"limps" poems
Why have two arms?
If you're not willing to hug.
People are quick to punch with two arms.
Even with one arm.
You can deliver a lovin' hug.
It these limps that truly assist us.
Sure there are others.
But at the present.
I'm not mentioning them.
Altho' I'm sure the lips.
Are a little jealous.
Why have two hands?
If you're not willing to use them.
We use them to shake hands.
Altho' we have those afraid to catch a germ.
As if.
They hadn't caught germs from other items in their life.
This hug.
Which can be given with kindness.
Which can be deivered with softness.
Well, in this case.
The receiver might have a sun burn.
Or some other type of injury.
Plus, you can hug too tight.
And be banned from trying that again.
When requested to just shake hands.
Of course.
You have those that does the search and feel.
Trying to be like a detective trying to pat you down.
But for those that's truly sincere.
You personally know those that's sincere.
When giving a hug.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
Capitalism swings securely
from the crook of her arm
while Slavery gently
coils itself
around her
beautifully damaged waist...
Racism coats the
soles of her
brand new shoes
and leaves print print print
on the harsh
unforgiving
unemployed pavement.
The world cried, died
as she dyed her hair
to Honey Suckle Blonde.
It hangs: drab, limp,
strangled by the Ignorance
sitting firmly
on top of that
pretty little head.
Jagged, matted wrists
rattle around inside
imported bangles
(or manacles)
of Oppression and
Depression and
Suppression
They're in fashion.
Her eyes are drowning
in Jealousy Mascara (new)
and I Hate You shadows (old)
and, together,
her weeping heart
and painted nails
claw at Fame and Fortune
but the new shoes
and gorgeous boyfriend
just aren't tall enough.
She limps
past shattered windows
in which she glimpses a girl,
or rather, a young lady
who is very much a
prisoner of today and not
A Leader Of Tomorrow
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
It was supposed to be
The dawn of a new age;
A new set of dialogue
On a more balanced stage
With better lines for
The actors to deliver.
It was supposed to start in
The sixties and last forever.
We didn’t really know for sure
What this Aquarius stuff was
But it seemed to us to be
A metaphysical enough cause,
To change the way we acted
And to shout down the rest;
To face the demagogues
Then put them to the test.
We stopped wearing uniforms
That said we went along
With the hard-assed leaders.
We put a lot of it in our songs.
We called them what they were
Greedy warmongering ******
We protested and picketed
And promised so much more.
We spoke out loudly on TV
And in crowds in the streets
That we were through will genocide
And would not accept defeat.
We cried out that our government
Had assumed the role of villain
And was murdering for no reason
Not just men, but even children.
But, we let it all die down;
We let the government slide
On investigating the truth
And keeping the truth inside
A carefully chosen batch of
Criminals in public office.
We let them go on making war
And making money off us.
We let them cheat and lie
And re-write acceptable laws
To support their bloodthirstiness
And we gave up on our cause.
Maybe all that protesting gave
All our marching feet limps.
Or maybe it’s because all along
We were just a bunch of wimps.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
One might think
I am waiting for my knight
In shining armour, to come on his
Glorious white horse
No, I wait for my knight
With spots of rust on his armour
With weakened metal
With a war horse that limps
I'll ride on his horse
And love him not for his shiny armour
Not for his immaculate horse
Not for his perfection
We each have dark pasts
Riddled with unspeakable mistakes
Mistakes which we wish to eradicate
And we will
I'll love him for his flaws
I'll know every inch of his skin
I'll know his past, his present
And we'll create a future
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
vexed by the solidity of the granular surface
of this rough and tumble dream
i awaken to a forest of sunlight's in a dark world
to my sleep numbed mind
it resembles
the artwork of french revolt era
royal court damsel in distress figurines
dancing with dark-ages statues of plagues death
the starving meet the fed
and they struggle for who leads this dancehall of the marcarbe
burning the ashes of the old worlds dead flames
i look away to find her face
near mine
cut into shadowy sections
i hear within her spoken thoughts
the contortions her life has suffered
at the hands of grey faced strangers known intimately by her
i wish with heart and soul to reach out
and comfort
to remove the burden
the shadows of her face
are reflections of the world as she sees it
she is mesmerized by its ugliness
and she cannot close the door to her past
it lay like her childhoods bedroom
filled with broken teddy bears
and soiled sheets
if i could heal you
if i could even ease your moment
i would trade my living soul to have your smile
you are loved
you are so loved
a lame beggar in the rags of a monk
limps slowly from the effigy of a old world
as it burns with unspoken rages
white smoke from the roof
another chapter of history closed
with too many secrets
too many
but the beggar takes consolation
that she was given a second chance
a dove birthed from flames
here in the dust of the old world
you are loved
you are so loved
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
ghosts of slumber parties past.
just a haunted betamax & a stack of oreo sandwiches.
sisters braiding eachother’s hair far past the witching hour,
contemplating life without supervision.
blue house. yellow lawn.
silverback gorilla in one garage.
two garage: empty.
three garage: a woman entombed in exhaust.
[her bloated tongue]
a gang of bmx boys pizza-fed and friday-high,
hopped up on mountain dew and trading card collectible rituals ‘n rhythmics.
they conjure a demon just to **** and dismember it.
for funsies.
for keepsies.
a fang for the shrine at the foot of the old oak tree.
history on the skin, long history, long thoughts, long in the nod like a calm dead frog.
bubbled, boiled, toiled, and troubled.
the woods aren’t haunted.
you are haunted.
you are the conduit through which the darkness displays its vivid colors.
[treefort aflame]
the seasons furrow/
/ the leaves fall.
little plots of land etched out – subdivision and sprawl.
on the avenue, heaven
& hell made tame and tangible.
built, re-built, and refurbished – a lawn and a lantern.
a mortgaged glory of sparkle and decay.
[dead cat is a new cat is the old cat ran away]
pictograms of morning light display on mom’s face
as she instructs us on the gusts of love [scrambed eggs]
& teaches us the truth of nettles sprung
from violent pine.
[toast with raspberry jam]
the television.
the microwave.
the blender beverages.
hymnals of an electric kingdom.
one mom dances, the other expires.
[restless armless girls in orange sunsets]
girl with a gun at the edge of her lawn and selling lemonade.
girl in an old wicker chair.
save her horror story for another day.
boy with a bent frame bicycle limps his way home
from one end of the avenue to the other.
his pockets full of sparkly rocks found in the lime quarry pit.
one boy in a long line of lost planets.
the driveway.
the refrigerator.
the hum of a saturday night commercial-free cassette.
where’s dad?
the glow of an eerie crystal
(continued…)
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
*Make peace
with your
demons.*
Why? Why
make peace with your
demons?
Demons
keep you
alert.
Demons chase you
and you’re
forced to
run. Don’t
make peace
with them.
You made
peace with
people
telling you
off, getting
angry at you
for things
you never
promised to
do. At things
you didn’t
do but they
still found
something
annoying in
the
nonexistent
action itself.
You made
peace with
your parents
when they
didn’t
understand
your pain
and thought
life was easy
for you, so
*why not
bring you
down for a
change?*
You made
peace with
everything
bad
that’s
come your
way. ****
peace this
time. Get
angry. Get
hurt. Sink
your nails
inside your
chest and
dig until you
find your
heart. Rip it
out. Scream.
Feel dead.
Start your
war. Lose.
Defend your
ground and
then give it
to the enemy
without ever
asking
anything in
return. A gift
from the
losing side
to the
winner. (It’s
they who
lost. They
accepted
your bomb.
Tick-tock.
Let’s see
who’s gonna
count limps
when it goes
off.)
♛
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
I sit and watch a camel train go by and as it limps across the pale blue sky,shrouded in the clouds,I wonder if I could get upon a camels back and track along,could I learn the camel drover’s song?
A ditty,not so pretty,more a humpalong than any song I’ve ever heard with words that I can’t understand,though familiar in the camels land up in the sky,
Where I watch them going by.
Hip ,hop, clop, clump being a camel gives me the hump,how I wish to be a fish deep in the sea,like a whale.
I like a scale,a doh, ray, me,as far as I can see I’ll be a camel all my days and wander through a desert haze but my gaze is fixed as I roam free, on a cool and clear deep ocean sea.
Once,
I was a little thing until I grew and learnt to sing and now I don’t know anything,except
I want to be free,a fish in the sea,won’t some kind body please untie me,slip the noose and then un-sky me,set me on the coastal road,with my hump,without my load and let me smell the ocean breeze and slip into those lovely seas.
I want to be free and this you can see,before the clouds all break apart and with them goes my breaking heart and you could at least pretend to start to set me free.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
there's a hard silence here
and there is a fresh echo of the dim kitchen light
in the ***** linoleum tiles that zigzag the floor
even the air feels broken as it limps slowly
through the room
i stop near the door upon entering
and gather myself
like a ragman gathering the tattered remains
stitching the fragments of self with the thread of awareness
weave the image of self into the reality of the moment
with the hesitations of someone who has lived this moment too many times'
it will come to naught
she is alive but her heart is dead
the dust on my worn coat is from the graves of my
fallow field where we once laid a crop of hopes
but i cannot abandon her to this barren place
i know i perceive only the narrow sunstricken pages
faded and stained with the words legible only to the hardy eye
but its the deeper tale which
even the gardener of times bloodstained trophy's
would fear to tread
his leather shod hands worry the intricate gears
of the mechanical face she wears
he manipulates it to wear a lopsided grin
pantomime of happiness for my birthday
but i watch the vacant places behind the face and see that
with a blemished mechanical eye she looks out over the oncoming
evening through the livingroom window
its cracked and ***** surface turns
the setting sun into a parody of dawn
she greets me but just stares out the window
as if she is waiting a lovers return
i stand infront of her blankly
we wait for the hours to pass
i fix her tea even though it isn't broken
and make small talk
as she makes mechanical sounds
till she sleeps
i leave with the dawn
and make my way to my own bed at last
to fend off dreams that something somewhere could be different
and wake to the sorrowful song of a passing bard
his thin feet dancing on a moonlight hilltop
meant for lovers only
and he is dancing alone
alone
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
[December 30, 2016]
A brilliant statue of golden illuminated scales dances effortlessly in the sky
Twisting and turning like a bird changing air currents as if it were alive
Enormous in it's stature it blocks out the sun with powerful wings of luminosity
Flames of a dozen colors lick the air, sizzling with a hint of animosity
An evil shadow shrouds the village as the gemstone serpent soars overhead
Roaring with a thousand echoing voices, the world turns silent with dread
With a sudden shift in posture, it dives like a freshly loosed flaming arrow
The people scatter like ants beneath its hungry gaze, calling for their hero
Like a meteor, the serpent crashes into the earth with an explosion of dirt
Tendrils of fire stream from the crater as the houses erupt in bursts
Unseen mangled screams of anguish fill the scene from covered smoke
With a flap, a gust and a roar of fury, it separates air from choking cloak
Villagers stare in awe at the legendary creature standing ominously before them
Scales of crimson ruby glisten behind a furious glare of murderous intent
One brave villager steps forward, adorned in polished silver mail
The hero draws a sword, raises his shield and prepares to fail
The dragon charges forward, lashing out with tooth and claw
The knight lunges back, narrowly missing a bite from its maw
It spits fire of molten lava, melting the armor to his skin
Burning alive inside his armor, his flesh sizzles beneath his grin
Defeated and broken, he places his sword into the earth
Stumbling and shaking, he limps to the burning church
He returns with a large ruby stone in his trembling arms
He places the egg at it's mother's feet, safely unharmed
The crimson dragon solidified into a glimmering golden statue
Caressing her ruby egg against her breast, love forever true
The legends tell not a tale of a ferocious and unstoppable creature
But of a gemstone serpent, who wanted to protect her piece of nature
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
On a quiet winter afternoon
Near her balcony,
A lonely maiden sat gazing at the horizon.
Her starry eyes focused at a distant,
Wanting to know what lies beyond.
Under the bright blue sky.
A teen jumps out of his school bus
His face red with a bruise,
He makes his way towards his house.
Exhausted of his unfair life,
He limps as he climbs the stairs.
Under the bright blue sky.
Ten years go by
The two meet in a foreign land,
Bruised, broken and alone.
Their eyes lock in an eternal duel,
In a quiet a lane of a bustling city.
Under the bright blue sky.
Sixty years later
A lady gazes towards the horizon,
Reminiscing her younger times.
As nostalgia plays on the background,
She looks at her husband and smiles.
Under the bright blue sky.
Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 7:02 AM UTC
In every moon there is a man
And in every man there is a heart inside of which lives a woman
Who doesn't clean
Who doesn't cook
Who doesn't serve him
Only lives within the walls of his heart
And within every woman living in a man's heart
There is a desire to be free
It is not odd to imagine her leaving
Merely odd to see her go
Riding on the back of an elephant
In high heels
With a bottle of Chateau de Michelle
And weilding the sword of a swallowing minstrel
Drunkenly yelling songs of a time in which she never lived
And that will never leave a man
Whether the next woman comes in riding a golden chariot pulled by blazing reindeer
Or mounted on a shark wearing a cocktail dress
And while he laments her going
She regrets her ever having left
So she turns around
Looks into the vast nothing behind her
Trampled under the weight of the elephant
Cut down by her drunken fit of rage
Burned and eaten by the coming and going of others
And she sees
That beyond the husk of the home she once knew
Lay merely arteries and valves
And no soft place to lay her head
So she dismounts her companion
Lays down her sword
Crashes the bottle upon the rocks
Tears the heels from her shoes
And limps into the desert
Looking for that which she had already found
While he lie
Filling the emptiness of his ravaged heart
With the tender touch of fleeting acrobats
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
Sometime after mid night, it had rained
Putting out summer’s sultry heat
The sky had its face washed clean
And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet
The dawn is quietly breaking
Night lights still glimmer here and there
The blue firmament remains cloudless
And cool is the mild blowing air
The sleeping town is slowly waking up
And at this transitional point
I look out into the street
To see a sight that shall never disappoint
Along the road moves one, ragged and withered
His discolored white hair left unkempt
With hunch back and drooping shoulders
The marks Time has left of the hard years spent
Though age has drained his life sap away
He has a firm resolve never to beg
His frail body supported on a stick
Serves as a veritable third leg
With his staff, he perseveringly stirs
Every heap of abandoned *******
Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road
Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash
A rag picker with a sack on his back
Picking up today’s treasure
From yesterday’s discarded trash
Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure
With complaints none
He faces life and its trials
Never losing the glitter in his eyes
Though a loner in life’s dark isles
I ask myself, why every day
I routinely look for this man who limps along
And I get a quick answer
‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Reciting your enchanting beauty
My life swifts from river mode to sea
Where it is deeper and yet empty
Which drift/drives my life to agony
The wind of obsessity carries me
To a place I always dreamt to be
Placing my head in your lap I see;
A future where we could be happy
But gradually the dream gets over
As the obsessity wind gets slower
Revisiting the reality again
Introduces me to a familiar pain
The pain is not of losing you
You were not a reward to be won
But since now you're gone
I feel a friend is departing too
With shallow breath and watery eye
Trembling limps and left with a sigh
The heart beneath nearly die
The moment you said, goodbye...
I don't need drugs
To ruin my life
With an emotional outburst
Its hard to survive
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
Mister Blister, there he goes!
His shoes, they open for his toes.
His jacket has no sleeves at all.
His trousers, well, they just might fall.
He is a coarse and hairy sight.
He limps and dares not stand upright.
He has a shopping cart to push.
His bathroom is the nearest bush.
People yell and call him names,
and talk about the way he shames,
the neighborhood, and those who "care"
about the world they say we share.
But, Mister Blister is my friend.
He always has some time to spend.
He cares about what I say,
and remembers this from day to day.
He knows about my cares and fears
and what I try to say he hears.
Perhaps the others are too old
to see without life's blindfold.
I wish that he could freely live
and that the town, he could forgive.
They just don't know you like I do.
Mister Blister, I'm glad I do.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:34 AM UTC
You can get used to anything--merciless debt, infidelity, death--anything, the photojournalist thinks as he stares out his open hotel window to the beach where two boys lay covered with white sheets.
The bombs fell an hour earlier. Upon impact they didn't so much make a sound as absorb it, syphoning off laughter over mimosas in the first floor cafe, blurring the start-stop of traffic into a shapeless background hiss. He was out there when it happened, on the beach, walking his morning walk.
From one hundred yards he took in the flash, the upheaval of sand, reaching for heaven and then, all at once, subject to gravity's retreat. He knew there would be a second bomb, like when you're cutting a tomato, and you look at your finger then to the knife, and think, I'm going to cut myself, and a couple slices later fulfill the prophecy.
He didn't rush to the boys. He got his camera out of the bag, grabbed the lens, adjusted for distance, for the wane morning light. Boys screamed and ran. He wasn't sure how many, four, five. The second bomb hit. One boy, smaller than the others, rode the sand upwards and back down. The photojournalist thought he tried to get up, but he wasn't sure.
He knew better than to rush over. An unidentified person pointing a vague object at the children on a satellite feed would garner backlash. So he waited, surveying the slight waves break, the gulls continuing flight.
Parents, people he assumed to be parents, moaned in an unfamiliar language. Their sounds though, both guttural and sharp, said all. He approached. A man picked up the smallest boy, his lifeless limbs, doll-like and pierced with shrapnel, hung off to the side.
He took twenty-five shots from behind the lifeguard's post, using the telephoto zoom. He lowered the camera and made eye contact with the father.
Now, in his hotel room, there's an urgent knock at the door. A voice shouts. The email sends. He drops his laptop in the bag with the rest of the gear. A taxi pulls into the roundabout outside.
When he lands he's not sure if he's fractured his ankle or just sprained it. He limps to the door, climbs in, says, "Airport."
"Maa?" the driver says.
The photojournalist punches the seat. The father of the boy, along with three other men, approach.
"Maa?"
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Burly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn
Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch
A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn
Amongst endless blanch green fields which
Arc with a gust and apart where he treads,
Dragging his silk cape afar from flame
Clueless and concussed to a near house he heads
With a tattered scarf that constricts yet ***** about his mane
Black fists of cloud had boomed around him as they soared
His beast spat metal fire whilst the pale sky turned dull
The zipping ballet of warfare smiled throughout as motors roared
Gnashing its teeth and making forgotten martyrs of them all
Shuddering not from demise rather conflict as a whole
He is as content with death as he is to survive
Just not burn the world and condemn his soul
A horror; men of rule seem keen to keep alive
An agrarian self-dines rancorous and crocked
Half sat, improperly perched from where he was shot
Monsters had come for him once before this day
They took his spouse and his daughter and then took them away
He can hear but does not hark to the battle aloft
It is now like the rain and the trees in a gust
But to the boom and the shake he stands with a cough
And as he cites the invader he sees he must do what he must
The grower limps out with a Chassepot in his arms
As the airman’s hands reach up and he falls to his knees
With beads on his brow the man pleads with met palms
The crofter sees naught but a Prussian blue monster disease
The pilot knows his death, ‘Ich bin nicht sicher, wo ich will gehen?”
The old Frenchman just sniggers as he thinks never again
With the rifle’s slug now spent and the horror sent back to his hell
The farmer mumbles to himself, ‘je dois me chercher une pelle,”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
A far off rumble, like a premonition,
Disturbs the quiet urban biosphere.
Soon, flashing, scattered thunderstorms appear,
Depositing an icy ammunition.
A domed volcano wakes from long remission,
Explodes, contaminates the atmosphere.
The sun retreats behind a ****** smear
And all the world submits to dark perdition.
For weeks the crumpled vegetation limps
Along and feeds on fallen carcasses.
The battered monuments to progress fall
And Wall Street übermensch, now useless gimps,
Assemble near their ruined businesses
And ponder why their profits tend to stall.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
in dishes made for food
in cups made to drink
***** hands will hold them up to block the sun
like people forced to work
to soften clanks against their plate
a stair rail forced to break
sits kindly beside it’s well
exactly almost where it’s meant to be
like mom starts her shift
beneath her wheels will turn
and turn and turn
a worn down walking cane
pushed through door handles
assigned to keep it shut against the wind
a woman limps across
with all her weight she leans
between the handles, against the creaking crane
exactly almost where it’s meant to be
like when i go to work
the pull of chatting with a friend
you feel the forming group
exactly almost where i’m meant to be
exactly almost
exactly almost where I’m meant to be
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 2:51 PM UTC
Did you find a love to hold through cold and lonely nights?
I did, once upon a fairy tale ago.
He came to me warm and wrapped in tropical winds, singing sweet songs of southern seas, making me believe once more.
Did you find a love to call your own?
Mine was my life, my whole, my all.
He drww me close and filled my life with joy and happiness
Did you find a love that broke your heart?
Mine still limps along shattered, bloodied and bruised, searching for a quiet, still place to heal,
knealing at the foot of promises.
Did you find a love that was so true and believe in love once more?
I've searched and searched my lifetime through and I will search for one so rare, to find a love that's truly mine and find someone who cares!
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
A heaving dog struggles to its feet.
Streaks of
the sun,
egg yolk,
lemonade,
coalesce in foam.
I look it in the eye
as it limps away.
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 2:04 PM UTC
When all we had to show from
several sunlit days
was skin burned red from heat
we learned to avoid the light,
learned that freedom breathes
in darkness, where shadows cloak
secrets and we become blinded
by anything beyond this warmth
of togetherness. Light limps
toward us in the demands of dawn
so we hide beneath the shade
of trees, and in the rustling of branches
during storm the wind sends her message,
barely a sigh in the rumbling thunder
but something about white flags
and the closing of curtains.
But I won't surrender, for in nightfall
I've discovered that I don't need
candles or stars
when I have the glow of your eyes.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 7:54 PM UTC
A word, a smile
A fleeting glimpse
A hug, a laugh
A heart that limps
My shattered soul
Is left again
To find my heart
My strength within
Not giving up
Not backing down
Walking thru life
Without a frown
Head held high
Trudging on
Looking ahead
To find my dawn
A shining light
Within your smile
Has made my life
More worthwhile
You reached inside
And found my heart
Promising me
A brand new start
You took the pieces
Of my broken soul
Loved me gently
Until I was whole
Laughter and love
Will now lighten our days
The love that we have
Will last…..always.
April 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
My emotional life
Is a blind three-legged mule called Idiot
He limps around, occasionally falling over
As he wanders in circles in his darkness
Because he is an idiot
He makes no sense of the sounds he hears
And so, out of compassion
I've decided to put him out of his misery
Click
Bang!
By Phil Roberts
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
With shallow breath and watery eye
Trembling limps and left with a sigh
The heart beneath nearly die
The moment you said, goodbye...
I don't need drugs
To ruin my life
With an emotional outburst
Its hard to survive
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC