"gaits" poems
*Brittle dry earth beaming with longing,
For wet kisses from heavy heavens' door,
In soothing rain, finds the heart’s belonging,
Releasing the sweetest aroma...petrichor.*
***The mist of warm moist wafting playfully,
Kissing and engulfing in a subtle unworldly spin...
A feeling ensnared by the clutches of fond remembrance.
Like the cadence of your breaths upon my parched skin...***
*A taste of your last dance on my fervent lips,
Awoken with each drop, still makes me thirst,
I lift my head, entranced by memory’s grips,
Craving you, again to make my heart burst.*
***Here again...two drenched hearts encased in glass,
Latent spectres melded together as they did before,
Promises wrapped and bound to the gaits of the other,
In eternal dance, laced with everlasting redolent petrichor...***
Dajena M
rhymesmith
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
the other day
I occupied a chair
at a sidewalk café
watching the vanity fair of the quotidian
float by in quickly changing apparitions
an endless flow of different ages, nations, fashions,
skin colors, miens, ****** expressions, postures & gaits
kept passing through my field of vision
it made me wonder why
some people get so furious
when they just hear about
not even meet
the ‘others’ different from themselves
that they start dropping bombs and shooting rockets
I think they rather should be curious
and eager to discover
how the immense variety of humankind
can help expand a locally grown mind
and recognize
that we are all of the same kind
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Lady night offers her generosity
as the stars twinkle in syncopation for me.
Shadow-clad silhouettes...
Their gaits mysterious.
The night lights trail into the depths of my eyes.
Burning away the seconds, so effortless.
The quietness...
Willing forth dishevelled reflections...
Of unkempt emotions.
Allowing a barrage...
Of thoughts and notions that span
over night and day.
So that they could...
Be conveyed through paper and screen.
So that I could...
Share with you what I intimately mean.
The unforgiving onslaught of ideas and feelings
I bravely conjured...
But too afraid to say.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
The one who loves the depressive mind
Commits to smites; the wary waltz he gaits
Arresting all pride he denies he's blind
Yet the poison nectar; cures and claims his fate
A fate that by his hands has hewed
A fate where he is the exclude
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
Many a notion I'd lay in indelible ink.
How the morning sun would harvest the contours of your face.
Accentuating...
Elevating...
Revealing...
Your majestic beauty.
Reminiscent of a different time and place.
Many a thought I'd pen in indelible ink.
When your breath meets with mine,
they'd hold their own conversation.
Deeply entranced,
In an everlasting dance
that would last forever.
Exchanging gaits of grandeur,
great longing and pine.
Many an inkling I'd etch in indelible ink.
The way my moon never gets eaten.
It'll balloon to its fullest...
Beaming it's brightest.
Seeping from its edges,
gushes forming rivers...
Bathing my earth in heavenly silver.
Calming the thundering hooves...
In my heart with rhyme and reason.
There are but three words...
Words so sacred I dare not utter in vain.
Proclamation so heavy my chest could hardly
hold in rein.
I've immortalised them here...
But in invisible ink...
Because no one would understand...
Of emotions so grand.
No one would have a clue...
That...
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.
A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.
I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.
The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,
A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.
MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.
I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.
I am left
To react.
React to what?
React to wee? React,
to relationships, React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.
Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.
The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.
There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.
'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 4:08 PM UTC
I see faces and flowers
on loose pages—
it smiles at me from
a crumpled paper, addressed
to the fire, its embers were
keeping it ablaze.
How happy it was to paint the
room blue in the middle of summer,
dancing through the sound of the creaks
under my footsteps— everything is just right.
How treacherous it was, _a wistful memory_
they were remnants of unsettled stories
and unforgiven departures; I stood
on a shipwreck
where everything is a lost.
the uncertainty would be tall
and I am more will for the fall,
are these things crosses your mind?
I wouldn't bear crossing out your name.
This is how we paint room blue; creeping
on the cracks of the floor, memorizing your
gaits as I follow your traces.
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 3:17 AM UTC
Allow me to step into your space.
Let us be close,
standing face to face.
So close...
Where our hands could meet,
and our hearts could greet...
The one chance
to finally indulge this long awaited dance.
Cradling one another...
In open arms.
Surendering...
Submitting...
To careless caresses,
bashful gazes and charms.
Our feet would mirror,
the gaits
of each other.
Our eyes ensnared
with senses all bared...
To the rise and fall
of the nectarous melody.
Playing for what seemed like eternity
in silence.
That eternity is now here.
Seizing this dance,
we gambol and frolic
without reservations and fear...
For the hours have frozen
and the seconds have ceased to tick.
This is our song.
Seemingly refined,
cultured and well versed.
This is our dance.
Enchanting,
perfect,
albeit unrehearsed.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
She was lust in the morning
and art by nightfall
Where she whispered halfway moans
of words plagiarized off the wall
Some little death
Some ironic typography
reinventing fate
Manifesting her destiny
In stutters
she gaits
A soul tripped out of the dream machinery
Now she's standing naked
In the door way
The threshold
between mundane and fantasy
Staring down the destiny
about me
She asks me
to follow her bliss
Her skin heralds the call
to my hands around her neck
She wants to be
bruised
So Gracefully
Pulling her hair back
dragged
in and out of dreams
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Tours depart at 7.30,
in time to reach the office by 9.
En route, keen-eyed travellers
search faces, gaits
and speculate on destinations.
There are no prizes
but you will experience a cold satisfaction
with every success.
Most prized
are the ones who hide
behind a guise of bluff normality.
It takes a real expert
to catch the tiny glint of fear,
the too-quick reflexive start
at any human contact,
the unwillingness to meet the gaze
of their own reflections.
But persevere
and you too can add to your list.
The longer your list
the less likely you are
to appear
on someone else's.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
"_As if I was gone away, too far not to yearn from the distance._"
The sound of home away from home
is a wake up call on a dismal Sunday morning. It keeps telling me that _I have to go_ but you are still lingering on every corner of this room, you are the faintest light through a window pane as it kindles me out of the dark (somehow).
I wonder how the traffic jams and
the hums of people on the street would bring you home, the crevices of the floor memorize the gaits and creaks of your footsteps, as if it's a map to our place. And how the furniture recognizes the shape of you as your memories are carved on it.
But I wonder why the sound of home away from home is telling me that it's time to go.
Sep 20, 2023
Sep 20, 2023 at 12:04 AM UTC
One must take charge of his or her own life
Someone once wrote that
Life, like marbles block is given to all,
However, everybody doesn’t know how to layered such blocks
Even if they read the manuals on life and survival skills
With careful observation, it seem that the local
women spirit cracks so easily on the small Island of Bim
as the men moves on to other women’s
Leaving many on suicidal watch
I visited my old friends, on the island as time permits
And nothing seem to change, they older folks
Weakness still shows:
they lives seem to be on a standstill,
The little island girl in me Grieves within for them
Over the years, I have grown into a stronger woman
I demand respect from my friends,
especially the men
Its more women and not enough men to fulfill
Their ****** appetites, so life on the island become a *** war,
Infidelity is higher than ever,
where the flying fish is plentiful
whereas, some of the women seem so pitiful.
Older men with younger women
The middle-aged women either have to join a church
Or unfortunately,
lined the walls of the dance hall,
or pubs
While looking for love in all the wrong places,
The nights slowly moves into the wean hours of the morning
while the Barskeepers promotes the beer three for ten dollars
Snip snaps sounds is heard throughout their establishments
It seems more like humiliation than enjoyment
In the meantime broken hearts merges all over the place
The only patronage that seem to be having a time of
their lives was the tourists from abroad, who show
signs of unsteady gaits; but were having a wonderful time
On the Island of Bim
The barbecues grills filterers golden spark,
the music
Entices the air
the salted breeze, balm our lips even
Merging with the taste of the Bank beers,
and it was all well
on the island for that short period.
However, with all my finding and frustration, nothing
Can beat cold, cold coconut water
or a refreshing Bank Beer
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
We queue up like
indentured servants
grateful as ripe fruit for
the opportunity to
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
do I need to survive
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
We line up like
Hoovervillites
eager as dogs for
the opportunity to
plunge our paws into
scalding pots of wondering
how many coins
how many beds
how many children
must I offer to subsist
in a world that spins
out of reach like the apples
of the world's tallest tree
We row up rank and file like
slaves
servile as a Christmas and Easter parishioner's lips slathering for
the opportunity to
kiss the papal ring imagining
how many hours
how many loves
how many lives
will be lost to languish
in a world that ossifies
like Gluttony's cast off carcasses
left by the world's fattest corporate cat
We queue up like
indentured servants
dolorous as dying vines from
the bonds and bridles that
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
will I have left
after they've taken the sweater
after they've taken the apple
after they've taken the scraps
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
the static quo must go
nothing beneath, or behind the sounds
deaf tones bones strewn all around
long words, all cheap
dumb lines, all neat
coughed-up cadence and routine cream
cartoon choruses and tricked-out seams
hooky fakes and bookend breaks
easy gaits
minimum stakes
no sharp edge, no hidden fold
no golden age spirit, no new age soul
no color streaks, or manic peaks
no blind side streets, or bipolar beats
disconnect my wires, or else cut it off
put out my fire, or else cut it off
nothing sticks
nothing clicks
**** me quick
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Sling grease into pitch
of doggerel vowel
I'm looking for an "aooga"
sound that diminishes
as if jettisoned by speed of light
whipping sugar cane plantation
slave ghosts' utterances
paean screams doused
How I wish to be one of the first
followers of Obama to Havana
footfall through tic of time
slow gaits toc of eon
a Cold War's metrical decomposition
Aooga Aooga
Rumpapa Rumpapa
Shucka Shucka Shucka
Everyone is free
and so many of us swim
an opposite direction
Gyrate feet, hips, Cuba's beaches
smile, gaze upon maracas
Shucka Shucka Shucka
**** on raw sugar cane
Freely
with great abandonment
and greater ability
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
There’s a mirror
I tend to ignore
rarely stand before it
so little surprise
it’s through other eyes
I get mostly noticed!
They see on the face
creases of stress
shadow or twinkling light
on its marks read
contentment need
glowing day despair’s night!
They watch all the while
ways I smile
countenance sunshine or cloud
if my gaits grieve
stooping submissive
or walks are arrogantly proud!
I hardly see myself
it’s only their help
let me find how I may look
but unlike the mirror
those eyes make error
in reading the write on face book!
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
Childish churning chickadees--
chastened
in the dark denim confines of the bulging pocket.
Chatting urgently only in touch,
when their bodies grind together
where two or more gather--
like prayers, like lips do like hands do--
Uncomfortable shape-shifting;
feeling tense as legs shake loose the bunched up mess--
digging into skin like silver teeth or a silver bullet
encroached within a werewolf's flesh--
Musically: creating new timbres accompanying
suddenly aggravated gaits--
Ching ka-ching ka-ching ka-ching--
Fumbling in the darkness.
Ka-ching ka-ching clawing incessantly,
as the forlorn children of burdensome currency.
Soon, their captors retire to worn couches
to engage in aggressive loafing--
growing sluggish and torpid,
legs slacken and jeans loosen--
their lips at the captor's hip bones
spilling out their shiny contents like dripping saliva--
and down, down the children go,
choking between the cracks of the worn cushions.
Bodies shift, aching for comfort,
the farther, farther down they go--
their cries drowned drowned
by pillows acquiescing to mushy bodies.
Those that survive the dreadful encounter--
clinging to their prisons--
feel once again the stifling hands of death
reaching grasping groping in their huddled fretful presence
to be tossed loosely carelessly onto bedside dressers;
for a fate unknown to themselves, nor the hands
that toss them absentmindedly.
It is rare that they are brought to the light of day again.
(It would have been better,
to have sunk acquiescently,
down into the bulbous stifling purgatory
alongside their unlucky kin.)
There is worse; for those who are left in their denim prisons
are thrown--cage and all--
into the jaws of Poseidon's mechanical canine,
who sits on its hind legs patiently and consumes ravenously.
They amass at the bottom of its belly,
until intense gurgling acids arise,
reaching higher and higher til
all are submerged.
They are tossed in voracious waters,
twisting and churning and gasping and drowning--
holding onto each other like prayers;
feeling pulled ****** into the vacuum--
cries lost in the gaping pores of the gargling volatile beast--
lost, lost, lost,
in the cries of forever longing.
Goodbyes: *Goodbye,
dear friends.*
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
Our scar is broad,
& we’re told to
never forget.
How could we?
We all felt the collapsing
& silencing of souls
across that horrific
Tuesday morn.
The burning flames ignited
our fiery passions,
anger & revenge, ones
that many wish to fan
today.
Let’s remember
love’s power to transform
fear into courage
& use our courageous love
to conquer revenge
& spite, useless
in love’s embrace.
Let’s extend this grace
to those who despise us
& want to destroy us,
for their reasons
are as physical as ours—
born from the tragedy of loss
& focused through the lens of revenge.
Let’s heal our scar
through the lens of love
& shine it
in the face of fear.
United we stand, divided we fall.
A cliché too true for us to brand,
& a lighthouse to guide
our wayward hearts
across this ocean of strife.
Let’s not only stand together,
let’s march together—
not in lock-step, but in
beautiful gaits that shine
our unique
character traits,
most of which resemble
the freedom
we carry forward.
Let’s carry it & remember
that its woeful weight is
but a small toll
for life’s endless
beauty.
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 10:12 PM UTC
This time, only my second,
We were nearly alone
Descending gravely
Into a reflection of names
And selves.
(I admit that sometimes
I prefer to walk behind you
In deference – this time, though,
It was to watch your shoulders
Heave forward, your neck tighten,
As you sunk into that space
Only you know.)
We stopped twice:
First to let the loudly curious girl
Behind us pass, our careful gaits
No match for her rapid conquering
War memorial check-off pace,
Then, as we rose back into
The green morning, you brushed
Your right hand as a farewell
Across the polished ebony
And whispered.
Nearby, an ancient couple
Posed with the Three Servicemen,
The two chattering in Vietnamese
And grinning for each other,
The trio of newly uniformed soldiers
Staring off camera at some old atrocity.
And I, offering with pointing fingers
And waving hands and slow English
To take one photo of all of them,
Together, just barely released the shutter
Before the sorrow and loss and unknowing
Came into focus, and I returned to you,
In first tears.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 3:50 PM UTC
as i gaits around the pavement
under the sun with my weary heart
wrapped in my pockets
wind whispers to my ears
lonely tree swayed its branches
sad and blue
leaves fell on the ground
swept by the summer wind
i lift my head up and stretch my arms
gave him a hug
my heart jumped out as he hugged me back
maybe we're gonna be best friends
so I climbed up on him and threw my weary heart into the space
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
it seems that everywhere i turn
another mirror gleams
brilliantly hopeless facsimiles
who smile vaguely
while shifting through
perpetuations
to stammer in clamorous gaits
at the doorstep of my dreams
and at the top of my tower
i barely here them call
sifting through stars and motes of dust
i see my petty wall
isn't ******* high enough
the thought to me
is crippling
how could we not avert
the **********
with all the glances
we have stolen from our pasts
how could we sever worth
in search of "progress"
as if life were a contest
instead of an event
is it not obscene
how we grow like cancer
and deceive ourselves
in thinking we have
all our answers
it seems that everywhere i turn
another terror grins
inconspicuous in the hearts of men
who obliviously commend themselves
for subordination
to hammer with calamitous endeavor
on the pillars of my paradise
condemning forever
the kingdom of my dreams
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
old men settle
like the last ashes
of a strongly worded editorial
in a newspaper -
burnt,
crumbling,
but carrying reminders
of words once powerful.
old men huddle
in centres
that have long since lost
their magnetism.
centres that once drew
the most powerful thoughts -
now host
shuffling cards,
shuffling gaits,
shuffling shoulders.
old men whisper
wars can be won
and fortunes can be lost
with all that they have to tell you
if only you
listen
observe
absorb.
old men gather like continents
much like the mass of land
holds everything above it -
rooted
stable
sure
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC