"lithesome" poems
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas
Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in the impractical
and cloaks them in the absurd overreaching of the tired clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits their lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement
I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their 'water-weight' make's them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently acquired her namesake
Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women)
women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle
akin to puppy chasing her/his tail
or require digital scale,
at the extreme alt right registering heavy
ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads
whether young or old ought to be appreciated
not waifer thin self starved as a rail,
instead they suffer unfair injustice
like a trapped quivering quail
thus this fatalistic, generic,
and holistic landlubber
wanted to point head lee
hammer home one secure
heterosexual ******* stronger than
omnipotent Marcy's Playground
weather beaten pail
Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail
into the coffin of bias
against bevy of beautiful babes
within the mind of this male,
who inherited genetic predisposition
for being average, hearty and hale
yet feel compassion for those engaged
in an ongoing with battle of the bulge,
hmm... perhaps hiding ample *****
akin to milky sopping wet grail
or accepted unequivocally themselves
without envy of lithesome women,
who seem to possess flair with nary a flail
yet possess much love to avail,
and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally
despite premium aesthetics considered svelte
which mass media accentuates de facto spelt
definition of femininity aka runway models
donned in faux animal pelt
whose deliberate self exhibition
prompts madding crowd of man
to waggle tongue with slack jaws
as if ready to melt
or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt
drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Day in.
Night out.
Inhabit the uninhabitable.
Burn,
and smolder.
Who left you behind?
**** to ****
Lip to lip.
Restless lovers on a summers night.
No frill and lace for you.
Decrepit corpses of once treasured breaks.
Repulsive and lovely.
Persuasively fickle.
Sinews haphazardly soldered together.
Lithesome substance,
leave your remains.
Salacious.
Canine.
Obsessive.
Cancer.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
and often nights? i -
i’ll have no trouble
it’s the screens that
do me in.
the fallen angel
the lithesome, spent glow
of do-overs
it just
does me in.
i am too possessed
by mercurial vapor
a dead self
at 2 and 3 and 4am
egging on, asking
“keep looking? it’s
somewhere in the archives.
it has to be.”
i promised, i promised
i wouldn’t, i promised
or I’d spend months
years, decades of life
living in the guesswork
the in-betweens
lying in the pathways
between the thought
and the reflex.
i could scroll a whole
lifetime away
in wanting.
it’s the screens that
do me in.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
I am not a writer. I just write.
I am neither a poet.
I just want to drift and become a poem
And you will write me without complexity.
You see I am just a prose
IRREGULAR
and
ORDINARY
Still you see my beauty - loud and trenchant.
Your hands mapping out the verses of my skin
As I feel the warmth of the words I wanted to hear
From those lips I have kissed.
Your thoughts lithesome as they sashayed on ink and paper.
I can see how you etched my flesh like scars I wanted to bare in their own nakedness
For I have been a savage for too long that I want to be something you ignite with a touch
I do not write.
No, monsieur
I do not.
I cannot.
You see me and read my like a poetry when I am simply a prose
You looked through my soul
Loved me beyond all of my flaws.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
weeping willows dangling their thin
lithesome leafed branches curved in
genuflection caressing the
surface of life giver Aqua
as if the brimming pool perhaps
a creation of its own weeping
from leaf through root to leaf seeping
age old unbroken circle of life
memory of fingertips rife
trailing ripples that won't collapse
Gently did I scull the rented skiff
disheartened grief stricken and stiff
opposing tomorrow's defeat
my heart heavy struggling to beat
as if lead had bound it in straps
already my mind's in sorrow
seeing my sadness on the morrow
the Greyhound bus diminishes
until it slowly vanishes
leaving me standing with our scraps
of long hot steamy summer nights
holding to each other despite
the sweat that passion delivers
though in August's heat we shiver
cold promenades, foggy wraps
through damp dense swirling wraiths we tail
pretending to be on the trail
of Jack the Ripper in our hood
the hammered trilling of our blood
when passion and play overlap
last spring your pirouettes in flowers
demanding all of my powers
to not burst in flames of lust
my love for you just that robust
you kept your feelings under wraps
how could our sweet love have come to
I need to get away from you
a cheap bus ticket to "the Bay"
is now an entire world away.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
Face-paint and a checklist set,
Routine tricks and heart that beats.
Innocence pleased and wonder shared,
With coupled hands and vision blurred.
Coloured fortune masquerades,
As crinkled eyes remember well.
Lithesome youth brings light to shade,
Stifles dark and empty days.
Box and hats exaggerate,
Buttons broken call to mind.
Praise for present details found,
In simple cues and objects round.
Silence weeps in lonesome ease,
Of home and tears that shed.
Weary in his aging skin,
His mind will rest free of sin.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
I open my eyes
The woman stands
At the foot of my bed
She looks at me
Unblinking
Watching
Waiting for something
I don't know her
Never seen her before
She's dressed formally
As if for dinner
Black gown
Crimson sash
Long white gloves
How'd you get in here?
I ask
Coughing the words
From my shriveled lungs
Nothing
Silence
She doesn't speak
I question her again
Who are you?
Again, nothing
She just stands there
A pillar
A gravestone
Still as marble
I look up
Up at her face
Her face
Oh God, her face
Slender
Pale
A classical beauty
If I were a younger man
I would say I were in love
But if I were a younger man
I wouldn't be here now.
Lying
Helpless
Choking on nothing
She steps forward
My breath quickens
The monitor in the corner
That eternal noisemaker
Beeping
Beeping
Beeps faster now
She smiles at me
I smile back
Or try to
My face feels stuck
I struggle
I strain
It won't move
I try to say something
The words are slurred
Strange noises come out
She raises a finger to her lips
Shhh
Calm
Everything is alright
The sound of her voice
It's beautiful
It quiets me
It sounds strange, though
Elegant
Foreign
But so cold
Cold?
She steps even closer
Out of the shadow
I see her eyes
Grey
Unfeeling
Pinning me down
I can't move
Can't stop staring at those eyes
The eyes of the dead
They seem to grow
Larger
Deeper
Swallowing me up
Still staring at me
Staring into me
She lifts her arm
Pulls off her gloves
Her hands
Those hands
Hands of a skeleton
Her hands are so pale
Paler than the rest of her
Almost pure white
I look now at her fingers
Long
Lithesome
They look fragile
She reaches out
Towards me
I try to pull back
The monitor beeps again
Faster
Faster
Beeping too fast
She touches me
Cradles my head
Reaches into my mouth
Pulls something out
It's warm
It's glowing
It looks alive
I think it's my soul
My vision clouds
Darkness eats my peripherals
The monitor beeps again
Slower
Slower
Beeping too slow
All of a sudden I see pictures
Scenes from my life
Played out again before my eyes
It was a good life
Full
Significant
With no regrets
I realize something
I must be dying
I realize something else
She's not a woman at all
An angel?
That's it
The Angel of Death
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
Moon mantled in clouds
From it falls tears of Heaven
Lotus kissed with dew
Barefooted, she walks
A lithesome body in white
Rose cheeked, tear-brimmed eyes
Her skirts made of mist
as she twirls and piroettes
and reaches for you
Her sleeves are water
They wave high, above her head
Drops become crystals
As she shines so bright
Crowned with cassia-blossoms
on her silk black hair
But why does she cry?
She hears the music of life
and yearns for the flame
The flick of her wrist
The lake murmurs its sad song
And she's reminded
As the petals rain
In hemp or rich brocade
We are like vapors
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
From my slice of ample darkness and space,
I look at you from all the stirrings of things,
dancing though you cannot dance,
leaving planetesimals all over the terrain.
I can sense out a locutionary from the heated body
beside me. Surliness so sure of its dagger in hiding,
slowly creeping up like cocoon of morning.
That was you in your off-shoulders.
Collarbones, caryatids, tilted atmosphere
summered, simmered into the air
until it died in a hollow jar.
And from your foreground, rusting is the wind
and it falls down on the lawn, like garlands
spread all Autumn by a sprightly, darling child
in a lithesome gingham dress.
My hands, past vertical, destroying limits,
feeling the weight of mercurial form begin
shifting into a disturbance in lotus stature,
fraying out of phase in limited access,
this height where springs of undecipherable fogs
lift the face of clocks, unwatched,
whose departure is this but only distance knows?
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
Keep your trees, keep them for your heaven of ashen dusk
And night like the pale-faced deathmask of emperors,
No reason that the commoner to oblivion is hushed,
These old-wise woods and leaves, peopled without us.
Keep Macedonian dust lightly conquered over the breeze,
So that it shoots its tail like the centuries-sole comet,
The scorched earth left by Alexander’s mapmaker eyes,
Swung wide like his Sarissophoroi over Persian might.
Remember the lesser grove of his teacher Aristotle’s tribe,
They have only slipped their sandals off, to bare themselves
Of sound and the concourse of the foot’s impulse,
Caught the lithesome wind, to flow outside our hearing,
And muse as empire of air and loss and forgotten walks.
Keep your trees and the darkening sky through them
That remind me of the passing into the past.
Never is the poem from tongue of ***** or plow.
Jan 21, 2020
Jan 21, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC
women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle
akin to puppy chasing her/his tail
or require digital scale,
at the extreme alt right registering heavy loads
whether young or old ought to appreciated
as waifer thin self starved as a rail,
instead they suffer unfair injustice
like a trapped quivering quail
thus this fatalistic, generic,
and holistic landlubber
wanted to point head lee
hammer home one secure
heterosexual ******* stronger than
omnipotent Marcy's Playground
weather beaten pail
Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail
into the coffin of bias
against bevy of beautiful babes
within the mind of this male,
who inherited genetic predisposition
for being average, hearty and hale
yet feel compassion for those engaged
in an ongoing with battle of the bulge,
hmm... perhaps hiding ample *****
akin to milky sopping wet grail
or accepted unequivocally themselves
without envy of lithesome women,
who seem to possess flair with nary a flail
yet possess much love to avail,
and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally
despite premium aesthetics considered svelte
which mass media accentuates de facto spelt
definition of femininity aka runway models
donned in faux animal pelt
whose deliberate self exhibition
prompts madding crowd of man
to waggle tongue with slack jaws
as if ready to melt
or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt
drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
A woman is a graceful thing
She is a bird with golden wings.
She is a kite with rainbow tail
She's a tall ship in fullest sail.
She's like clouds of nebulae
She's a moon in Martian skies
She's a kittens purring sigh
She's the Black Swan as it dies.
*[chorus]
If a lass you wish to woo
A lithesome lady, eyes of dew
Stroke her when the day is new
Let your promises be few
Action! It is what you DO.*
If she's a lady you should win
She wants an engagement ring!
What she craves is simply this
'Tis NOT just how you spoon & kiss
After love's beatific bliss
'Tis holding hands when you grow old
She's looking to your very SOUL.
[chorus]
.**BRIDGE:
PUT YOUR PRIDE UPON THE SHELF
DON'T IMPRESS HER
WITH YOUR WEALTH
IT MAY GO... AS MAY YOUR HEALTH!
DON'T USE CUNNING
DON'T USE STEALTH...
LOVE HER AS YOU WOULD YOURSELF.**
Catherine Jarvis
11/14/2019
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 2:34 AM UTC
Upon prima facie first blush
me mind's eye all atwitter,
sans long forgotten
"FAKE" ****** exploits
set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter,
boot like short order cook I hapt tubby
quickly realized trumpeting collusion,
a near fatal collision course
with Matthew Scott's antimatter
caw zing friggin insomnia
finding ma noggin scrambled
likesome lithesome cockamamie critter
whipped into frenzy
like battered butter
holy grits, alm manned in fight of ma life
cause I haint acquitter
baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling
hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter,
this raging red bull inside me mind,
now body wheeling wickety wack,
lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter
bitta asthma - insides
got balled into wah racket
like quietly rioting unfetter
herd plain tennis (see) hens,
gone south tub bespatter
ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky
reducing gray matter,
and all flesh sundered
into meaty platter
to pulverized, irradiated,
cremated... faux fluffernutter batter
analogous tummy Aunt
Jemima's famous flapjacks,
she fantastically fashioned better
than Betty Crocker
tossing spatulated glommed
**** suitable as bonesetter
high as the Taj Mahal,
while she merrily jabbered,
her native patois singsong blatter
all this inaudible clatter
muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter
madly clangorous dinner cowbells
aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter
ring jitterbugging fantasies
of barenaked ladies doth splutter
as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry
like cocky rooster that did stutter!
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
On one elegant evening
I was enjoying myself with the atmosphere
unexpectedly one colorful butterfly pass nearby me and prevent me
It interrupted me
I relate myself with that colorful flying butterfly
I was showing myself in it
It's delicate
It's fickle
It's lithesome
It's a too hard worker
It's ambitious to touch the sky
As like me
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 6:56 AM UTC