver
drenched in blood
fingers gracefully extended
to pull the trigger,
jump the gun -

Back to back,
shoulder to shoulder,
hand-to-hand
combat
with each other, with the reaper

This ménage-à-trois
- brother - brother - Death -
encircled in an endless dance,
scowling like wolves,
gnashing blades like teeth,
growling like gunfire

one stretches his arm
and reaches into Hell
a sharp intake of breath, thick
like demonic blood -
his hand gripping the other one tight

by the shoulder -
handprint burnt into his flesh already
from decades of dance rehearsal,
always dancing, always getting tired -

the two as one
and the Holy Ghost of Death between,
this third, silent party
ever-observing, winding between their bodies,
slick and oily -
cunning Death is a slippery eel.

Cheek to cheek
their tears mingling
as they whisper the steps to each other,
useless reminders of
‘I’m sorry’
‘Goodbye’
‘I love you’
‘I can’t be without-’

and one! Death kicks his leg
a sharp stab to the chest,
the heart underneath slowing to the rhythm
of tango dying in the spotlight…

and two! one brother picks up the speed,
carries his partner through the routine,
an arm
elegantly draped around
a neck,
half-carried, half-dragged through this dance,
each foot-fall heavier than the one before,

and three… the violins stop screeching
their violent delight,
all eyes carefully trained on the dancers,
warm blood trickling between their lips,
barely touching,
hot breath visible in the cold black
surrounding their heads.

Death stares, shrouded in his coat.
The boys disheveled but him untouched,
a joyless grin on his pale lips,
thin brow dusted with
the sweat of exertion,
the fire in their lungs

lights a spark -

four! the violins pick up again
their strings wailing in excitement
as a hand descends from Heaven
the dancers looking up in awe,
lifting their faces to the single spotlight
illuminating their locked fingers,
rigid backs,
cheek to cheek still

and five, spinning them around
the hand makes all the blood undone
and heals their wounds
as Death lurks in the shadows, ready
to attack once more -

again - six, again - seven,
eight, nine!
their ribs broken and breath quivering,
hands still holding tight,
legs outstretched -

slowly kneeling in an embrace of pain…

pleading mouths -
‘Stay-
stay with me’
‘Please’
‘Tell me,
tell-
t-tell me it’s okay-’

But on ten, enter stage left
one who’s danced with Death half
an eternity-
he latches onto one brother,
forearm against forearm,
leaving him marked -

suddenly a new rivalry-
the dynamic changes swiftly now
and one brother, with his fists raised high,
Death wrapped around his torso,
he is poised to pounce -

ready to ****, now,
any second now,
come to Death, spin him ‘round,
lock eyes with the unthinkable-

eleven. And an arm extends -
in the flash of his own blade
Death falls to his knees,
soulless eyes glazed over, staring still,
the dancers fixed in their sight -

He goes down without applause -
the audience is shocked,
the dancers are shocked,
the violins stopped mid-stroke.

Twelve. A moment of silence for the death of Death.

A beat. And another.
The daring of a pumping heart.
Composure, posture, straightening backs,
hand in rough-skinned hand,
an air of grace and defiance
in their footwork,
set to finish this performance.

At thirteen the violins fall into
the final act -
the dancers spin and smile
painfully wide,
the audience screams and cheers,
wring their hands,
whistle like toreros

rousing Death, forgotten on the parquet,
from his curtain fall,
hands reaching, feeling into the warm
spotlight -
the spectators scream in horror,
the brothers, bowing, turn too late -

prelude -

one -

#tango #death #dance #supernatural #winchester

Continue reading...

Rsebd Sep 2018

Dancing in the Dark

Grab my hand and come close,
press your ear to my chest,
wrap your arm around my waist
and let your body fall into mine.

Rhythmic heart beats translate to movement in my feet,
my hips ride the tempo and my soul takes the lead.
We’re tangled in a Tango for lovers.
Your pelvis flush with mine
the heat of passion begins to rise.

You spin your body away in an effort to tease,
in that moment I see what I’ve always wanted;
your fair skin dancing in the moonlight.
Elegantly exposed under the stars.

We’re in tune with our element.
Fancy footwork brings us closer,
you’re wrapped in my arms again.

Sway with me,
let the music caress your spirit.
Exhale and be free. Explode with desire.
Touch your lips to mine
and fall in love with fire.

#dancing #tango #lovers #fire #heat #desire #passion #footwork #tempo #tease

Continue reading...

Erin Triste Mar 2013

intumesce

two steps
hesitant
in the vortex of
complicated footwork
and hormonal teenagers
who knows?
who cares?
I do
You don't
we're spinning head first
into a night
drenched in
cheap cologne and cheesy love songs
****
i love you
so much
that i
rake at the leather
teethe the frayed denim
again and again
like the mangy dogs we are
and it goes on and on
like black holes at noon
or night
whenever really.
who knows?
who cares?
mentally we are dancing
******, nothing.
am i laughing?
i don't know.
screaming?
who knows?
who cares?

not me.

Hm.

Continue reading...

Natasha Jul 2018

The Waltz

Two dancers entangled
Found themselves in flight
Magnets across hips
They collided in the night.

He lifted his hand and
She opposed open palm
Their breaths synchronized,
They shot off arm in arm

Their sways became one
Their footwork a mirror
But while chests warmed with passion,
Their minds became clearer.

Their smiles dissolved,
Though it might be perfection...
Alas they let go–
Each despised their reflection.

#dance #waltz #partners #friends #lovers #love #self #reflection #hate #imagery

Continue reading...

Jake O Apr 2015

Clumsy

Don't come near me
My footwork is off
My hands are unsure
I am clumsy

My words come out wrong
As uncoordinated as my movements
Causing me to hurt those around me
I am graceless

I trip over my own voice
As often as I trip over my own feet
And I collapse onto unsuspecting victims
I am inept

A one small step
Causes a wall to fall
And they clutch their heads in pain
I am awkward

I'm sorry
I can't stop my faults
You should just stand back
I am clumsy

A description of myself that does a small part of me justice

Continue reading...

Barton D Smock Nov 2015

(appetency)

(all titles available on Lulu)

~

from The Blood You Don’t See Is Fake - Sept 2013, 211 pages, 10.00

the recidivist

I can overhear myself relating to an older brother the eerie feeling I had when jogging past an abandoned shoe factory.  I am more nervous than I think I am and can sense brother’s multilayered disappointment in all things prime.  it’s my stutter surprises me the most.  as if it knows, beforehand, things will never be the same.  once a coward, once is enough.  born in a place that feared me.

within hail

     the flashlight works if you shake it.  this tree is the tree you should use.  every other home is broken.  every other window has in it my house arrested father.  the dog run off, the dog come back.  back with a beauty I will bed to babysit my brother.  the crow is empty.  a plaything, a part of the show.  crow can be blindfold, camera.  can censor among other things an exposed breast.  the fence wasn’t here when we got here so it’s not here now.  an uncle says there is a dog only he can hear.  will say anything to get laid.  in all fairness I’ve failed more than once to insert myself into the loneliness of my person.

a country

i.

I approach the dream as if I'm asleep
the answers written on my hand

ii.

I stick out my tongue
at the mid
born

baby

iii.

I raise awareness by praying
you go through
my exact
hell

iv.

I see myself as my son
writing to his father
about deformities

v.

in a crowd of soldiers
my daughter's head
bobs up and down

as if passed around
on a stick

vi.

it takes an army to imagine
only one thing

assistance

from the boy

(on the soon to be
exact
date
our poverty
matures)

this ballpark
statement:

I did not ask to be born.

     he wants the names
of those
I’ve told.

~

from father, footrace, fistfight - June 2014, 177 pages, 10.00

the gentle detail

in the time it took
his daughter
to soap
her brother’s
cradle cap

the man
was able
to lose
an entire hand.

every now
and now
he corrects me
with a puppet.

there is no place
where nothing should be.

lift

my mother steps on a wooden block
with both feet.

stepping off,
she announces
she is going
on a diet.

my father covers his ears
and gets shaving cream
on them.

he turns me in his hands
like a dish towel
then drops me
at the base of the tree.

I transport
god’s blood
on three
disposable
razors

to my neighbor
who

on a high shelf
has a microscope.

deep still

ghost of snake.

an adoration
of atypical
young mother
fear.

mouse needs a toothache.

footwork
heads north.

1998-2014

ideas
are the sickness
health
provides.

thoughts
are two sons
for a jesus
whose fathers

one heavenly, one earthly

never had
to touch
a woman.

the pain is not tremendous.

lo it has kept me
from hurting
my kids.

~

from The Women You Take From Your Brother - Aug 2014, 351 pages, 18.00

joy and joy alone

I broke the boy on my knee because I needed a switch. we ran around an empty crib. I let him catch a breath and he let me kneel. we tiptoed in a manner of mocking past private make-up to which his mother had been softly applied. he drank tea from an eggshell and I declined. I swatted him to let him know I was dying. his bent sister fell asleep and the boy was kind enough to believe her hair was a nightgown. I swatted him again to let him know I would live. the tea was gone. the rest is sadness.

being

a man my mother knows
only in passing
is reading a library book
in the dugout
of his dead
child’s
home
field
while his wife
rounds the bases
pushing
a stray dog
in a grocery cart.

at the dinner table
father says
we’re fasting
in a world
of spirits.

~

from Misreckon - Dec 2014, 115 pages, 9.00

clear heads

while smoking a cigar in the shadow of a nervous minotaur, my father wrote the book on moral isolation. in it, he predicted there would be a television show about hoarders and that it would turn god into a sign from god. my mother read the book cover to cover during her fourth and fastest delivery. if there were edits, she kept them to herself and put his name beside hers on seasonally produced slim volumes of absolute shyness.

untitled (ii)

afraid of my sons, I was born scared.  to my friend of few words I say

a few
words

on how a newborn looks like an undiscovered

fish
fresh
from ghosting
the underfunded
aquariums
of rapes

that occur.  at some point
I’ll tell my daughter

we’ve met.  my father

when he comes
comes

from another
dimension
to bear hug
our dinner guest
who’s arrived
in a mirror.

mother puts a gun to her foot.

end psalm

god had an earache and I heard thunder. I learned to shrink into the smallness of my brain. I associated money with my father’s funny bone. my mother with the dual church of hide and seek. I went on to have a son with special needs. he cried once. cried milk.

~

from Eating the Animal Back to Life - July 2015, 316 pages, 10.00

off night

when what we thought
had entered
our father
left

we used him
as an alarm

god is coming
and mom
is vacuuming
stones

neglect

it didn’t take long for the frog to become real to those around me. some would bring it back and pat me on the head and some would laugh when I told them it’d never tried to hop away before. some would say it was the frog that was depressed and some would pray for the frog I was lucky to have. when it began to speak, I told myself that’s just how frogs talk. god came to me sooner than most. mom joked that he must’ve known I had a frog to get back to. my sister maintains to this day she had no intention of eating the frog as she was only trying to impress the snake her eyes were made for. by the time I woke her up, her hunger had ballooned and she leapt at me the odd leap of grief.

contact high

it gets so you can’t throw a rock without having a baby. not all of us talk this way but you have to hand something to the ones that do. I’ve seen voodoo dolls with more personality. had my mother’s god been my father’s, I would’ve gone blind from staring at my birth.

themes for country

I am at the truck
getting ice cream
for the overly
nostalgic
girl
who refused
to cut through
the cemetery

~

from Drone & Chickenhouse - Oct 2015, 84 pages, 6.00

chaos

brother drinks water enough to shock the devil. on the inside, he’s all doll. I shake him for show might our sisters travel in pairs. I used to talk but had to close my mouth when the soft spot on his head kept my mother from her toes. it’s the second stone that really lands.

deep scene

speech itself is a failed translation

dreaming is a farm

a mother
makes it as far
as mailbox

bear
to fish
there’s water
in the water

is, today’s mousetrap
tomorrow’s

shoe

language

word gets around
the schoolyard
pretty quick
that my father
drove his body
off a cliff
so god
would have a nail
hot enough
to touch.

I have a tooth
can make it
snow.

Continue reading...

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jun 2014

Rhymes of Football

Net to net rolls the ball
with the feet fast they scroll
the kicks find the bar too small
too hard to score a goal!

Sweats it out the forward
saves it tough the one at back
like a fort he must guard
not allow a crack!

On the grass no guide or map
rely on footwork skill
pierce the defense find the gap
go for the lethal ****!

The ball if once finds the net
stop breath a million soul
mourns the side in sealed fate
the air is rend with GOAL!!!!

World Cup Football 2014: a forethought.

Continue reading...

Barton D Smock Aug 2016

{otic}

/ my newest self-published collection of poems, [depictions of reentry], is available now on Lulu.

will send for free a hard copy to anyone interested in writing a review – make request to bartonsmock@yahoo.com

book preview on site is book entire

some poems from it:

[liftoff]

the scarecrow loving puppet put a pop gun to the head of the soundman’s lamb.

-

my last meal
was my mother’s
voice.

~

[attic radio]

the fattest baby in the nursing home can’t chew with its eyes open.

it’s a slow day.

looking into the future
a skeleton’s
dog
sees only
sticks.

lightning
marks
the robot’s
church.

~

[meditations on depth]

the mouth
of the thing
that eats
in fog
a doll’s
head

-

the holy spirit
high
on the bricklayer’s
toothache

-

a cat person
at death’s
door

-

poverty

a belonging
moved
by many
mirrors

~

[seeing]

bored as a slaughterhouse

crow / angel

on a skateboard

~

[depictions of reentry (xxi)]

the barn
bat
with the eyes
of a diver’s
shadow…

the dads were all digging
the nudes
were thinking
small

every chair
an electric
chair

in daylight, that motherless grief

~~

/ my first non self-published chapbook, [infant cinema], is available from **** Press.

I currently have three signed copies available for free- make request to bartonsmock@yahoo.com

excerpt, here:

my child. my diver who wets the bed. my worrier who rescues domestic scenes for animals accused of gaslighting. my swimmer. bather of grasshoppers. my lovely bird alone in an airplane.

~

two things to do on an empty stomach are:

hold a séance.

follow the spider’s trail of abandoned birthmarks.

~

in the video, the young woman is being force-fed cake by a man with a ruined tongue. my mother can’t eat and watch at the same time. your mother is holding me and wondering what happened to this thing. our fathers are veering into the realm of film criticism. where you are depends wholly on my sister’s makeup. god’s parents have no concept of time.

~~

/ also, ending tomorrow, is the goodreads giveaway for my self-published thing, [FOUR], which includes four recent titles of mine in full along with some newer poems.

some poems from it:

[the many]

as an uncle
can enter
any garage
and sense
the absence
of a nailgun
so
can a holy man
prepare
a meal
in the missing
church

~

[purlieu]

a bruise, a school

of fish.  a caterpillar

crossing

the floor
of hell.  a thought

sick
to a son’s
stomach, a winter

glove
in spider’s
nightmare.

~

[mouthings]

a brother
dodges
suicide
with a piece
of paper
that doesn’t
work. a mother’s
blood

goes white
at the ink
of amnesia.

bus stop, breastmilk
there was

no me.

at what would god
not
be caught
dead? speaking

is how we talk
to the words
we say.

~

[stratum]

two brothers come to blows over which sister likes fast food more.  a man we want to love is shadowboxing a snowdrift from the parable of touch.  blood is a food group.  I pray to my hair.  call my footwork by name.  take my time

with amnesia.

baby facts include being born again in the museum you were carried to.

Continue reading...

Tshepo mashiane Jul 2019

merc

No matter how strong you are one cannot simply out-muscle or out-shine a mad man who has great taste in fashion.
A.M.G. Is the ultimate hooligan it doesn't have to take charge to prove it's tenacity because it's a presidential sedan that puts you in charge.
No need for a spooky entrance because sometimes demons want to dwell were there is brute force.
I miss the 6.2 litre engine, it is the intrinsic Moto of Mercedes," A big engine for the perfect gentlemen".
Cruising luxuriously has no peak when it comes to un-doubtable comfort and well established elegance.  With a classic loud noise one can't but wonder if the barbarian needs marketing.
An angry gentlemen with a smile on his face that never lacks in pace doesn't need frenetic footwork, the gentlemen goes straight to the point  and why wobble on about a winding route when Mercedes automatically includes you in elite circles. Quality that exceeds all levels of maturity, Mercedes keeps getting younger and wiser!
The phrase "numbers don't lie" insinuates that alphabets do lie. Really? How? When their associated with such class...A-class, B-class, C-class, E-class, G-class, S-class and so on. I think the numbers cliche is a turn-off.
Pleasure always mixes with business when it comes to a Benz.

#muscle #luxury

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Alexander Albrecht Jan 2016

Unanimous Decision

You can have the right gameplan
You can win all the rounds
But you still need your chin tucked
Until the final bell sounds

See,
My footwork was perfect
I'd slip in, jab, slip out
And I avoided the takedowns
For most of the bout

The final stanza opened
He came out slingin' leather
So I stuck to the outside
I've been taught to know better

I should've pushed for the finish
But I thought I'd play it safe
When I woke up after the fifth
Coach asked if I knew my name

I told him, "what happened?"
I asked him, "I'm fine."
The cage was still spinning
And I couldn't clear my mind

"You got caught, kid
But it could be much worse
You could be leavin' Las Vegas
In the back of a hearse."

I felt so disappointed
Like I let everyone down
My trainers, my family
And everyone in my hometown

Then he smiled at me
"But you were saved by the bell!
Running on instincts alone
You made it through Hell."

The fog began to roll back
I could make out the cheers
I guess hard work and dedication
Paid off through the years

So just remember this story
The next time you're in doubt
You may find yourself down
But never count yourself out

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Windsor I Guadalupe Jr Dec 2015

Passing On As Answers

they took you now, contraptions no longer. there is a palpable quiet

      in the home. o lattice,
o vase of concrete, o smolder of onion
and the grave death of sugar;

the splintered staircase creaks
on no footwork and to go back to
cerements of this ceremonious banishment of shadow peals through
  gates opening to blue depths.

tonight, the room is as haunting
as old pangs. gnash the light of
moon past mud and linoleumed floor.
cross out my eyes and empty the
visage of their macabre.

   going back to tractable beginnings
as the bell tolls for no one:

  i stagger and startle the cornerless
  shadow, waking the orchestra of
  dogs to fracture the stillness

  like how drunken men curse at
  wives and throw vases against
  roses tossed to the dead.

  flesh warms no longer.
  garlands overwrought
  with serpents.

  glimmers of stone as dead
  as petrified oak.

  streets begin to narrow
  as light starts to pass on
  as answers.
  we make no sound.

Rest in peace, Grandma Doring.

#poem #poetry #death

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Joanna Oz Sep 2014

retracing the cycle

rigid steel creaking,
squeaking to announce
it's monumental motion,
defying once static devotion
hear ye! hear ye!
the rusted machine is
jolting back to life
like clockwork, completing
patterns encoded by
calloused fingertips, pressing,
pushing, prodding, pleading with
stiff, achey keys to
punch
the storyline
back
into
place.

naive program under illusion
of sentient choice,
springs open arms
to rejoice the repeated reinforcement
of recurrent information,
fed & regurgitated & re-ingested to be fermented
in crystalline form of mind,
tinkered into alignment
by sinister hands with crude cracks,
leaking oil.

discordant dance of metal,
twirling tango
wrought with perilous footwork
to outline the model of assumed complexity
that shrouds the simple harmony
of one-two one-two -
one step after the other, followed by another
steady rhythm of cause & effect.
go head, neglect, or reject, only to
crawl back in reflection to beg for
one more turn round the ferris wheel,
to glimpse the heights of insanity
that reach ultimate clarity
of infinite perspectives unfolding,
one into another, projected onto lovers
and strangers - all alike.

add your rambling writing
of realizations, remembrances, & rehearsals
onto my hard drive,
I want to reiterate - I am learning slowly.
rereading &
restructuring pages
of this minute history.
maybe one day I'll recall
that practice
precedes progress.

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betterdays Oct 2014

how....and why....(joe cole prompt)

the length of the write....
varies with the vagaries
of the topic and  type.

the time taken,
is often time....
forsaken,
forgotten,
forgiven.
a pause,
a rest.
stolen,
from a busy life.

the inspiration,
the notion,
the intonation.
sometimes,
a slow burn....
sometimes
a conflaguration

for me,
there is no formula.
no ritua.
just a pen
and a scrap of paper.

for me,
it is a brain,
just letting go,
giving up....
word flow

flotsam and jetsam
driftin along,
caught in the framework
of  creative phenom....
and given to me,
as i wander along.

thats why
punctuation,
does not figure.
just workin,
the beauty of
the words.

stitchin rhymes with
non, appros, de rigueur.

making words dance
on sprained syllable ligaments.
******* with thoughtful
ligatures.
spread with inspirational
linaments.

not needing,
the lime light.
but wanting some
bright candle work,
for to illuminate,
the process of the precepts,
to the multitudinal few...
who see through...
the intricate footwork,
to the stumbling
fatigue underneath....

sometimes long
and wordy,
sometimes succinct
and brief

but always, always,
with purpose...

sometimes mine
but often left
up  to you...

the reader.

thats how i do.....

the why.....well ...
thats a deeper story....
best left for another day
thanks for reading
now....on your way!

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Blackenedfigs Jul 2020

I wanted to learn how to two-step.

We embrace;
I ask myself if I’m making a mistake
How can everything fit together so perfectly
Yet keep coming apart at the seams simultaneously?

You want me
So just say it.
This dance of “what if’s” that we keep practicing
Is not making either of us
Any better at our footwork.

#heartbreak #love #unrequitedlove #relationships #*** #breakup #lovers #heartbroken #ex #inlove

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John-Paul Richard Mar 2018

3:17am on my way to the bathroom

I’ve always been told that I have a nice nose,
So Andrew’s kind words graced my back
As the rays of light from the sun
Those rays so warming, free me each morning from the

Quivering fingers inside your throat choking
Moist clammy tongue caressing your neck
Tearing your toes apart
That Priest darkness always gifts

Sweetly, softly, kindly
From behind,
To me

In my own
Quickening of heart shaking of limbs screaming silenced search of eyes

Ive overlooked one thing

The silly sleepy fluffy tail of my best friend
And my folly in footwork leaves him whimpering
And me begging forgiveness prostrated

#morning #mistake #fear #scared #dog #stumble #tired #rising #night

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Amanda Apr 2018

2,190 Miles

A thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail
takes at least five months.
In five months:
a fetus is the size of a papaya,
a small home has been fully renovated,
2,450 dollars in rent is paid if you live with three people,
Swahili has been learned incompletely,
the grief of a dead high school teacher is finished,
a person sinks in, gets comfortable,
the planet has turned its back,
Loestrin has travelled out of the system—
who’s to say it’s not just like the Appalachian.

I’d like to make a rope out of my hair
tie it from Georgia to Maine
sail a two-pound apology all the way down
to make up for the places my body will never make it
because five months of footwork
is too long to stop nurturing a life
that is not worth living anyway
but this way
I don’t have to lose.

#appalachiantrail #life #time

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Barton D Smock Jan 2016

stratum

two brothers come to blows over which sister likes fast food more. a man we want to love is shadowboxing a snowdrift from the parable of touch. blood is a food group. I pray to my hair. call my footwork by name. take my time

with amnesia.

baby facts include being born again in the museum you were carried to.

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Averella Gaelstrom Dec 2017

Heartbeat

Slow. Steady. Rhythmic.
The dull thud beats in time with the sway and cantor of the melody. Glide across the hall, dip down to the banister.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
Even and calm, lost in the frequency, wandering amidst the pitch. Fanciful footwork frames the floor with twisting steps and intricate detail.
Shrouded in fireflies and dandelion dust that drifts on the lazy current of the song, drowsing through notes and harmonies in a trance of ballroom dance.
Rise up.
Build into a waltz of throbbing desire. Whirl in the stars and flit past treetops. Even and clean, again and again and again.
Search the woods with craving eyes and fixate a longing gaze on the shadows of the mountains. The horizon will bleed into the treeline as melancholy keys and jubilant echos bring a cobalt stare reeling round and round the surface of the planet.
Press out each measure with deliberate punctuation.
Step hard, flit away, step firm, pull in, step true, twirl out, step in, dip low.
The march of feet in sync resonating through soul and mind: rhythm, measure, beat.
Soar.
Rush the pace into a frenzied tango. Alight a tender foot on the raindrops and fly into the moonlight as the throbbing repetition drives the dance onward.
Hear the wail of the drums in the atmosphere; they cry out in agony, ever increasing intensity. Pound out the steps over and over, numb to the world.
Bring the reckless mind crashing down upon the orchestra pit. Flood heart and soul with sheets of music dripping with pen strokes of madness and ingenuity.
Heaving, writhing, panting, burning, pounding, crashing, yearning heart be free.
You stop short, gasping for breath, ears peaked by a new sound. Another beat. You swipe the wild strands of hair from your eyes and find yourself a butterfly’s breath away from a brand new heartbeat. His sandpaper skin brushes your fingertips, chocolate eyes melting into your dance. You twirl out, he catches your milky wrist and dips you into his lullaby. Spinning in, two songs forge into one as pounding fades to throbbing. The voice of the lark rises in your throat, a jade sky splits the earth in two, and you fly away. Dancing to the rhythm of your heartbeats.

#dance #music #love #passion #heart #free #spirit #light #beauty #picturesque

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