"handshakes" poems
i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that *they are the only things
children will not want to take from me*
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll
laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions.
MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone
directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ******
Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus
waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North".
At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress,
laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums.
Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan
while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs.
Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom,
while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement.
Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises,
but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
and if i stop, i'll miss the little things:
shaving my legs when i know you're coming over and
not drinking coffee because you don't like the taste of it on my tongue.
i'll miss
running out to your car with my shoes in my hand,
the very last goodnight kiss that's always sweetest.
i'll miss lying to my parents about traffic
and weather
when we were right around the curve of the road,
stealing kisses.
i'll miss
when you don't shave because you know i like your scruffy boy-stubble
when you touch my face without speaking
when your actions
are louder
than words.
i'll miss
your sweetness
i'll miss
your puckish sincerity
i'll miss
you.
i'll miss your hands
your tongue
and your lips on my cheek.
i'll miss you kissing each one of my fingers.
i'll miss our secret handshakes,
our inside jokes,
our petty fights.
i'll miss our song.
i'll miss our arguments about the beatles' breakup,
our railings against religious institutions
our speaking of souls.
and so what i'm proposing,
from me to you,
girl to boy and
heart to heart,
is that you don't stop loving me,
and i
won't stop loving
you.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
IT’S COOL TO BE BLACK
I can use the word ***** even,
When I’m talking about a TV character
It is fun saying it’s because I’m black huh
And no matter what race they’re they start laughing
I like hearing the saying once you go black you never go back
Because it’s usually true
I like President Barack Obama because he goes
Against the grain of those negative black stereotypes
It’s tight how even though people hate on black folks
They listen to our music, copy the way we dress, talk,
Slang terms and the way we walk
They pay a lot of money to watch us play sports
I love how when people want get a good laugh out of life they:
Watch our movies, comedy shows, plays and poetry
I love walking up to my homeboys, home girls, family etc.
Saying: What’s up, giving daps, hi fives, making crazy handshakes,
And sometimes nodding your head as a sign of respect
I love being black because we are a beautiful race.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
Guys with long hair have agendas. And if they don't, they're stoners and 'agenda' a really long word, man.
Guys with long hair are the poetic types with acoustic guitars and incense in their dorm room and they hold their hair back with a pen behind their ear and they use it to write in a leather-bound journal about girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** so they can pick up more girls who smoke too much and have soft *****
Guys with long hair are the metalheads who sit in the back of class and use their hair to distract from the fact that they're wearing poor-quality ironic headphones that project Alice in Chains to everyone within a four-desk radius but no one's going to say anything because hey, that guy's a creep.
Guys with long hair are the classical types that play expensive instruments and have beautiful eyes that you can't see very often and have to keep ponytail elastics on their wrists, their wrists that never stop moving, conducting, tapping, curling, because Chopin slows for no man, no matter how long his locks.
And if you poured all these guys with long hair in a test tube and melted them until the agendas broke and forged and changed colors, you'd have him.
I found him in a smoky sweet basement in a house where everyone belongs but no one should actually live. I braided his shoulder-brushing hair without asking and saw his smile like a chunk of snow the size of your high school falling off a mountain, fast and white, huge and more important than anything else around.
I found him again in a different basement where only musicians belong. He invited me into the closet with the piano and it's like he asked me to crawl inside his head and hang out for a while. He casually mentioned his favorite angry bands while his fingers brushed keys in an order they seemed to know on their own, tendons and strings.
He says things that deserve to be handwritten in leather-bound journals. He holds your wrist with one hand when you shake the other because people have become desensitized to handshakes and don't feel the human contact of it anymore. He hugs to the right because you're supposed to hug heart-to-heart.
"People are going to judge based on what they see anyway. Might as well make sure they're right, sort of."
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Mercies at juxtapositional refinement
Abandoned constitutional confinement
Handshakes on the bridged ligaments
The sweet melodious serene dreams fleets
One after the other like peculiar inventions
The mellow scenes of frames realignments
Wonderful crafted words verses paradigm
Harmonic jazz awesomeness, decode freeness
Orchestral spontaneity drills pragmatic energy
Yet, as the gingered steams rise from the hot brew
The scented breeze of life vaticinates with a smile afar
Whispers of "no obligation, no expectations" reverbs..... on and on....on and on
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
There is a state of existence,
where a person is neither A nor B
he's inbetween--
he's the addition, the subtraction, the shove and retraction,
I've spent my life "+"ing and "-"ing
building empires of handshakes,
floating from bar to bar with drinking pals,
crowbarring ice off queens of black venom,
I'm the distortion in the middle, but I can't see the end--
I never promised answers,
but the soft hands, the wet eye'd, and the widows
cry out for closure,
I get edgy and the "+"ing turns to "x"ing
Instead of answers--
I take the As and Bs,
I inhale their the white-knuckle moments,
I simmer in their fading passion,
I glide through their dying beds,
Instead of clear answers--
A x B x A x B x A x B x A x B
=
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Best Laid Plans
And in the grey of early morning,
they look at the equation,
they look at the proposed solution,
and inevitably the As and the Bs
say to me,
"Now, simplify it."
I get edgy
I get edgy
I get edgy.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
I've sang for you
Danced for you
Bled for you
Bowed and curtsied
Dogged and *****
I've fought for you
I've won countless times
Ribbons and plaques
Handshakes in the dark
The game continues to play now
in my head
for you
Apr 24, 2021
Apr 24, 2021 at 8:56 PM UTC
Take my hand, friend
just for a sec-
let's leave this ****** land of
SATs, PSATs, APs,
and college admission essays and guidance counselors
and homework and pop quizzes and exams and whatever else-
behind.
Let's be two again.
Let's make Pringle-chip-duck faces
and grin with orange peel smiles-
I'll paint my nails yellow and we'll read Dr. Seuss with British accents
in the dimming light of the old
falling-down fort of pillows and blankets (that's almost too small for us)
Let's pretend
Let's pretend
Let's pretend
That we've never seen the glowing screen of
televisions, computers, IPods,
that we haven't spent weeks wearing down our thumbs on text messages.
Let's forget fights over boys that weren't even all that hot.
Let's sit in my yard and eat raw cookie dough behind my momma's back
And make too-sweet fresh lemonade, and blow dandelions
(into other neighbor's yards, of course)
Spray garden hoses at each other
and laugh and scream and giggle and make mud-pies.
Let's make twenty different secret handshakes,
Eat wild raspberries and hide sticky fingers
And pinky promise- again and again- BFFs forever.
Let's lose ourselves in the bliss of childhood
just one more time- please.
Just in case Peter Pan decides to visit.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 7:40 PM UTC
I see you
I've seen those eyes before
Drowning in patched-up paddle boats
With promises of tomorrow slipping down your face
Like saline shipwrecks fleeing harbor
And greeting the ocean floor with damaged handshakes
And now you're hopeless
Focused on could have been's and maybe one day's
Knowing one day
Swelled up storm clouds
Could slide through your cheek bones
Like sunshowers preventing your skyline parades
But I see you still searching for rainbows
Covering your face with two handfuls of imagination
Daydreaming of days where technicolor dreamcoats
Become wrapped around your soul
Like tuxedos for the bold
I've seen those arms before
Deafeated willow branches in the moonlight
Rebellious to rise upright
And now you're tired
Only fired up when your flesh
Converts to kindling on a campfire
Building sparks that shimmer for seconds
When your light deserves a lifetime
But I see you still inclined to shine brightly
Trying to assign meaning to your life with two inspired limbs
That can freely build bridges or climb mountaintops
Clinging onto hope with sturdy fists
Exploring the peaks of your potential
I've seen those legs before
Tattered toothpicks on prom night
Frozen in stage fright on the dance floor
Pressing muted prayers with each footstep
Into creaky floorboards waiting for silence to ensue
And now you're nervous
You're certain those two left feet can't possibly find the rhythm
So your shoes are the victims of bashfulness
Fearing one false step will uproot your jitterbugs
And place them alongside the butterflies in your stomach
But I see you still owning your insecurities
Because you know you're alive just fine
I see you
You are who I envisioned you to be
I see you
Brushstrokes of imperfections shaded in perfectly
I see you
It's more than just your typical hello
It's a phrase for all of us to speak solely with our souls
It can make you feel at home at the center of your bones
When all your hope is lost and there's no where left to go
So when I greet you
Listen carefully
This is a reminder that your eyes can be thunderous
Your arms can be victorious
And your legs can be ambitious
Your presence is necessary for this discussion
And your essence is accepted here
Let me speak your spirit into existence
Seeing is believing
And believe me
I see you
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Good old Gregory Goose was Gladder than any Gander could be and not Just because Nelson the Ninja Snail had said he was "JUST-DUCKY" ! This was a Very Special morning for Gregory Goose, in Fact it was yesterdays Super Special situation that made His Delight so DELICIOUS. The comment by Nelson the Ninja Snail, had simply added to His Glory! Gregory's Special Situation Had been the Unexpected Announcement that HE was to be Named "TEAM-CAPTAIN" for the Annual "Hog Wallow and Here's Mud in Your eye" CONTEST ! ! "Oh the delight" He thought, "I am to be Captain, after waiting all these years". "ME" he exclaimed ! "Captain of the South Forty Blocks"...... "W O W ' ! ! At the most convenient time of the day, Harold Hippo, Candy Cow, Curtis Chipmunk, Marvin Monkey, Beatrice Bovine and Larry Lynx decided to make a Personal call on Good Old *GREGORY GOOSE . Keep in mind Now, That Harold, Candy, Curtis, Marvin, Beatrice and Larry we're the *INSIDE, of the "INNER-CIRCLE". JUST ASK THEM !! They were on the INSIDE ! ! Well, when Gregory Goose heard the Knock at the door, He opened it with a Great Big Grin, That ONLY Gregory could Give! Before Him stood the "J U D G E S " of All Contests and Efforts. *Gregory was Beside Himself ! ! Instead of Seeing a group of Smiles and Handshakes, He saw Staring Eyes, Necks that had been stiffened AND *Gnashing of Teeth. Beatrice Bovine was the First to Speak, "Gregory, it has been brought to our attention that you had a conversation with Nelson the Ninja Snail,, and YOU didn't Rebuke his statement of being called "JUST-DUCKY". "As a result of this, *WE decided YOU "Cannot Be" CAPTAIN of the Hog Wallow and Mud in Your Eye Contest, PERIOD ! ! Gregory Simply smiled, Looked Straight into their Eyes, Quietly said "BYE", Softly Closed the door.... Turned Grinning, Knelt to his Knees, PRAYING, Thanking GOD, for the FACT,, That he, Gregory, He was Made just a *LITTLE BIT PECULIAR ! !
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 3:19 AM UTC
The wind whips
and scrapes the walls
like ivy looking for its foothold
round windowsills
and rotten wood
winter chills a new years cold
scouring for the way in
rolling barrels of fury
tumultuous spasms
unrelenting open hands
slaps the face of every bush and branch
with each pass
the lawns and meadows left
rippled like a poorly tacked carpet
the scaffolding of men rests on brace and bolts
and handshakes with the granite walls
adornments flap their benign capes
eddies of grit spiral, walking tall
Inside I watch you
like a ****** staring at the passing crowd
but not knowing where to look;
only you are everywhere
blankets and lights and even the TV
are curtains to pretend your not outside;
I need not venture out yet
at least,
not until morning
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
There is this deadly eater
Which eats through even sweating
A sneeze gives it sharper teeth
To chew the human from inside
Merging blood is its travelling aeroplane
Pleasurable kissing its smooth vehicle
We're lucky the air begrudges it
Or it will wipe us all out
Lovers must be shunned
When they are caught
Because love can't protect
It's wicked claws
It laughs at hand sanitizers
Because it is stronger than weak bacteria
And waits on death to get more flesh
One cannot be too careful
It kills even hands with experience
So stay away from handshakes and hugs
And be wary of high fevers
Ebola is real
Don't joke, don't laugh
No drug is known to conquer
So stay alert and stay alive.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2004
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
a stripe of asphalt on the blanket of green
I stare wordlessly out into other people's lives
peeking past the violet-tinted windows of the freeway
as your chat-chatter spills from your coffee cup
filled to the brim with handshakes and impatience
You clutch your earpiece tighter, scowling
as I trace the horizon across the glass
smudgy fingertips that sigh boredom
and the Mexican workers in orange vests
peer back at me curious and wave
turn to their left and shout something in Spanish
tongues dancing, slick with dust
I smile as they crumple their lunch sacks and
pitch them down into the rubble then hoist
brick by brick, stone by stone
no natural-made boundary
into the chalky air and perch for a while
to mop the sweat from their brown
creased faces and sing rowdily to their neighbors
and the immobile in the SUVs
You lock the doors fast
and pat your hair into place
I've got no time for this construction
you say, can't they build this highway somewhere else?
as you drum your fingers along to the siren song
of CEOs and business connections
You're just the same as the rest of them.
Man forever building bridges
that will only topple down.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
Its been awhile since we've talked
Close companions are hard to come by
These handshakes new people they're not enough
Love bites from my cat help it out but still ain't no touch
Like your hands I used to write about
So firm and strong you could have made me danced
And to be fair maybe I never gave you the chance
Maybe I'm just wishing on what could have been
That life was fun but it's gone
I was born again
Right now I'm just seeking for some friends
To put me back on my feet
Its been awhile for such a feat
Been caught Falling into the Earth for awhile now
Got a lot of stones to bring my soul back to me
Ground me here for the next year to be
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
He has this nervous tick.
When a person is lying he will open his mouth.
Sometimes his jaw will hit the floor.
Sometimes words will come out.
And sometimes there are consequences,
if not only a sore jaw.
He is an affable man.
Many would say he's a good sport
and in good nature, even though he's not
athletic and has severe allergies.
Handshakes are important to him.
And he understands the appeal of a thumbs-up.
Hugs are reserved for holidays,
and tears were only had at funerals.
Sunglasses optional, but the only pair
he owns he keeps
in the jacket of his black suit.
Any man that has a tendency to speak too freely,
or too much, will have to learn to talk their way out of a potentially harmful situation.
The "Gift of Gab"did not die with the smock.
It evolved with the suit.
It became five words said in three.
It is in relation to political correctness.
It's knowing that government is not ********
but many representatives are mentally challenged.
He tries to stay ahead of his mannerisms.
Raised eyebrow.
Twitching eye.
Clenched teeth.
But some things cannot be hid.
Like the vein in his forehead.
And of course his verbal diarrhea.
But he would rather expell insight
and opinion rather than hold
it in only to force it out later in privacy.
People involved in Fine Art are shot on site.
Possession of a canvas brings a life sentence.
The art departments are born from advertising.
False pretense is considered flexible.
When the program used is for the sole purpose
of manipulation you aren't expected to become angry. Government turns the clocks back, stretching time and truth,
with knowledge of a man who has done
the same, and was considered a master.
Metaphysics and a mustache,
he changed the world with a canvas,
and with an open mouth he expelled truth
and injustice to a contemporary audience.
He applied his paint with a poetic eye.
Soon he learned that you don't need
to start a fire to melt a clock.
All you need is a brush,
and sometimes a barren tree.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
busy verbalizing my merchandise
a display of teeth reefed behind my smile
because merchandise is what i am after
and The Revels watch over me
and laughter drains down through sewer grates
i am watched over
my potential client walks away
but returns again with queries
on this hot day
a smell like burnt hair raises from the gutters
and these are the streets that radiate
on this hot day
an honest clash and not some some touchy bout
and here we are
the costly coil of pushing business together ;
a lively thrive
thrifty **** you"s and a dressing down
circling the other and striking their buttons
interlaced within is a genuine pressing
toward each other goals
this partnership
swiftly made
has an extreme edge and chaotic balance
the both of us must master or abandon our productivity
shall we be served by this union
or sever fighting ?
unfit
it swerves and suffers a pity
let's keep this one brief
we manage business
handshakes
and scowl away with our wares
each of us feeling equally scammed
(we've made useful enemies at best)
i break out laughing all the same-how
and howl because i feel
that feeling that this could go on forever
and business has roots in all my moods
i crouch at the curb
the curb is abrasive
i sit
i look at the dry heat radiating off the tarmac
the slight greasy lime taste of the air passing
the roof of my mouth
the electric wires running hum into the buildings
the storm drains at the edges of the roads
where laughter siphons down to the magma of Hades
it is waning off now
and i feel vague
i stand and i scan for more players
i spot a vivid orange one
one that i may barter their aura of vigour
traded for my sketchy wares
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 9:55 AM UTC
THE MARE Alix breaks the world's trotting record one day. I see her heels flash down the dust of an Illinois race track on a summer afternoon. I see the timekeepers put their heads together over stopwatches, and call to the grand stand a split second is clipped off the old world's record and a new world's record fixed.
I see the mare Alix led away by men in undershirts and streaked faces. Dripping Alix in foam of white on the harness and shafts. And the men in undershirts kiss her ears and rub her nose, and tie blankets on her, and take her away to have the sweat sponged.
I see the grand stand jammed with prairie people yelling themselves hoarse. Almost the grand stand and the crowd of thousands are one pair of legs and one voice standing up and yelling hurrah.
I see the driver of Alix and the owner smothered in a fury of handshakes, a mob of caresses. I see the wives of the driver and owner smothered in a crush of white summer dresses and parasols.
Hours later, at sundown, gray dew creeping on the sod and sheds, I see Alix again:
Dark, shining-velvet Alix,
Night-sky Alix in a gray blanket,
Led back and forth by a ******
Velvet and night-eyed Alix
With slim legs of steel.
And I want to rub my nose against the nose of the mare Alix.
1.9k
One hundred fervent handshakes
With the bearer of neglect
The pall of days has fallen
Where our lives did intersect
And I grow melancholic
Wading through the disconnect
Oh, I stand, I sit, I lie
In this tower where I’ve kept
And my legs have lost their strength
Else I would surely have leapt
Now, I sadly tread circles
Wading through the disconnect
What was pure evaporates
Like the fleeting white of snow
So pool the melted hopes I’ve failed to protect
Dreams, used to fill the voids, now shape disconnect
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
more toes in the river bank
more jaunting through the clover field
more watching the sunrise
more catching your eyes in mine
moresmilesmore laughsmorecakes
icecream
more popcorn spilling when crying
at sad movies
less work less hate
less white on walls I want
colorlesscubicleinsanity
less cell phone ********
the notifications the calls
Less taxicabsskyscrapers
concretemortuaries
more flowers
more handshakes
more hugs more sweetness
more of feeling
less of reality
Tv
moreoldmovies
more tears
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 12:13 AM UTC
The velvet cover aroused a cringe inside,
With the touch to the diary with his wrinkled hand,
And the stolid shiver began to subside,
Pouring grin over his face, as the pages were scanned.
He stared at the words, turning the pages leisurely,
Every line he read, triggered mild sentiments,
Not very severe but gentle and silly,
Soothing and abating the repressed resentments.
The diary delineated the stories behind each verse,
With hues of despair and projections of curse,
Depicting doleful goodbyes and cheerful handshakes,
All of them crushing and sinking into the filthy lakes.
Hopping from one stanza to another,
He slowed down his pace as he moved further,
Like the dormancy of his brain and the moments gray,
The lines reminded him of his birthday.
"I'm a poem, you'd liked to take a glance at,
I'm candle you will blow, I'm the feather on your hat,
I'm the words in your veins, I'm the verses you make,
I'm the lyrics on your lips, I'm the name on your birthday cake."
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
Behold merrily dancing eyes! moonrise-hued that delight in surprise,
Waterfall-cascading hair, sleepily stirring from a golden lair,
Heaven-glimpsed in leafy disguise, powerless to resist I surmise,
Elven locks frame an Eden-parterre, a majestic Springtime fayre!
Banished Winter’s-strife, unveiled a collective bursting into life,
Love, laugher and blossom hold sway, a dress-parade in full panoply,
Nimble Elven hands serve as nature’s midwife, their deliveries run rife!
This is no chaotic affray, but the Almighty order we never gainsay.
Their unbridled gaiety I watch in wonder, but I feel such an intruder,
Stiff limbed I shake off love’s-hibernation, a lifelong affliction,
Shall I be welcome I ponder, or will they flee in panic and anger?
Their joyous souls offer salvation, unleashed a grim determination!
A rapturous-smiled greeting! handshakes and hugs - our first meeting!
Blinkers-away restores my sight, from this embrace I must not take flight,
Alas! this is mere wish-dreaming, awake my face is aglow and gleaming!
This kinship-reverie serves to ignite, a joy and happiness so eager to excite.
Gone are doubt-swirling mists, hopeful lips plead to be kissed,
This alluring Elven-dream, lures me into passion’s fragrant-stream,
No more envy-bound wrists, as I fiercely battle loves-duellists,
Folly pursuit of Crusading esteem? no courage with a steely gleam!
My brow burns with the fierce rays of Summer,
My soul plunges into despair, with the decline and fall of Autumn,
My feet are mired in the cloying-clay of a sodden Winter,
But heart-contentment sings aloud with the uplifting beat of Spring!
© Robert Porteus
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 7:00 AM UTC
I grew up moon shining past glowing street lights
and I was invited to an underground ring by a man called Life.
I met him in the ring in the middle of the night;
I threw down my gloves for ill advised street fights.
He threw down grimaces, and spit disguised as tears.
Blood rushed through ringing ears,
Blood rushed into my head, suddenly hazy with fear
and then, suddenly, blood rushed out of punctured sides.
High on adulation, I brought boxing gloves, respectful nods, handshakes, and cheers.
Life brought me low with sucker punches, broken laws, and sharp rusty knives.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
. it's like...
listening to
the freddy krueger
soundtrack...
and then...
coming across
ashleys abundance
videos...
you seriously can't
make the **** up!
handshakes with your
shadow, all the way through,
in not making diary
inquisitions,
of dietary requirements.
look at me?
i know...
creepy as the ****
that isn't,
even
closely related to punk;
i had to relate to
alternative impromptus...
i was raised on original
*** Godzilla movies...
i was questing for
an alternative to ****
can i confiscate an teenage girl
with raspy voice?
yes? no?
fuck it... lets go!
tits for bagpipes!
god almighty,
this alternative to ****
late teen girls merely talking...
about their dietary schematics...
oh yeah... date no. 1...
me?
i already have my issues...
i'm a heavy drinker...
i'm not looking for a date,
i'm looking for a ******* dog.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC