"gesture" poems
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
174.7k
~for those who will read this and weep~
*the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience
localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!*
*the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life ***** advertisement
I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs*
*summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created
so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)*
*but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early*
got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind
these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
my naked lady framed
in twilight is an accident
whose niceness betters easily the intent
of genius—
painting wholly feels ashamed
before this music,and poetry cannot
go near because perfectly fearful.
meanwhile these speak her wonderful
But i(having in my arms caught
the picture)hurry it slowly
to my mouth,taste the accurate demure
ferocious
rhythm of
precise
laziness. Eat the price
of an imaginable gesture
exact warm unholy
20.7k
In person body language for the quickest returns
and obvious signs of disinterest and distress
Telephones for voices; plain, animated, or faking it
Letters for gesture, or a classic long slow catch up
And texting...
I know you got it
I may even know you read it
What's your excuse for delay?
Perhaps a brain lapse, perhaps some monotonous busyness
Perhaps I'm now an ignored fad, maybe you got better plans
Yet, could it be, our collective muscle memory pines for saying things by other means?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Hello
A gesture perceived as formless waves in the Web
Perhaps a luring trap to be caught
or a silent cry as print Scarcely Red
Maybe you
Reddit or Won't
As text is the voice of this generation
Quote
ILY My fam is so cute
#Hashbrowns @MyBFFFFs
Last looks of a father as he leaves
with a dry cleaned suit.
The last breakfast I ate with my family
Together. Rebuked.
Now it lays archived in the mind of i
A memory fragment less intact
than the Colossus of Rhodes
What's that? Let me Google that.
What will become of the crowd
The voices, in their plight are
"Like wow, Laughing Out Loud"
Like apathy is the new trend
Can we even say there is a greater purpose
of the time we Spend.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
The crowd fades away
As chords in every melody
Rings in our ears,
And shivers downs in our body
It vibrates in every muscle
A musical fusion
Almost everything didn’t matter
It’s you, me and the beating rhythm
The graceful posture
The sway of every gesture
It’s a motion adventure.
Feeling the adrenaline pulsing through
Pervading the entity
Beating rhythm pounding, it electrifies the body
into graceful art, emancipating the sound of the music
Captivating the mind, liberating the young, reckless soul
covertly hidden inside an indifferent exterior
A freeing beauty
of movement to the rhythm
A therapy to the mind and body.
Dancing to the music,
feeling every tune
every beat
every breath of every movement,
with Explosions of Euphoria
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
15.4k
I watched the turtle dwindle day by day,
Get more remote, lie limp upon my hand;
When offered food he turned his head away;
The emerald shell grew soft. Quite near the end
Those withdrawn paws stretched out to grasp
His long head in a poignant dying gesture.
It was so strangely like a human clasp,
My heart cracked for the brother creature.
I buried him, wrapped in a lettuce leaf,
The vivid eye sunk inward, a dull stone.
So this was it, the universal grief:
Each bears his own end knit up in the bone.
Where are the dead? we ask, as we hurtle
Toward the dark, part of this strange creation,
One with each limpet, leaf, and smallest turtle---
Cry out for life, cry out in desperation!
Who will remember you when I have gone,
My darling ones, or who remember me?
Only in our wild hearts the dead live on.
Yet these frail engines bound to mystery
Break the harsh turn of all creation's wheel,
for we remember China, Greece, and Rome,
Our mothers and our fathers, and we steal
From death itself its rich store, and bring it home.
15.1k
Like a peacocks feathers
I brightly and vibrantly show you how im feeling
Just in hopes that you might understand how I feel.
Bright blues and greens
I showcase my colors
All of my emotions
For we are one in the same
Fear my actions will go unanswered
But no doubt in my mind you will return the gesture
Flashes of pink and hints of purple
You call back
Your colors blinding my eyes and creating a masterpiece
Nothing but a couple of peacocks.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
She looks up,
Tears swelling in her eyes,
And looks into his,
Searching for a reason to hold out hope
She delays just a moment-
Waiting for a sign,
A wavering tear,
A slight gesture,
One word to make her worries disappear
She's hoping he will fight for her,
Dang it.
But instead, she walks away,
Stronger than ever,
Cradling a broken heart.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We ***** together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
17.9k
do you recall
the crunch beneath our feet
a gesture small
as we ambled down the street
dirt and gravel
I felt pebbles through my shoe
I unravelled
When I looked at you
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
Sunlight peaked through maple branches
in such a tranquil way
missed chances to make advances
I always hoped you'd stay
a fork in the road ahead
we went different directions
I used many different methods
to try and snag your attention
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
you never seemed to notice
you just stared ahead
heart bloomed as if a lotus
while I tugged at a loose thread
sometimes I'd begin to speak
but choked upon my words
so I walked next to you without a peep
and together watched the birds
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
it's odd and super subtle
the synchronicity
insignificant and pointless
yet means the world to me
quiet walks every afternoon
past the garage and dead leaves
we watched the starlings courtship
do you remember me?
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
What we have named Fire Escape
(an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail)
had made picture geometries in my west window
well-framed and flat--set foreground and background
in two dimensions, as the sun hid,
and my round eye opened.
What we have named Fire Escape
was flaked-paint brown orange, as if
first it had been born of a flame
and then had taken up living as metal--
tempered itself into usefulness,
which I should trust now, in case of the yelling
and the engines.
What we have named Fire Escape
was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane
for the sparrows I saw this morning
which flitted and wildly played
within, rising up
arched and back again.
Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs--
a tunnel entrance or ducking posts,
or highway bridges to clear;
the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots
each following each, going under.
No sparrow would ever crash.
And what is this I remember now?
How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay?
As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture--
a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say
I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit?
Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast.
Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages
from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined,
to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less.
That morning, with the very last sparrow gone,
I remember that nothing in my sight moved,
save an American flag at a distance in the wind,
with its one red-white striped wing
waving toward the cold north,
as the white church spire,
framed in open quadrilaterals,
held its position.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
Sally invited you
to the very top
Of the jungle gym
She gives an encouraging "come on"
And reaches out her arm
Her hand
Spread out and facing the sky
You grab hold.
The corners of her mouth
Grow to the sides of her face
And her cheeks push up against
the bottom of her eyes
In the most reassuring manner
You turn your head
Towards the sky
And squint
Just to see
the top of the structure
Not an easy task
For a kindergartener
But you faithfully follow your friend
Under the bright afternoon sun
Classmates have shrunk in size
As you peer out
from the top of the jungle gym.
Sally swings up her arm
Her palm
Facing you
You match her gesture
And give it a high five
The corners of her mouth
Grow to the sides of her face
And her cheeks push up against
the bottom of her eyes
In the most reassuring manner.
*I am at the very top
Of the jungle gym
With my friend!*
"Try out the monkey bars"
Suggests your new found friend
In the most reassuring manner
So you reach for the first bar
Both arms up
Both palms forward
As you attempt to make the jump
Sally waits behind you
Both arms out
Both hands forward
The corners of her mouth
Grow to the sides of her face
And her cheeks push up against
the bottom of her eyes
In the most reassuring manner
Shock as you free fall
Your classmates
Multiplying in size
As the ground moves closer
Pain shoots through
Your body
And your mind
as you land
You are confused
Feeling hurt and betrayed
how could a friend do such a thing?
But then you realize
Your friend never invited you
To the very top
Of the jungle gym
At all.
The corners of your mouth
Grow to the sides of your face
And your cheeks push up against
the bottom of your eyes
In the most satisfying manner
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
My Heart and Mind had a discussion one day,
About a man that they both knew quite well.
The heated discussion continued for hours,
Both with arguments meant to compel.
A debate ensued between the two,
With each taking a different perspective.
The Heart believed the man to be true,
And the Mind thought he was deceptive.
Heart started the discussion with an obvious point,
"He is sweet and gentle like no man before."
Mind responded smugly, "That's great in the moment
but how does he act after she's walked out the door?"
Heart countered, already knowing the point being made.
"Sure, he may not be able to write or call;
He is busy with constant demands of his time.
What he feels in his heart matters most of all."
"I disagree," and Mind continued to say,
"Actions mean far more than words alone.
It is when words and actions are considered together
that a man's true feelings are shown."
"He has to compartmentalize to get through the day."
Heart continued to defend his intentions,
When they are together his feelings are real,
but her insecurities span many dimensions."
"It's funny you would mention compartmentalizing.
Apparently your memory isn't as sharp as mine,
He was once quoted as saying this was not his strength,
proof that his statements don't always align."
"You are cynical, suspicious and guarded."
Heart was clearly tired of this dispute,
"Those traits are clouding your judgement.
He is genuine and telling the truth."
"I think you are overlooking the obvious but
I'll relax and stop doubting his intentions
if he makes an effort to send a simple sign."
Heart and Mind both wanting to prove their point
and have the bragging rights of superiority.
Mind sure that the man would disappoint her;
Heart confident in his genuine sincerity.
Both waited patiently for some type of gesture,
Something to demonstrate that he really does care.
Heart began to worry and whispered to herself,
"Stay calm and trust that it's not just another affair."
Patience prevailed and an email arrived,
just as Heart had hoped and prayed.
Mind, although disappointed by being proved wrong,
was relieved and no longer afraid.
Trust and calm filled her spirit when thinking of him,
but it was both that won in the end.
Maybe they were more than temporary lovers
and could also be permanent friends.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
No poem in the world could ever describe the abundance of love you have showed me. Nor every lyric to a love song could ever compare to how you take care of me, how you caress me into your arms for a hug after a bad day I was having and in that moment I knew everything was going to be alright with you by my side. Lovely Stoner I want you to know, you mended my broken heart and months ago I was on fire just waiting for myself to burn. But when you touched me, you turned that disastrous ugly burning fire, into a magnificent lovely firework and showed me off to the world just to remind me that my existence and my beauty is still admired by other people. Lovely stoner thank you for reminding me that I don't need to search for my other half because I'm not a half, I am full just by myself. That I am full of love and beauty that only a few people could ever see and you felt bad for them because they couldn't see it. Thank you for being good for my mental health, for loving my insecurities and my flaws and for making a heart for each of my flaws, because I should learn to love myself no matter what. For showing me that I don't have to prove my importance to other people because you said if somebody can't see what a masterpiece I am, they didn't know what art looked like and you called them amateurs. I remember you once told me I am like the moon, who goes through phases because of my mood swings and the moon isn't always bright and full, for I have my bad days and I feel this emptiness at times but you said "you don't ever stop loving her." You told me that throughout your dark time I was the moon to guide you through and the moon dusted has clouded your vision and I lit up your life like no one else has. In that moment you said the most honest and heartfelt thing to me and I've never been so close to anyone ever. Thank you for only making me cry out of laughter and my stomach doesn't even hurt from laughing and realizing in the middle of the laughter that you are the one. I wouldn't want to go through the bad times with someone else and through my good times I just want to spend it with you. Thank you for making every day as special as it can be and for having the patience with me. I love when you take me high through my lows. I know you aren't the romantic gesture type, but thank you for always showing you love me in the simple little gesture type of way. Thank you for accepting and loving me just the way I am lovely stoner.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
On the other side of the tracks, you smiled.
My train arrived before i could return the gesture.
I decided to stand by and just wait for another.
To see your face once more before we part ways again.
But the moment the train moved, yours arrived.
And you, you took the train and i missed mine.
All for the sake of you, here i am waiting again.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
it ain't easy, when you relate, restrict and delegate,
when you draw a narrow lane on a highway that says
only left footed
poets need apply
<>
it does not say
**slow cars stay to the right,
only trucks,
or oddly even,
no trucks**
I love seasonality,
without thickly thinking
you take a break
from the poetry writing
one day I'll figure out a way
to monetize my love poems,
publish them as Shakespeare's couple(t)s,
"new edition plus
a couple of
newfound poems!"
maybe some fools will buy some thinking Shakespeare has been, resurrected!
*love grows goes hot all over and
grow slower older
and grow colder,
in between those fine
ticklish teasing moments*
when the miracle of resurrection repeats itself
something is said
a gesture is made
a finger strokes the cheek,
unexpected
and it all comes
rushing back again,
overfilling
that coffee cup mug she bought
just(ice)
for you
*ain't gonna check how long it's been
since last I declaimed, disclaimed,
inflamed,
these pages with an only love poem
but I do know this:
it is something I think about,
It is something I know about,
it is something I feel about
daily
even on the nothing days,
when routine takes over
I know you couldn't remember of its passage,
is the waking up and the lying down to sleep*
but the poets eyes are always open his emotive secret senses,
always alert,
what's that thing they always say,
his heart just wasn't in it!
(🥴if they only knew the truth😘)
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
Zeus is ****** tonight.
Maybe he was having conflict with Hera. Maybe Apollo or Athena or Artemis accidentally attempted to rain art or astuteness or animals down upon Earth, respectively.
Maybe he drank too much wine.
Whatever the reason is, it's quite a light show.
There are no stars, only the
chemiluminescence
on my shirt and my shorts
that were poured upon me by
intoxicated partiers who thought it would be entertaining
to shower the combination of peroxide and phenyl oxalate ester
upon the party guests.
A map of the universe
is splattered across my hands.
It's as if Zeus
threw away the sky,
in an inebriated gesture,
and it landed around me.
Cronus should have swallowed the father of gods and of men whole.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
the rude gesture when one seeks the inelegant simplicity of
no words;
no words
suffice to say,
magnitude of some offenses requires physicality;
a physicality that injures nothing but the
surrounding atmosphere of
its pride
for it’s pride
that goeth before the fall,
the pursuit of dishonor and dishonoring,
given that,
it shames the giver as much if not more so
dishonor
for words are our truest masters
I'd rather you gave a round shout out of
**** you,
for as the parents say these days
use your words
rather than show me your
nail chewed runty midfielder
ah, words...I do so love them beasties
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
I want to write you a trilogy on the stages
in which our relationship formed.
The first book would be solely based on the day
that I stopped treating your text messages
like active landmines. Stopped tiptoeing.
No longer being afraid of what your affection
would do to me once I submit to it.
It would be based on the first step I took to
stop being so **** afraid. From that very day
you've helped me in ways I'll never be able to fully explain.
Helped me let go of fear and trepidation, and open
my heart to the greatest thing in the world; your love.
The second would revolve around the first time you kissed me.
I don't know if you noticed, but my knees buckled
like seatbelts and I shook like glass window panes in torrential rain.
That day you awoke something inside me that I didn't know existed
but I'm so glad you found it. Like a stray kitten I was lost
and you brought me back home without questioning where I'd been,
and I'll never fully understand why, but I guess it doesn't matter.
You've taught me not to overthink things, to just revel in the moment.
The third would be set in here and now. Every forehead kiss
and stolen glance sums up to another page, every loving gesture
is another chapter. We are creating something people wish they
could create for themselves. A love that belongs in museums
to teach the world what it really means to give yourself to someone,
with no fear, and not a single ounce of regret. To say that you changed
my life is an understatement. You altered my way of thinking.
Took a broken thing and made it new again. Made me, new again.
And with every word that slips from your lips I am reborn.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:25 PM UTC
[Hashtag]MeToo
Here it goes again,
trending on Insta and Facebook.
Where real awareness stems.
Mind the sarcasm,
social media’s a powerful tool
not knockin’ that.
I wonder though,
does the mind of the follower
understand the context of the hash?
Do they get it should be a call to action?
Not necessarily at the keyboard.
More like on the couch with their children,
Giving the conversation of consent.
Most people do not even understand it by definition .
The meaning of yes and no convoluted by scenario.
Bias boils over like milk and water over full flame.
The posts bubble out and stick to the side of the pan,
quickly drying; leaving their mark.
Until the soap and warm water flows over them,
and the steam evaporates the confessions.
Until they are again whispers we all hear and know.
It’s whispers from the alley ways,
and from married couples bedroom doors.
The woman is the property,
the man is the proprietor.
We refuse to address the real problems,
the failures of our up-bringers.
We point fingers and slay names
yet the statistics provide the truth.
One in four for females, one in sixteen for males.
We all have been violated, slandered, and forced to say
[Hashtag]MeToo
Not going to say I did not share it,
I know the touch of unwanted hands,
the invasive ***********
All for the sake of the insanity,
in repeating a useless gesture.
The only difference is
My hashtag went to my Senator.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
My dentist, at the time, was a woman,
a young woman,
an attractive young woman.
As she leaned very close above me,
busily engaged
in repairing my broken tooth,
I, laid back horizontal in the chair,
had nothing to look at but her face,
and more particularly, her eyes.
She, however, concentrating the whole time on my tooth,
was not considering
where I might be looking.
The task at last finished,
once again on my feet,
I noticed what I had not seen before.
My lovely young dentist
had put on some weight
just round the middle.
As I smiled at her
and put out my hand to hers
- in thanks or congratulation? -
she leaned towards me
and returned my smile
most charmingly.
What could I do?
A formal British handshake?
No! A small kiss on the cheek,
and then, in continental style,
another small kiss
on the other one,
a spontaneous, friendly gesture,
nothing more.
If in fact it had crossed my mind at that point
that it might be
a not altogether unpleasant experience
to take the average of the two kisses
I had planted on her cheeks,
and give her a third on the lips
that were now beautifully visible to me,
I resisted the inappropriate temptation,
so swiftly
I might not even have thought it at all.
Except that, on reflection, I probably did think it.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC