"gymnastic" poems
It been a while now I'm back,
playing the beat on a track,
Lyrically I attack,
I'm an M C,
So naturally,
That's how I react,
You might not get my psych,
goin ape shyte crazy,
chasin these monkeys of my back,
I guess opposites still attract.
Rapidly rapping raps,
spitting facts,
I'm what these other cats lack,
cut from another cloth,
Can't cut'em no slack,
This rifts, rat,
I'm way better than that
I master my craft
Like captain kirk taking a bath
higher than an aircraft
Plotting my path
like a hovercraft
Fully prepared for the crash.
These other guys, think they fly,
I just laugh. They get puff up,
While I pass by, getting
Roughed up, crossing my path
Iooking like ironman with this mic in my hand,
Feels like I'm hold a staff.
Like a titan, I clash.
I am the better man,
check my clasp,
I got a better plan,
Better lyrical grasp,
I'm so smooth,
These other rappers, rap sound like ***
I land minds, no gymnastic class
my geographic quadgraphics better than a veteran
with a can of V8 in his hand
Still crazy from the war,
tasted the blood of a warrior,
Now I'm thirsty for more.
I'm dropping bombs like the army core in 94
With more confidence than Al b sure on tour
Finding common sense scattered all over the floor
Picking up feed back on channel 4
Turning the microphones up,
Then slam it to the floor,
Cause I don't want to rap anymore,
Back and forth I go,
It's all a part of the flow,
I'm just putting on a show,
rhythm book, pinned up,
It's a wrap, flow after flow,
Pulling up, getting my spins up,
The treble and bass doing chin ups,
While I'm spitting rhythms galore,
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
How can he be so cocky, fight like rocky
talking in morse code, like a walkie talkie
how can he be so cold, like an ice cube to hold
so bold like a robot that can't be controlled
how can he be so sarcastic, ******* spastic
no fantastic antics seen in plastic
won't bend and won't stretch like elastic
doing flips like a drastic gymnastic
possessed with true ability, like a runners agility
but no flexibility when it comes to futility
a never seen utility with no docility
showing capability, breaking through the fragility
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
3
“Sic transit gloria mundi,”
“How doth the busy bee,”
“Dum vivimus vivamus,”
I stay mine enemy!
Oh “veni, vidi, vici!”
Oh caput cap-a-pie!
And oh “memento mori”
When I am far from thee!
Hurrah for Peter Parley!
Hurrah for Daniel Boone!
Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman
Who first observed the moon!
Peter, put up the sunshine;
Patti, arrange the stars;
Tell Luna, tea is waiting,
And call your brother Mars!
Put down the apple, Adam,
And come away with me,
So shalt thou have a pippin
From off my father’s tree!
I climb the “Hill of Science,”
I “view the landscape o’er;”
Such transcendental prospect,
I ne’er beheld before!
Unto the Legislature
My country bids me go;
I’ll take my india rubbers,
In case the wind should blow!
During my education,
It was announced to me
That gravitation, stumbling,
Fell from an apple tree!
The earth upon an axis
Was once supposed to turn,
By way of a gymnastic
In honor of the sun!
It was the brave Columbus,
A sailing o’er the tide,
Who notified the nations
Of where I would reside!
Mortality is fatal—
Gentility is fine,
Rascality, heroic,
Insolvency, sublime!
Our Fathers being weary,
Laid down on Bunker Hill;
And tho’ full many a morning,
Yet they are sleeping still,—
The trumpet, sir, shall wake them,
In dreams I see them rise,
Each with a solemn musket
A marching to the skies!
A coward will remain, Sir,
Until the fight is done;
But an immortal hero
Will take his hat, and run!
Good bye, Sir, I am going;
My country calleth me;
Allow me, Sir, at parting,
To wipe my weeping e’e.
In token of our friendship
Accept this “Bonnie Doon,”
And when the hand that plucked it
Hath passed beyond the moon,
The memory of my ashes
Will consolation be;
Then, farewell, Tuscarora,
And farewell, Sir, to thee!
2.6k
As cavemen with half-yard sticks
smudging soot on open rock
they hunch
over carcasses of donut boxes
(the wax paper skin folded,
use all parts of the animal)
and grunt in chorus.
stocks are down this quarter,
(anger of the Gods)
sacrifice to the sun,
perform the ancient gymnastic of
rain dancing while kissing up
let the blood ink river run
smooth and whole
pray our intake outgrows
our categorized expenses
let there be profit
(the vesper smoke stings
with the haunting of paygrades
and budget cuts)
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Bedside table minds clean paper
Pen at the ready, lying in wait
for wording as I wait for the sandman
Thoughts pole vaulting at high speed
tossing, and turning then settling
unable to make it over the top
Mind frozen in time with selections
untamed uneducated words, hitchhiking
around my head, seeking new adventures
on paper with other more interesting fellows
Words stuck in the corners of my mind
spring cleaning energy is needed here
to pull them out of their aerobics class
Forcing the words down my right arm
in Gymnastic style movements
out of my pen they stream endlessly
inking up the page in the stillness
But I dare not move to switch on the light
for the theme will be broken for all time
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
All I have are
these photographs
without you.
thrown on the bed
you stare at me
through the
laughing clown &
the moon crescent
above my head
where baby doll
smiles
she glimmers
reflecting the moon
it's peaceful home
in a midnight sky.
you spoke to me
that night & I,
woke soon after
a breaking dawn
with my head spinning
somersaults of
greater fright than
those I tumbled through
on tortured weekends
skipping into class
weighed & deemed
good enough
gymnastic skill
my weight in gold
ticked & signed.
your shadow
followed me
to school &,
I even drew you
when the art teacher
simply asked;
*draw what you dreamt
last night*
that same day
teacher hung you
above the hall room
&, every lunch time
you would glare
&, every inch of skin
formed goosebumps
for if I dared eat
you'd know, because
you were always right
there.
you took a few years off
fed on another girls
flesh, then another
I would see them
shrinking in size
slipping off to bathrooms
but then,
I was too naive
to know
but what I did know, was
they drew you in
similar ways, &
at home I would pray
that the monster
would be exorcized
on the page, as it had
for me.
I'm aged fourteen
standing in the garage
packed boxes in storage
maybe I found you
or maybe you led me
back, &
as I tore back tape
you smiled at me
flashback;
laughing clown
baby doll
I jumped back in fear
you didn't care
I forced you down
&, I sat on the box
to hide your face
but you were already
whistling
by the garage door
&, right there
was the scorn.
*you'd haunted me
every day
since I was born
I was the child you tore
from her home
&
you were the phantom
the ghost
the unwanted
host.*
© Sia Jane
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
Still, it really doesn't matter,
After all, who wins the flag.
Good clean sport is what we're after,
And we aim to make our brag
To each near or distant nation
Whereon shines the sporting sun
That of all our games gymnastic
Baseball is the cleanest one!
Anonymous. 10/29/2016.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
My words do splits, therefore they do gymnastic flips
this acid pit drips sick masses of glass and ink
Brain **** call it massive **** pinpointed so accurate
I'm going to a place with no conciseness
I write with my arms Then drop legs and abstract kicks
My abstractions are the thrills of a ride or several attractions
My mental is monumental to some by a fraction
I'm an empty thought that lies in a Casket
Surprise with my habits That's applied to the madness is tragic...
Slithering satisfaction supported strongly surpasses idiots by the masses.
Monumental mysteries mesmerizes men in misery...
I live life to amaze while in a maze of symmetry
I hope what I say Is riveting, Imagery will then cascade into a blaze of remedies
instantly sparking a chain reaction of positive energy...
The negative turns away...along with its enemies...
Ears evolve into eyes then spot their demise
I hope I never get lost in these times.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
nearly
"with close kinship, interest, or connection; intimately"
~~~
it's n-early for natty,
dressed for gym penance in his
dress blue
sweats
but instead of working out,
he's working out
a gymnastic, mental, laboring problem,
that the muse mistress musters him out
to out,
and to attend to
the birthing of t-his
composition
a re-erupting volcano that
has gone and got him good,
now he's a man intimately
possessed,
with completing, recording,
an unabbreviated log of
oh so long ago's,
a list of the
oh so many
nearly
line items in his
life's lineage
nearly
went a whole life lessened by being
love less,
which always calculates as
a life lived
forever insufficient
nearly
was intimate
only
with tears self-shed,
on a single pillowcase in
a double bed,
that was unfulfilled,
no intersecting
humanity
nearly
permanentized
kinship
as a
dictionary definition official
for a
sunken vessel,
a drowning one man scull,
racing toward a finish line
that had no visible
finish
nearly
lost both sons, lost years, lost friends
lazy living in the slow, low heat
of a burning hell
of zero connections,
thinking the proper cost/benefit solution
was always,
never to be
greater than,
always
less than one
nearly
packed it in,
while overlooking a temptress river,
calling me out swiftly from the
slow lane of loneliness,
offering a
nearly
certain final outlet sale,
a mark-down event,
for clearing the heavy, overladen shelf
of over-weighty
al-one-ness,
a sale of singular single
cell marks upon human flesh
nearly
died a miserable man,
and still may,
from who knows what
pestilence consumption
but
***never
from never knowing,
for the lacking of,
the unadulterated love
of a good woman***
and that is
more than,
greater than,
>
all the unknowable
nearlys
and more
than any other
nearly,
life may yet
deny me,
or
curse me by
~~~
6:45am
Jan. 18, 2016
NYC
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
there was a little mouse an athelete was he
and some day a star he just long to be
he just love gymnastics trampoline and floor
doing lots of flips through the air would soar
he trained very hard each and everyday
olympics they were looming not vey far away
now the mouse was ready for his challenge to begin
mouse he took the floor hoping he could win.
the music started playing he began to dance
twisting turns and somersaults then a little prance
the judges marked the scores and he got the best
highest of them all he had beat the rest
then on the trampoline doing tricks galore
people they all loved him and shouted out for more
mouse had done his best his routine it was done
they marked his score again the little mouse had won
now he was a star like he longed to be
there in all the history books for everyone to see.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Why do you have to take my only need?
Do I have to bleed down the river
for you to not see?
My corridors are filled with pain covered walls
and shock induced traumas.
Drowned emotions in cast iron tubs,
rust through my life
at the bottom of the ocean
I know not but temptation and contemplation,
it only bounces around inside
like a drug store explosion.
We start to walk down the
mirrored lined hallways the wrong way
I mean our eyes glare off
each other the wrong way.
I mean, "what in the **** am I trying to say?
You just don't get it, do you?
I mean, it goes right through you,
I think I may have a rusty
***** loose or maybe you do.
Your agony runs through my veins,
conversing memories, explaining nurseries and
even a midnight summer's wet dream.
So let me explain this to you,
in layman's terms,
the ****** broke a long
time ago..
but you seemed to have missed
your period and the point.
I know I am not only one,
I know about all the others.
I mean.
You bounced around those guy's mattresses
like you are on some gymnastic's trampoline.
Then come home late at night
like a ninja, like I wouldn't even see.
I am not a blind man walking around with a stick,
the true sinister gaze you gave me
is like sinister maze inside my brain.
But I solved this 300 piece puzzle
that you left on the nook
and I didn't even have to open the book.
I think it is time
to close this unbridged chapter in my life
with no unadulterated bookmarks
and bounce around to the end
where I know the words
which will make me a whole lot happier
and much more content
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
Existence stretched through a detour,
two spots; unknown in direction.
Turning left when it was right before,
keep all guessing, slide past detection.
I’m not a one stop shop,
once I housed hand crafted originality.
With the increase in demand I let my guard drop,
and now both my shelves and insides are empty.
I believed in a watcher behind me,
I held onto tight to an invisible thread.
Everyone is just silently constantly reminding me,
I’m isolated and alone even in my head.
I hear the loud pop of plastic against plastic,
feeling both relief and shame simultaneously.
Side slipping and back breaking; I thought myself a gymnastic,
though incredulous was the thought of even competing.
But I was sleeping in a Chinese finger trap,
so assured that I would choose to make it a womb.
You couldn’t hear a pin drop but with the concept of a single tap,
ears would shake and ring as if it were a sonic boom.
I’ve got nothing but dirt and dust on my shoulders
I pass it off as glitter and simple magic.
I show no signs of tiring from passing back all the boulders
if I didn’t let them slide it would almost be tragic.
Pardon my complacent self involuntary involvement,
and excuse me while I perform dramatic ironies.
Preparing the conscious for the next inevitable instalment
of prepared monologues of justifications and fallacies.
And I can’t but think in this instance,
I remember the episode of The Simpsons
where Homer is outcasted for screaming “aliens”
and he drinks himself out of existence.
“Red M&M, blue M&M,
they’re all the same colour in the end.”
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 7:36 AM UTC
Amongst the forest of your ribcage
Pounding feet muffled by moss beds
Racing and weaving betwixt a wig of vines
Elusive artist, gymnastic god
Can I catch him?
Do I dare try?
If I ever did, or could,
Reach out and ****** his wrist
Would I not ensnare him?
Like severing the flower from her stem,
Wishing to keep hold of her forever,
But just like her petals, he would wither.
No.
I will not tear through these woods that are not my own,
To entwine him around my finger.
He was not made for capture, but to captivate.
This is not a hunt,
It is a game of tag
And I will burn after him
If only for one touch
Before he sprites away again.
A wood elf and his girl
Making love in the forest of your ribcage.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
I ***** that cold spit on this hot terrain...
My subzero degree waves smash like glaciers and make ice parades
I'm hype like I smoked that right and when left instead
I will **** you and myself I simply knife gernades
My flows bomb-tastic
When I spit, your temple sizzles from my splashed acid.
I periodically pummel phonies in masses
Reverberations reveal Reactions.
My devilish grin shows satisfaction
Am lyrically chemically unbalanced
My lyrics ripple wild with drizzles of stylish accent.
I double dribble with the sound of pistols and stick back flips..
You fiddle skittles, blow like tea kettles an kiss assess
My classic rip will make your brain flip like gymnastic tricks
I'm gone like acid trips
This is levitation no magic trick
Verbal constipation my massive ****
My words are pinpointed so accurate
I'm there and gone I'm oxygen.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
He saw her sitting and took the chance
Of asking if she’d like to dance
She looked at him and he understood
This dance would be special, and then she stood.
And so they danced the light fantastic
Glides drew gasps at their gymnastic
For each had found their special muse
And dancing made their bodies fuse.
For hours they spun around the floor
And with each step they wanted more
All other dancers seemed to fade
As they danced on in their masquerade.
But when they finally stopped their whirl
There was no sign of his dancing girl
She was in his dreams as she was before
He suddenly woke and she was no more.
©Joe Wilson – The Muse 2014
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
is this is some kind of nocturnal dance ?
one to tune the world to whim
it's spun around our column
you saturate into the night purple and staining
unrestrained beaming in your hostility and blue as wishes i approach
rude as great depth you supper on my motion
scupper me whilst looking as bleached as surrender
or behave
so i charge after you inflated and the moonlight is revealed
moon mewling and fully realized
now for illuminated clouds to have their bellies torn at
the earth charges with gymnastic prat
you go at witchcraft in a pranky manner
girling and ferning your thrift score gown
you drag this disco into the greeting forest
the treating darkness fills in
like furniture addition
and the beats quicken to encourage
i tail you with athletic mammalian stride
whilst you whip your expressions
weaponized at my pursuit
but both of us have nature on our side
germing with merit
every hunter every heat
there's teeth between those tree
and we dance oscillate with grins
and battling antics
wiving the night music
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 9:02 PM UTC
Burn devil burn.
We have seen unknown circumstances and survived.
The words mean nothing now, but a reminder of some pasts that should be laid to rest.
Red,yellow,blue,white and black.
Flames and smoke like smouldering dirt and the devil.
One hope I have learned from this.. Past is past.
The holy ghost and the devil fighting their battle.
Goodbye finally to the old gritty, angry and self loathing.
Hello to cleanliness.
Words of hope and glory, amen to words for a future of greatness. Fantastic,plastic even gymnastic. Yay for the holy ghost, you've won.
Alive and survived
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC
Children’s voices crying out
and laughing loud and clear
Like an orchestra of sound
for everyone to hear
The bass starts first, parental leave
gives go ahead to play
The marching beat as kids go forth
and out into the day
A trumpet hail for company
is raised from door to door
The flute returns, the oboe too
accompanied by more
The fun begins on strings and swings
go back and forth with speed
All cares and woes are flung away
percussion takes the lead
A drumroll raises up the stakes
a dangerous new move
Chromatic scales, gymnastic fails
the cymbal’s sharp reprove
The roundabout reveals the chorus
repeating the refrain
The highs, the lows and all between
All voices sing again
The seesaw conversation starts
bassoons begin up high
The oboes and an English horn
ascend into the sky
A far away note penetrates
the happy symphony
A lone voice trills with increased speed
and calls out ‘Time for Tea’
As kids go home the conductor
Bows and takes his leave
The park is left in quietness
notes floating in the breeze
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
a fine line is drawn daily between the by-yourself and the alone, and between every little heartbeat of together, and between not old enough and not young enough, but sometimes you land right on that line and you sing about it in a singing voice that sounds different from your talking voice and all the voices blend together across the country and it sounds like a tribute to tonight, but “tonight” has broadened in the scope of your wonderful gymnastic balance and it’s every night that you can see stretched out in front of you, it’s every time the sun goes down and sometimes you’re all the heartbeats of together and it tastes like dark coffee or light beer and instead of singing about it you shout about it, even if there’s thunder in the clouds and the sun is waiting till past tomorrow to come back, it’s there somewhere just like how the other voices are there somewhere even when you’re on the left side of the line, and right now, tonight, is the same thing as all the nights and it’s the only thing that fills your head as you fall asleep right on the line between the half-light and the morning. and it’s a fine line too, that one.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
On my way to the museum, a tall slender youth showed off to me. He daringly leapt, pummeling himself in an articulated half twist over an iron gate I was passing. This gymnastic feat was finished facing me from other side of fence. The glimmered wink he left me with had an added curl to one side his lip. That told me my own look of astonishment, to this out-of-nowhere acrobatic display, was just the reaction this young man had expected. Peculiar this is, as it brings a thought mission to mind. Exactly what I should find when I get to the museum, may never equal what happenstance just threw in front of me. So I return home, to paint a picture instead.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Even otherwise rational people
are willing to accept the irrationality of
their religion.
They give preference to revelation
wherever their faith and reason collide.
They maintain revelation is the ultimate source of truth.
This is basically the thesis of all religious
people.
If that were so, which revelation is the
true one?
Why do they differ? How can one be certain that her/his
religion is right and others are not?
If faith is irrational, why should our
irrationality be
preffered over others. Only through reason would we know
which
way is the right one.
And when we test the religions with
reason
you find many of religious teachings do not conform.
It requires a leap of faith and
a great degree of mental gymnastic
in the limitation of reason....
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Limpid Elastic
Bombtastic gymnastic
Keeping pants on
This potato shape
Suspenders need not apply
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC
I trust not; in all; let alone the one; he who heeds deeds and misleads; let alone lately, late lasting lily lake light-outs, and a fragrance of brothels; let alone ladies; whom shiver in timbers of whimsical whispers; warriors and such, just not so much; let alone stabbing knives, the whirlwind winds, the ancient mimes of moonlit jives; deserted by sunrise, blessed with nocturnal eyes. I trust not; verily; to shout merrily; we were here once; within that shrouded ponce; alas, it has come to pass; a shiny piece of glass; and contemporary jazz; I reminisce on bliss; a dire pegasus; a daring precipice; the circus maximus; hands aloft in the great gymnastic overthrow of ages. In the wake of a blunder, we all stand asunder; clutching crutches, avoiding crunches, unaware of blind arms carrying lame legs forthward, essentially; a wisdom of ages; a grasp of sages; locked cages, and a heap of pages. Resent me not, for I have sought, in the wake of the wry; a luminous high; lustrous and illustrious; foretold stories of quandary, and magnificence; where have we gone; to reach such lowly heights; what have we sown; to silence so prone; and much to condone. Take me back; to the dream so lifelike of circles; take me to the midst of a wardrobe of callous miracles…
…and I will know what I like;
I will know what I like.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC