"fumbles" poems
the angel amongst us
~for Alexander, master splasher~
*flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns
~•~
the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both
two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression
the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?
this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!
little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future
the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer
the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing
but he measures the degree of difference at this
intersection
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity
“time to go”
the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,
as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics
"no go now,
now go later^"
though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs
one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself*
that is the angle amongst us
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
slipping in her wet painted petal
bitten by the sting of his bee
her first time, he fumbles being gentle
excitement dancing in his driving need
instinctively possessed
arcing her hips experimentally
his maleness sweetly carressed
teasing his need, tremendously
each submersion in her sweetness
peaking waves swelling in her breast
entwining rhythmic explosiveness
pulsating gush, plunging over the crest
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
315
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on—
He stuns you by degrees—
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers—further heard—
Then nearer—Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten—
Your Brain—to bubble Cool—
Deals—One—imperial—Thunderbolt—
That scalps your naked Soul—
When Winds take Forests in the Paws—
The Universe—is still—
10.6k
An abstract gait
Surrounded by coils of binary and luminescence.
Suave, purple suits clasping to morphed skin.
Electrical vibes, transistors atomically sized.
Brain dives, the concept of thought diluted.
She can only wish it was palpable.
In a mirror mirage,
Static fumbles,
Repos the limelight.
Cyberpunk gen, neo-noir,
A relevant memento.
Deciphering the metaphysical is
Unattainable.
***** it all,
Maneuver the landscape.
Might as well enjoy the sights
In the nick of a quivering snap.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
your body, the drain plug,
that climactic days of a day
murky sweet strawberry milk water
ebbs and sways
around, surrounds, and surmounts you
Your body the dumping ground
for pretty poppy seeds
seep, steep
seeded somewhere deep
as
synthetic stinging metaphor rain
pours on your mistreated singing skin
spotted, dotted, synaptic rule
akin to lemon poppy seed muffin tops
your head- a top
spins round
and mimics
never-ending bath drain whirlpool
ambulances and ambivalences soundtrack
this nocturne
night of a morning
mourning already
my poor lost sister
a little less than intact
lost in her head
I'm loosing her
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she nods
and grumbles,
fumbles for words that aren't there
four words that aren't there
forward isn't there
because what do you say
about matters
when your high
and breathing last breaths overlapping
in humble showers
in heart crumbling nakedness
your faithlessness trapping
murky sweet strawberry milk waters.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
The beautiful mane that was her hair,
Fell graciously on her shoulders,
A pang of envy creeps in,
Am not blind to eye catching things.
My hand flows to my own mane,
And all I find is a poorly growing one,
It doesn’t help that it is ***** brown,
And hers is shiny black.
I wonder what she ate that I didn’t,
For her to have surprisingly beautiful feminine hair,
Contemplating,
I nearly miss the scuffle…
As it turns out,
Other **** sapiens are watching her,
Jealously I must add,
After all, I am not alone!
As if sensing our gawking looks,
She turns her head, this, and that way,
And in that moment of gratification,
The mane that was her hair falls off.
Stunned, I fall down with it,
As I hit my behind on the concrete floor,
I look for spots of blood,
But soon, a hand picks it up,
Alas, it is her hand!
She should be dead because her head,
Was cut off in a jealousy fit,
By a non-forgiving female.
Then it hits me,
It wasn’t her mane after all,
But a wig of sorts,
That is why she resembled Beyoncé,
Or was it Rihanna,
She fumbles to replace her godly look,
But now, I can breathe,
I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t,
It must have been because I realized,
The same ***** brown uncombed short hair,
That graced her clearly ashamed head,
I am not alone after all!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
She bolts awake from nightmare’s fear
Her mind fumbles for the mask
Its visage calm, gaze cool and clear
Once in place no one will ask
Exhausted from her restless night
Escape routes all slammed shut
The knots already pulling tight
Deep down inside her gut
The enemy stand at their station
They circle round her bed
Anticipating her annihilation
The demons in her head
Her feet are not yet on the floor
But the battle has begun
Another endless day of war
She must fight, she cannot run
She glances quickly in the glass
Haunted eyes she cannot meet
The enemy charge takes the pass
Her soul in forced retreat
The mask will serve her well today
Its rigid smile conceals
The terror barely held at bay
The torment that she feels
She plants her banner on the mound
Though hopelessness holds sway
She grits her teeth and holds her ground
But the ******** make her pay
All day the battle rages on
But the mask remains in place
Though at her feet hell’s chasms yawn
The world sees not a trace
The conflict ebbs, her shoulders slump
No victory is claimed
She turns for home, trailing blood
Count her among the maimed
Return to camp yields no respite
Command’s duties have no end
Cares for her troops into the night
Strength's last measure she will spend
All her charges now in bed
Mask in hidden place she keeps
In resignation bows her head
And midst the dark, in silence weeps
Now when the camp lies silent
In night’s hush no pennant streams
She braces for coming violence
And girds for bloodshed in her dreams
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
i detoxed myself under this pale sun
(you stood by and watched the
unfolding saga all the while
questioning the meaning of zen)
the original concept was lost
somewhere along the way
when i dropped the ball
on the forty yard line
(can you recover your own fumbles?)
every time i stand by,
the waiting is eternal
and i become engrossed
in the uselessness of my position,
pondering
(my love for this is a game of solitaire)
i am the ultimate in
irrational action,
a demagogue of dark
pathways and religious
zealotry, trapped beneath
glass floors watching,
trying desperately to
cannibalize my fingers.
i have smoked your toenails
and wandered away listless
at comments unbecoming
and salivated on the fires
set to displace my vessels
(i have seen you ignoring me)
in the coming months i will
rend my eyes and pierce
my skull artificially
so you will be able
to see into my soul and
destroy me more efficiently
(you will know me by the number of the dead)
i will search deep and
long inside this shadow's
shell, extracting this cancer
so i can cook up my
shortcomings and inject
them into a Ken doll
because then at least
i will be pretty.
i will feed my
chilled oatmeal to a
Cantonese family
that will honor me
as the ***** poo-flinger
i am for you.
i will cease to exist
on a plane with your
type, sinking lower
on scale like a rock in
the Mississippi River.
Mom, when i stop
growing up, i will
be the ****** loser
everyone always
thought i would
(aren't you proud?)
(isn't he cute?)
i cannot imagine
surviving your intern camp
after the tattooing of arms,
we will eat the testicles of the
fallen gods and dispense
great suffering on the weak
because of our enlightened
prospects and redemptions
(what do you know about pain?)
i will place my severed head
in a place of prominence, likely
in your bed, right before
i cease to breathe
my eyelids weaken....
flicker, flutter....
i grow tired with the
advent of your indecision,
the totality of abandonment
the lenses fog, fade...
flicker, flutter...
i have run out of things to sacrifice
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
in the east
a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer
his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer.
he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos
a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended.
his bonds, repaired.
in the west -
a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house -
to a furnace of blank stares.
it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for.
it leads to a breach.
weary of " who knows ? "
a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood.
it rankles the vision...
it plots despair.
in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There -
we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly...
and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair
we vanquish any Southland
and the warm sun
frosts a glass eye
like pyrite.
and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
"I got kissed once," she mumbles,
sitting outside the local Sonic,
between her fingers a corndog fumbles,
mixing her slushy with beer and tonic.
The not-so-neon sign of the dive
flickers like a flashlight there;
the activity isn't alive,
its fundamental force impaired.
"I remember it vaguely," she groans,
the seat of her car squeaking,
"The times were full of gasps and moans,
my memories are fleeting."
Many things happen at night
while others are asleep.
Under the not-so-neon light,
the stillness made her weep.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
Im home alone again,that's fine
Drinking Ethiopian wine
Wishing you were here with me
A you that wished to be with thee
you without any troubles
Me with my unsightly fumbles
Is it the wine that keeps us apart?
Is that the line which separates ones heart?
I lit a cigarette just now
Wonderring if my words are foul
Are they of a dream come true?
Or might they just be of you ?
A you that may not exsist
To which I am constantly betwixt
Who are you?
And will I ever know
This love of mine
That fails to show
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
It's about to be 3am
And you swear you can hear
Your neighbor thrashing
Inside herself
Through the loud bass
Of her sad music.
You've just seen her earlier
Disappearing into her laptop screen
Before you knocked on her door
And she comes out
Greeting you
Before she can even realize
That she's back inside herself
And not lost somewhere
Between the lines of words
That have lives of their own,
Feeding off of her
Until she's no more.
You tell her about the bill
And she fumbles to open the screen
To hear you clearly
Because she forgets she's still here
And she has a neighbor
She shares a water meter with.
She takes the paper off your hands
Reads it and gets some money
And hands you the payment.
You're not sure if she said thank you
Cause she spoke but you didn't hear any words
So you retreat back to your unit
And forget all about her
Until you wake up in the middle of the night
And hear all the words
Her thoughts are screaming out
And you think of all the times you thought
You've seen your neighbor.
Mar 24, 2022
Mar 24, 2022 at 3:30 PM UTC
She may walk through crowds
unseen
An advantage of her age
poking through products
at her own distracted speed
Feeling fruit or sniffing soap
Reading labels
fine print through two pair of glasses
turning slightly
hoping no one sees...
how gone it's getting....
She may lean on cart at check-out
just shy of your usual...
Old
who ask for double bags
Nope, she will not slow the line that way
Remembering work
assesses pain
shifting weight to other leg
to spare an aching knee
Not one for counting desperate change
Not arguing every item on receipt
Not fumbling coupons
nor writing checks
...will not slow the line...
reluctant to let go of youth
Remembering exhaustion's day
she will not slow the line that way--
Fiddles with smart phone
(Yes, she knows how!)
to pass the time
She fumbles through her purse--
God only knows
what “old folks” look for
Probably glasses, tissues, gum,
or
"Where the hell's my keys!"
Stopping by a news rack
on the way out
Is she waiting for a cab?
Who cares!
Outta way, she stops to read
The New York Times, WaPo, Journal
Thee chapters of a novel
Outside their pay-walls
The mind beneath the woolen cap
is at it
grazing once again, for free
Where she often likes to feed--
her curiosity
No one sees her watching
from the inside out
and the corner of her eye
But what to do about that cat litter?
or ½ and ½
on highest shelves?
she simply cannot reach....
Always some tall good-lookin' guy around
to flatter
his size
looking for dog kibble, “big game snacks” or beer
She plays
the old lady card so well
...and somehow
gets what she needs
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
I’d like to think there’s nothing wrong with me
but every time I look in the mirror,
a mess is all I see.
Who is this girl with curly black hair
that runs down her shoulders like angry waterfall
suffocating her every night as she sleeps alone
but to be honest, there’s not much difference
when they were your hands around her instead.
Who is this girl with coal-like irises
that thinks she’s already dead, that her soul ran away
just a ghost in a body not knowing exactly what to do
quietly roaming around this deceitful city
but they are honest and they see, the monster in you.
Who is this girl with light, bleeding, soft lips
fumbles nervously around everyone she knew
tripping over her own words, about you
struggling to align her messy mind
because it’s always havoc at the thought of you.
Who is this girl who pulls sleeves over her fingers
a constant lie of “I’m fine” to whenever anyone ask her
they try to make her out, another sad girl with cuts over you
but no, not this girl, she is sad with bruises that can’t be seen
bruises that blend well with her porcelain skin.
I am that girl, one who sees perfection in everyone but herself
no matter what anyone tells her, it won’t be enough
I can never have enough of something good
because everything that comes with it,
requires a high price of sanity to pay.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
She counts down from a hundred to one,
Clutching her love like a crutch.
He fumbles,
Hunting for his hunger.
They blot out doubt
And muster up their trust
"I'm fine" she cries,
As a child dies.
He learns,
He spits in her gritted eyes.
She reminds him that they're dying,
Burning while they turn
Spinning in his sheets
Struggling to breathe
Smuggling their dreams
In apologetic sweat
And ***** epithets
The infant actors beg for ******
Whispering the wishes that are listed in the script
Quoting moans that catch on choking throats
Pleading for release
Reading of futility
And mutual defeat
Delivering a finish
In pillowed soliloquys
Adolescent in the stillness
Adolescent in the heat
Adolescent in the promise
Adolescent in belief
She stutters love in ****** butterflies
On his rasping chest
As he gasps for breath.
She grasps at death,
While he grabs a cigarette.
Cast away in brackish blanket seas
They wrap themselves in fallacies
And laugh at their realities:
The cult of love belongs to Morpheus
And adulthood is an orphanage
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
Every morning start, I awaken
Ready for the full day unshaken,
That is until my tummy rumbles,
Desperate for food my hand fumbles,
For the keys to my car to go,
Forth to work, one thing I know,
There is something I want,
Making this feel like a jaunt,
Once there rushing in through,
Looking for something to dig into,
Finding my favorite delight,
My mouth full, gone is my plight,
Thanks to you that is,
Since you bring my taste buds bliss,
You keep my hunger at bay,
Make my willpower to diet sway,
You give me reasons to expect,
So many options to elect,
From neat sweet treats,
Sandwiches made of whole wheat’s,
To fresh select eats in my dinette,
When there is none I fret,
Awaiting you so I can berate,
About all the things I could've ate,
Ask me reasons, I don't know why,
As I wrote this I let out a sigh,
Thought I'd speak my mind,
In spite of the daily grind,
This is my ode to you, vendor man,
In me you have your greatest fan!
© okpoet
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
it's an old tale around town
that if you pierce the ground
with a needle just right
all the spirits will escape
no one really believes it
but the lore's dramatic flare gives a sense of community
at the bus stop stand
twelve children with clay faces
day and night they stare straight ahead
and mumble the same word
over and over
Time passes by,
back bent and wretched
the dead grace of fallen kings
and eventually
the clay breaks,
the heads roll
a visiting CEO
stands to make a speech
but finds an emptiness
clawing at her throat
the clay breaks,
the silent tears
of the heart of a brooding teen
end their tenancy
and return to the ocean
a nightshift manager
swipes their card, closes the barbed gates,
fumbles rolling a cigarette
and draws in a sigh,
but the breath refuses to escape
the clay breaks,
a bluebird sings
but cannot recall the melody
petals clog the gutter
but the branches have long withered
people meet up and gather
to try to quell the empty pressure
they stand to chant the childrens' lost word
but everyone remembers it differently
time passes
routine remains
but there are waves in the waterways
and sometimes people on the surface streets
find themselves lost in the tide
time passes,
the dirt city convulses
under its silent weight
we gather a needle
and pierce the ground,
but nothing happens
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
Full of cliches,
My words are trapped---twisted
Around and under thick slabbed
Tongue that fumbles
Unconvinced of its syllables.
Smokethoughts cling
Sullen to enamel backs,
Graveyard angels
That smirk at those heavy
Tombstones;
Monument to language’s death.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
The game was on again on Friday
We've been players in the game
Sometimes we were the winners
And others...hey, it's just a game!
The players have all lined up
there are five out on the field
Let's see if someone scores tonight
And which one of them will yield
Three guys lined up and facing
Two women opposing them
All were ready, set to go
Let's get started then
White sweater, jeans
The first to move
It looks like we'll see a pass
But, from here his jeans are baggy
5 yard loss for baggy ***
The women laughed and smiled
They were on defence right from the start
The guys would have to send their best
If they were gonna win their hearts
Red workshirt, chinos, ballcap
Makes his way and gets quite far
He's armed with two tequilas
He doesn't see their longnecks on the bar
They laughed and drank his offer
He made some progress
second down
He makes off to his buddies
It's left up to their friend in brown
He ventures out to the jukebox
Finds something upbeat
for a dance
But chino's turned right on his heels
He's called an audible....second chance
He reaches out to both the girls
He gets their before his friend
If he fumbles this, his game is done
He won't be here at the end
We've seen this game a thousand times
Every week at every club
The players..always different
But the game's the same and there's the rub
Back to our five players
The man in brown got blocked before
He even made it to the girls
But, he barely made it to the floor
Red workshop wins this time folks
It looks like he won't go home alone
But, the girls have got another play
and it involves phoning home
The sudden ring's resounding
It shakes the bar and stops the man
Because while they were out dancing
He saw the rings on both their hands
Like I said, the game is always
going on ...with newer rules
It's amazing how married women
Make the men all look like fools
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
There's something ecstatic
With the way you dribble your lips,
********** the silken corners of your teeth
Like a mirage of flickering sunbeams
Radiating from the foliage
Of two crimson river beds.
As your hand fumbles
Through your velvet hair
A mercurial hide explodes
Like a figment of the universe
Gateway to the distant worlds
Of wonders left unknown.
Those hazel pair of astral orbs
The origin of stars
Stare through and true
Piercing me without blades
Burning my body petrified
In an ephemeral ecstasy.
My soul flutters with the hymn
Of the fiddling zephyr
That strums to the beat of my heart
A pounce to my seething core
Emancipating a salvo of sensations
To an ethereal phantasm.
A dream that it never was
An episodic tale of this eclectic void
Of twisted reality
That snatches me to the depths
Of my wildest fabrications
A state of lucid insanity.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
Girl down the way
Carrying large brown-bagged bottles of liquor,
Nectar to the saddest poets who
Consume,
Consume,
Consume,
In order to consort with the sordid, dichotomous entities,
Enticing visions of vicious enemies
Crouching, kneeling, fighting, feeling,
Fleeing at their visage-
Does she get the message?
One more night of drinking alone.
Calls a far-off friend,
Sad and ******
She asks with a tragic shake in her voice,
“Where did I go wrong?”
In a New York loft she
Groans,
Sighs,
Fumbles over words
That might not mean a thing.
Emily finally declares,
“You are more,
So much more,
So much undeniably more to this world
Than the blood in your veins,
Than the letters in your name,
But the facts remain;
Sometimes you are in love,
But sometimes,
You are never the same.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
He fumbles with the **** and clicks the door half-open,
blinking silently at us as we pile out of the van,
his owlish eyes peering.
He struggles to find words after so many long days--
good words for his grand-nephews,
words of strength for his grand-nieces--
and Chinese words stumble out.
He stands silent for seconds,
halted in the midst of a sentence,
searching for the English.
So we try to fill the still house with life and noise.
It is grey and large, with blank, staring windows and empty beds.
Our laughter does not echo well in its long hallways,
muted by the weightless, suspended air.
We eat at the kitchen table, and I watch him.
He seems so strong sitting there,
deceptively powerful,
corded arm muscles and heavily veined hands
and silver hair, carefully combed
in a wave that was dashing forty years ago.
Then he stirs,
stands and shuffles slowly to the sink.
The illusion of strength falls away.
He is a worn old man--
tired and sad.
Quietly I wait behind him as he washes his hands,
then pauses, confused,
wrinkled eyes
querulous and vague,
and slowly washes them again.
The rhythmic movements of his once sure fingers
rub in an unchanging pattern
from when he was young.
I remember many years ago,
--when I was even younger than now--
I remember him looking at me,
I remember seeing my dark and warped reflection in his wise, laughing eyes.
I thought surely he was the most dignified of men:
alive and slow and gentle,
quietly commanding respect,
his amiable face in permanent creases
from too much kind smiling.
Now those wrinkles have faded.
The faint lines no longer trace across his face,
and his house is quiet.
My great-uncle is alone.
Alone
with the countless photos of her.
They are fading slowly in the streaming sunlight--
together.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
A striped field on the screen.
Late Sunday afternoon--
preaching your adored game.
The tackles, the tight end, the safety,
the touchdowns, the fumbles and field goals.
All your precious babble
into my ear--then gone.
Burly-beef-boys charging
are not in any way my motive.
Your urgent concern to inform of
the game I'll never know.
Terminology spat,
your message lost in clouds.
My eyes are attentively listening,
but only to your charming presence.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
I can write wonderful words of eloquence
Describing in detailed elegance
the pictures in my mind.
But when it comes to speaking aloud,
Especially in front of the smallest crowd
There are no words to find.
That's why I pick up my pen to write,
To let all of my dreams take flight
And go explore the worlds.
Then perhaps while they explore
They'll listen to my heart as it implores,
"Find me that perfect girl."
Off soar my dreams with the stroke of the pen
To search for the girl that my heart seeks within
To find only a broken blue heart.
So they search for and gather some of the pieces,
For the ones they can't find, their sorrow increases
Their eloquence falling apart.
With what small courage I had, my heart tries to speak
But it fumbles and falls, and feels like a freak
Our weakness fully revealed
Yet touching my heart, she helps it to stand
My own broken pieces enclosed in her hand
And nothing left to conceal.
The rest, you could say, will be history
But 'til then it will stay a mystery
I can't wait to be told
For now my dreams are straining more,
While I just sit here waiting for
My story to unfold.
1/30/16 12:01am
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 12:02 AM UTC