"lengthened" poems
Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.
Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allegorical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --
She loathes her curls.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
So gradual in those summers was the going
of the age it seemed that the long days setting out
when the stars faded over the mountains were not
leaving us even as the birds woke in full song and the dew
glittered in the webs it appeared then that the clear morning
opening into the sky was something of ours
to have and keep and that the brightness we could not touch
and the air we could not hold had come to be there all the time
for us and would never be gone and that the axle
we did not hear was not turning when the ancient car
coughed in the roofer's barn and rolled out echoing
first thing into the lane and the only tractor
in the village rumbled and went into its rusty
mutterings before heading out of its lean-to
into the cow pats and the shadow of the lime tree
we did not see that the swallows flashing and the sparks
of their cries were fast in the spokes of the hollow
wheel that was turning and turning us taking us
all away as one with the tires of the baker's van
where the wheels of bread were stacked like days in calendars
coming and going all at once we did not hear
the rim of the hour in whatever we were saying
or touching all day we thought it was there and would stay
it was only as the afternoon lengthened on its
dial and the shadows reached out farther and farther
from everything that we began to listen for what
might be escaping us and we heard high voices ringing
the village at sundown calling their animals home
and then the bats after dark and the silence on its road
2.9k
we got a goldfish,
for my little boy.
a tank, some coloured grit, three plants not two,
must practise goldfish fung shu.
all the water testing guff
and of course a filter.
a sunken ship
and a treasure chest .
we paid the pirate...
and took our ***** home.
so we set Bruce.
( for that was the name chosen).
up in pride of place on sidboard.
the list, above,
was positioned after meetings of commision. water tested to the highest degree,
filter fizzing, wizzing,whirring.
Bruce swam in his bag
in the tank,
for a time as instructed.
then released to a slightly larger freedom.
he swam and swam,
golden scales a flickerin.
we, (that being, mr just about three and his dad)
fed him, watched him poo, and eventually,
read Bruce,
a bedtime tale or two.
one fish, two fish by Dr Suess went down a treat.
the little man then,
was bundled off to bed.
thoughts of Bruce left our heads.
the evening lengthened.
we retired to sleep the sleep, of ignorance it conspired.
for in our planning we forgot one thing.
a devon rex cat,
who has a bath weekly,
a penchant for tuna,
no top to the tank.
so we thank the lord
for Bruce. however,
brief was his reign.
now we introduce
to you....
Murtle the turtle
who has a glass pane,
sitting above her head.
just in case......
the cat likes, turtle soup.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Let lore luster lax,
Lingered love leavens.
Let love loop lilac lei lavishly.
Listen lovelorn lilt, laconic liken
Lisping liturgy, limping litany.
Litmus-leaking longing, languor lengthened.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
(Plaster cast at Pompeii)
[THE TOUR GUIDE]
*“Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
passed through duct work in the walls. One can
imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of
his visits.”*
[BONITO]
Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.
*"The principal city roads were recessed
and wagons were required to have standardized
wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
into the stone. Follow me please to the residential
area.”*
He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.
*“Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
atria, we now enter the market area where we
shall see a display of remarkable interest. During
excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
the ash deposits.”*
The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.
*“Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
trapped in their final moments. Take, for example,
this man caught in mid-step with no time
to escape the life choking dust.”*
June, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
“Quite a piece this doesn’t come along every day”He was tapped into her forever mores or heretofore reservoirs of passion.The creme de la creme her pursed mouth prim. She couldn’t wait to lick him higher watering his rim. But after he breaststroked with her he has taken a bite fresh ****** fruit she broke. He spends all his time extolling her virtues, what’s left the first virtue ****** painting feast. For his eyes *** all day. Planting her nest.Lay Lady lay. He made this avocado melting pot-her fondue smelling hot what’s next to pursue such charm. His ears pierced like a fire alarm. blazing the fireplace. Her blush deepened like she was diced. To the ******** Asking for so much more.You were wearing your erotically to die for **** me shoes.He was the Hollywood ******* I was going to *** crave you knock you down.
Like the colonel of **** mustard spicy so **** hot.His hair deep brown. He lengthened got bigger what a shot. How the carpet just spread me to bounce my buttocks.She tried so hard to lay everything out from his bowl his manly sword like a dual. He steamed out like Maddocks Taurus bedroom eyes of the bull. So much to roll her feet heated so penetrated him to the floor.The rain was heavy and thick dripping with your creamy avocado puddle
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:08 AM UTC
It was your turn to wake me,
your arched back stretching,
muscles flexing as you
lengthened your limbs
towards me, covering my skin
with yours, in creases that
whisper,
good morning
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
It was just a wall
they were just kids
writing “freedom”
but those words delivered an invitation
to test what that meant
It was a tipping point
in the struggle to understand
the breathing pattern
of liberation
and freedom
they soon understood that first comes an exhalation
jubilee
the ecstasy of that introductory spark
Maybe soon there will be fireworks--
inhale.
one
long
inhale
swallowing the spark whole
I wonder if they understood when
they pulled off their fingernails
when they tore flesh
when they burned cigarettes
on their skin
when they drove them into the cold and blackness
This inhale has not been released
creating a vacuum
of fear
explosions writing
2 years of war
more than 70,000 dead
1,000 children
80,000 displaced
if you looked up
just once
you would see
Sleeping Beauty
the little girl, so restful she seemed
if you don’t ask how she died
if you looked at her hands, her hair, her face
and refused to look away
If you lengthened your drifting attention span
you would see her
and us
children,
in the cold and blackness
Learning to breathe again after watching our best friend being shot
or cousin tortured
this repetition doesn’t make anything easier
this infinity of sorrow
doesn’t shrink the farther you venture on
and as you watch this supposed infinity
through a screen
do not cease to be in content
with its vastness
I know what infinity feels like
and it is heavy
the bruises on my back
are noble
and I do believe my own children will one day tell of them
with pride on their tongues
but I cannot balance this weight
on backbone alone
they have burned my flesh
they have charred my heart
but I know the difference between
machine guns
and open palms clawing at the stars
they can come at me a million times
but someone will take my place
and hundreds will take theirs
because their smoke can only clear
but our flame has been born within us
We are candles in the sky
no matter how hard you blow
you cannot win
our flame will
not
die.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
1.7k
I hope you've heard my love hiding inside the melody that Donny Hathaway plays
From every poetic note folded amongst the ivory keys plucked
This heart writes light like butterfly wings fluttering in flight
But it's heavy when I barely see you
So, my vision grows old like my wishes of us
Weakened only by fleeting time
Yet. lengthened
Like desires that chain-link hopes to the wildest dreams along far streams
You could say I'm always in your hair
Wherever the strands flow, I follow its fibers feverishly
Strung along by song of nature so strong, that
I'm in a Pinocchio-state, made to move by your voice
A puppet parroting psalms to praise your personage
In the richness of your favor
In the hour of knowing
It's been a minute
And time is indeed money
Every second counts when I'm around your golden smile
I wish I could play this track forever
Or rewire my brain to rehearse every one of your favorite verses
Be the B-side of your cassette
And rewind to the best moments
Unwind together.
Ifeanyi N. Okoro II © 2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
The disposable razor, judders
across unshaven skin and sprouting
hair is defeated, left to sink into the
drain and far away from me.
This I do for you.
On goes the shampoo, the conditioner,
the body lotion (with that sweet fresh smell),
the liquids streaming off of me with
a scent I know well.
It's the scent of the night before.
The day before you and I choose
each other, once again
to spread laughter and
cure boredom.
It is for this that I bear this small
portion of self mutilation.
The hair is then burnt, or brushed or
bent, as I twist it round resisting
bristles.
All done in case you wish to nestle there.
An outfit is chosen, discarded, then re-picked to a constant monologue:
RedNOworethatonelasttime...OH GOD WHERE IS IT fuckbloodypooandAAAH,
perhapssomepurpleTHATONEnodoesn'tgononoNoNONOONOO blahblahblah.
(well, you get what I mean)
(If not...damn. Just me then?)
It's all for you.
Colours smeared onto face,
flowers pierced into skin,
eyelashes lengthened,
the trace of muscles etched into
willing legs and abs...
This I do for you.
And it's worth it, though you'll never quite know
the effort with which it takes,
to replace a sleep deprived villain with a semi
attractive teen. You'll never know,
but it's worth it.
"You look nice today"
is enough to make me quietly
preen
for hours with joy.
A look of appreciation as
you nuzzle in can make the
pain of straighteners and razors
scorch into unyielding flesh.
A kiss on the neck
which has been foundationed
and sculpted for your enjoyment
enough to make me arch like
a swan.
It's enough.
So, this I do for you.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
While I drive left-handed
you scratch at the white clouds
drifting out on the growth
of my fingernails, and
rub salient fire down tendons
toward fingers of gnarled roots
and less a hand, than work incarnate-
in essence of character. In lines, in
worried skin and flattened bones:
the misshapen unity of labor in lengthened phalanges.
You speak to me about how getting older means:
you can always remember a better time than now and
about the city of angels who never sleep,
staring open eyed, hazy with intangible halos.
How is mans great struggle now with society and no longer himself?
As the sharp angles of the road drive our skin to tight contact,
I find myself in the air between your breath and sweat slickened palms.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 11:04 PM UTC
He lay there in a ***** unkept ball,
Having surrendered to the pavement.
Wisps of stringy brown hair
Covered the lines on his sunken in face,
His yellow smoked eyes, rheumy and blurred,
His vision hazy, like a punch-drunk boxer.
Kathleen Harmon sashayed by
With nary a glace downward.
Once they were equals,
When they sat together
During high school Chemistry.
Time slowed from a Tango to a Waltz,
As a drop of saliva
Kissed the pavement.
Stringing there from his cracked, parted lips.
His tangled brown whiskers,
Patchy on his cheeks,
Had lengthened with the passing days
Since their last meeting with a razor.
Nikes, Prada, and Gucci
Ignore him in passing
All sports, fashion, and business meetings;
On the clock, and self-absorbed.
Dusk marked the sky
With a violet crayon
Worn to a nub,
Then worn to nothing.
A sudden thud startled him awake!
Then blackened hardwood stunned him as it bit into his ribs!
A caustic voice berated his slumber,
A navy blue reminder that even surrender was no escape.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
The effortless leaf fluttered in the wind, its premature disconnection being the cause of sadness for the caterpillar.
The shadow of the old cottonwood had lengthened, and its roots tunneled ceaselessly in the obscured grass.
A bird summoned forth the air, and filtered her back out, having her carry the daily song.
The dog’s ear lifted slightly as the whir of a bike chain became audible for a short time.
Sleep rediscovered him swiftly.
The field slowly absorbed the flooded acequia water.
Ducks discovered a temporary haven.
She sat in the shade, the dog panting by her side. The soft light caressed her exposed skin in the loose summer dress. She squinted up at the blur of a bicyclist, smiling.
The earth swiveled slightly. The leaf had found the ground. The caterpillar had long been pecked by a cheery, singing bird. The shadow of the tree, now extending in the acequia grove, faded with the dying light. The dog now slept inside the old house, abandoning his domain at the fence corner. The ducks found new water, as the field sighed with relief. She walked her dog back to her yard, wishing the bicycle had not been moving quite so fast.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 10:13 PM UTC
The path winded through the jungle their tread was cautious slow
Walk they must still a long way till the sun goes down below
They carried with them precious merchandise monies earned from trade
What dangers lay on their way what would befall them they were afraid.
They walked ceaseless in worried face their words broke the silence
The shadows lengthened it bothered them still long was the distance
As luck would have it there came along a retinue of tradesmen
They too were heading the same way carrying with them trade's gain.
*Thank god we have met you for we carry with us good treasure
The way is not safe we have heard dangers lurk in immense measure
We would be secure if we travelled together in large number's strength
For our wealth we must safe keep till we reach the journey's length.*
As was proposed so was done they befriended and resumed their way
Warmly chatting sharing anecdotes not knowing when passed the day
When came evening they halted at a place set up camps there for the night
Unburdened themselves for rest and gossip enveloped in glow of moonlight.
They discussed business profits bargains the many losses and gains in deals
Smoking hookahs chewing betel leaves passing time till served their meals
When dinner was over they sat together shrouded in smoke and night's song
Basking in friendship not once doubting tomorrow would never come along.
*Behind each man sat another one a silent sign game was on play
Eyes roamed on eyes death in disguise waited to fall on its prey
Then came one call ominous and small a voice said let's take break
In one clean swift sweep fastened handkerchiefs strangled the unaware necks.*
In less than a minute stopped each heartbeat with such precision was it made
Bodies lay still the hunters got their **** without much struggle and bloodshed.
They buried each corpse leaving no trace the two groups became one
In the name of Kali they had used the noose got the ***** for a job well done.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
I anticipate that on some distant roof
there must be a man waving two distinct flags,
so as to direct the flock of birds flying above me. Crossing
his arms, the fabric folding and slipping against itself
in the wind, making a noise of snaps
and swooshes and billowing.
This thought suddenly makes my jacket
seem oversized; the sleeves feel lengthened,
drooping over my hands, as though
I were still a child at play,
putting on father's army jacket on Sunday morning
before church; him in a dress shirt
and black suspenders, shaving in front of the steamy
bathroom mirror.
And I notice that I can see my breath
as it escapes the sauna of my insides.
It disperses into the February air—
no man waving flags on a distant roof somewhere
to keep its molecules from scattering
in every direction.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 12:05 AM UTC
A hundred well-metered verses written,
In praise, fall too short, in numbers too few;
And with the lengthened thoughtless hours smitten,
I stay charmed with her eye's impatient hue.
Blind will I go and believe all your lies,
A death will I die for each of your eyes.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC
Thank you
For the flashbacks
The recurring theme
The cursed motif
I hailed into the closet
From behind the sheets
I could not comprehend
The depression
Though I knew its extents
The contents
Of its origin
I could not mend
You lengthened the bend
Thank you
For setting fire to my heart
The ultimate pyre
I’ve been reborn
And forever shall your
Essence lift to the tops of trees
And, looking for breeze,
Sink instead to the dirt
And sweating leaves
Of parchment you shall never read
The scripture that strengthens
My soul-
The harmonies that have turned me
Inside out
And allowed me to see
My heart deformed
Reformed
You will rest in rot
Yellow
And
Decay
Thank you for
Dangling the wrench
Challenging me to endure
The extraction of teeth
I am removing
I am re
Moving
My love
And loyalty
And sensuousness
From the snares
Placed in vain
My veins run clean
I am recreating
A scene
A feature
A fissure
Between life
And death
I am
Fire
Rain
The original
Spring
I am swelling forth
And catching flies
I am making prints
On earth and sky
I am giving birth
To myself
I am here
Hear me,
Thank you
For throwing me down
The stairwell
And creating the echo
That woke me
And burned me
And washed me
Clean.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC
The Road ahead I prepare to travel
Full of holes and moles between metal and gravel
Replete with a series of frightening bumps
I have to drive anyway over the stumps
Roads are lonely and instill awe
Never tell the journey leads to where
Most often tend to paint despair
Makes one bewildered how to care
The hope of meeting an exotic fairy
not bothering the journey how dreary
Hope and expectations keep us moving
meeting somebody so caring and loving
The road becomes lengthened
and Goal post is far from sight
still I have no choice but to cross the bend
to continue the journey with all my might
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
The days when I could grasp life around the hips
(and hang on as she strode through sunburnt suburbia,
keeping bare feet free of puddles and chalk)
were long surrendered when my legs lengthened
into those restlessly swinging stalks
that grew down just to kick up their roots
at the possibility of roads vibrantly unfamiliar
from what they've known.
Once soft sapwood, all pliant and green
we had no wit to appreciate these pains and aches
as muscles break, tear with every step and repair themselves
only to creak the next day in protest and celebration,
each smile born of fear and exultation.
This is my new way to feel contained and stable:
as I grab your hand and slip under the library table.
There, hush sound is our breathing deep to laugh
harder and stronger, silent and crouching alive together
here, our legs feel like heartwood, the sturdy stuff
that only softens to ash when our stomachs catch fire.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
My life crosses that of a star,
and is lengthened.
Brightly she guides-
invisible scars that have strengthened,
Her insights, her listening lightness, her giving,
As absorbing the rays of the Sun,
I will take them.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 5:57 PM UTC
She saw the anticipation in his eyes
as she led gray horse from the stable.
No reins or saddle today she thought,
and stepped from the fence
to straddle his bare back.
Her hands wrapped in his silky mane,
her thighs pressed against him,
they rode smoothly through trees,
enjoying the earthy smell of the forest floor.
They climbed toward the mountain meadow,
while she matched the stallion's rythm,
moving with him, feeling his strength,
tightening her grip as his stride lengthened.
Almost there she thought, just a little farther.
Suddenly they were over the ridge,
and galloping into the pungent meadow
filled with the blossoms of wild flowers,
and the lush green grass of summer,
and into an explosion of scents and sunlight.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
We love in reverse.
The way that doesn’t make sense.
Because the extensions of my body don’t reach toward you, but away. The lines bend back and not forward, twisting me into positions that I’m not supposed to be.
And when I walk the floor pushes me away heel, ball, toe
Instead of welcoming me comfortably toe, ball, heel.
And I know this isn’t the way this is supposed to feel.
But I still need you to correct me.
Place your hand underneath my chin and tell me the floor is not my audience. Close the curtains on the mirror and make me trust. This dance is just between the two of us.
Then focus in on my shoulders, push them down and make my collarbones appear stronger. Stroke my sternocleidomastoid as I épaulment and tell me that it’s the most beautiful muscle to see. Run your hands down my arms and create the energy that is supposed to flow from my fingers as they reach for arabesque.
Move next to my torso. Hold my abs together to keep my spine aligned.
Then move your hands in a soft semi-circle from the inside of my thighs and turn them out. Hold my knees over top my toes in the perfect plié.
And then straighten them to the most lengthened position they could be, leaving them with nowhere else to go but up.
Help my feet and heart to soar as they push off the floor and then you’ve set me free.
Lean your back against the barre and watch me dance your taunting choreography perfectly.
You have made me love what I do because every time I dance I do it for you. When I close my eyes I imagine you behind me guiding my soul and showing my body where it ought to be.
You hold me tight as I lay my head back against your invisible chest and I inhale, take one deep breath before you send me spinning back into the room.
I can feel you with me, but you’re never really there. So I push away the air with my hands knowing that with one more arabesque you won’t be able to resist this chance. Because my smile is always aimed in your direction when I practice your steps, your breath, your moves.
Only for you will I seek this perfection.
And the dance goes on and on; never ending. And I’ll keep feelings things that I know not to feel, keep walking toward you all heels
No toes
Because without you this is a dance I don’t know. The extensions are fake and the lines not real.
But that is love in reverse. The combination always looks ten times worse. So I’m hoping that you’ll step out of the shadows and take me back
To the dance we rehearsed.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC