"maneuvers" poems
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and
Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at
One another. Heaping piles of human soup.
Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and
Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined.
Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly
Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams.
Streamers above a long rooting movement.
Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman,
Legs pressed tightly to the chest,
Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls
In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat.
Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up
I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.
Stage two:
Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar.
To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips
In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth.
We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was
A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.
Stage three:
***
Stage four.
***
Stage five:
As we earn our pageantry to take
Stride on this Earth, and string a
Great bow of eager success among all of us,
You, me, them. While I continue to
Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a
Cup of tea instead.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight
outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.
i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.
let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ****** and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! **** **** **** **** **** ****
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
The rustic sheet of a door screams as we pull it like a scab
We step inside this warehouse can
Two floors - we're holding hands
His eyes lit like a crescent Moon - excited, he yells "daaad!"
Our head, like swaying swing
We see it all, tongue in cheek
Like controls without the freak
It's so much fun it stings
An asymmetric wasteland
Convenient and distorted
The walls - bleak and boarded
A symbolic sleight of hand
This is where we feel
My father's on the catwalk
Like paranoia paraphernalia
My son's grip tightens, it's the only thing that's real
Absolute felicity
To realize what I have in the confines of my hand
Imperfection in the making - he doesn't understand
Skylarking permissably
A reverie to remember
His smile - sifting through his eyes
Warm, he maneuvers like the flies
He was born in December
Moving closer to my father
He's amidst the in-between
Consistently foreseen
His motion is no bother
He steps along the ply
Somehow keen in his demeanor
Four-years-old, but greener
Tossed and turning - it's the gleaner
The sheet has been disturbed
He's falling to his death
I'm blanketed in sweat
This cannot be deserved
My father's eyes - they match my own
I tear through the distance
Foreseeing and consistent
My father is a witness
The fear - he's fighting falling
We've never known it more
His tiny hands just wishing there were nails
Collective - we're losing all things
I grasp a finger as he falls but not enough to bring him back
My son approaches pavement as it fills my throat the same
I look him in the eyes as they melt away in pain
My body wakes without my mind - hysterically screaming "DAAAD!"
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
I hadn’t spoken for so long
a tiny spider had moved in
at the corner of my mouth
eating my words
my tongue laying limp like a
slain dragon at the bottom of the cave
like a king who passed away right there
on his throne having given the last order
my arms almost as still as uncontested borders
only palms carry out maneuvers
and fingers patrol the manifestation of expressions
commanded by thought fibers
like puppet soldiers
and the lines in the sand are words
born of themselves
telltale heartstrings stalking now the realm
just outside the eye orbit
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 7:09 AM UTC
Burnt toast and
a spot of blood.
Father dresses for work
and leaves with a wave,
his gabardine suit
the exact same shade
as the storm cloud blooming
on the back of his left hand.
After breakfast, mother pins
his undershirts to the wash line,
clothespins clenched
between broken teeth.
From my upstairs window,
I watch his shirts stiffening
in the flinty December air,
a chorus of white flags,
obsequious and clean.
Mother recovers in the laundry room,
where the floor is dusted with feeble
grains of spilled detergent.
I spend the afternoon
preparing for the sound
of tires crunching on gravel,
for the sweep of headlights
across the lawn.
There are plans
and maneuvers
to arrange.
Counterattacks.
Even now, the snow
on the side of the road
has turned to the color
of my childhood.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Casper was ****** in the *** by fifty Muslims.
He was ****** twenty-five times on top.
He was also ****** thirty-seven times bent over a wheelbarrow
And eleven more times at the bank.
He was ****** at night in the ***
His *** was a bit ruptured.
He was born for getting ass-rammed!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper got ****** in the *** brutally
And the fifty Muslims' ***** was ****** on his tonsils.
He was up to his eyeballs in Muslim ****
He was so full of *** he had to ****
This guy really took a **** pushed away the Muslim ****
And took his own ********
And started ******* himself in his *** brutally.
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper was taken to a hospital by an ambulance.
At the hospital, he told the doctor to say ******* licker".
After the doctor said ******* licker".
He got on top of Casper and started ******* him in his *** brutally.
So far, Casper was diagnosed with holy freakaholic
And became loose for super duper maneuvers!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper, Casper
Casper the homosexual!
Casper the homosexual!
Casper the homosexual!
Casper the homosexual friendly ghost!
Rock over London, Rock on Chicago!
Western Union: It's the Fastest Way To Send Money!
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
Maybe in another universe are we all free
Maybe in another universe do we have our own will
Maybe in another universe do we tame sin and advocate prosperity
Maybe in another universe do we encourage diversity
Maybe in another universe do we differentiate based on morals and not plain ethnic variety
Maybe in another universe are we in control of our own minds, and bodies
Maybe in another universe do we think for ourselves rather than follow others' paths
Maybe in another universe are we not in denial of invisible surrounded hierarchy
That divides us.
That feeds us.
That maneuvers us.
That disables us.
That obtains us.
And proclaims us theirs.
Maybe in another universe...
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
I sliced a fresh banana today
alone at my kitchen counter.
I drew a common table knife
and carved a slender yellow disc
that lingered on the blade.
The next disc drove it off the knife
and down to the cereal below.
Soon the banana was all partitioned
and the Cheerios mostly masked.
I popped the heel in my mouth.
Childhood memories crackle
like a radio slightly off its station
and I can almost hear mom
talking softly as she slices -
I am barely listening.
My left hand holds an imaginary banana
while my right hand maneuvers
a non-existent knife.
How strange the knife I held so real
yet the shade of mom merely conjured -
far too strange to truly believe.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
He is my least favorite vegetable.
No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
Boiling-
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.
when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.
I fry him, striving to remove the
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility
I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism
I must instead attempt
to comment
(arduously, fraudulently)
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
every.
serenity.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Among the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and
red crag and was amazed;
On the beach where the long push under the endless tide
maneuvers, I stood silent;
Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant
over the horizon's grass, I was full of thoughts.
Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers,
mothers lifting their children--these all I
touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them.
And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions
of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than
crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the
darkness of night--and all broken, humble ruins of nations.
1.8k
There were eight or ten of them little boys, it was difficult to count them, for they kept swinging madly on their roller skates on the court hardly the size of a basketball court, sweeping along in a bunch after the ball with their sticks poised and stretching out tense for the strike, dispersing and twisting in wild patterns and then going after the ball yet again, straining forward for speed, navigating smoothly, dangerously, sticks clacking, shoulders pushing, shooting off the course and with maneuvers of the feet and the knees and the hips and the flailing hands recovering balance, laughing, and now from all corners converging on the far goal post to attack and defend, the goalkeeper strung bristling as a cat confronting an attacking pack, and as the whole court touched a beat to the imploding moment, there was this lady shouting from the sidelines, shoot, Rahul, shoot, shoot!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
Lies in a bath tub,
filled to the brink.
He has tried to go under,
He has tried to sink.
He maneuvers his fingers slowly,
To the edge of the blade.
His goal is to only,
Make the memories fade.
But not much will change,
The more he will suffer.
Lets try again?
One cut after another.
Warm blooded,
The water turns red.
He is still alive,
He is not dead.
His hope is religion,
His strength he must trust.
Take all the bad memories,
Turn then to dust...
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
There's three ways of fighting.
Agressive-Using attacks and offensive maneuvers.
Defensive-Blocking and deflecting attacks.
Controling-Using your enemy's attacks and defenses against themselves while not aggressively attacking them nor defending against their attacks.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 2:39 AM UTC
The Gift of the Sleeping Magi
**"But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts,
these two were the wisest.
Of all who give and receive gifts,
such as they, are wisest.
Everywhere, they are wisest.
They are the Magi."
O. Henry**
The woman, traveling alone, thru dangerous
West Side badlands, dancing lands,
where resident fairies, ex-ballerinas all,
magical mystify a passerby's thoughts,
mesmerizing them with their mercurial maneuvers,
tango dancing upon shimmering glass pieces,
enslaving all who gaze upon them forever,
turning their captives into sleeping beauties.
Restlessly awaiting her return,
the hombre-lover early retires
to the bed chamber,
weary from another day's
woeful world worries,
long past midnight, he awakens,
disoriented, discombobulated,
and alone.
Fearing the worst,
he summons her return with text spells
and magical ringing cell's bells,
all to no avail.
He dresses,
readying for the search,
to bring her home.
Ready to depart,
he opens the door,
only to find the woman
asleep before their door.
Unwilling to awake
her sleeping hombre,
she gifts him a
rest undisturbed.
Shoulder grasped, elbow guided,
her eye glasses surgically removed,
he returns her to their bed,
to complete her own rest.
instantly, she is re-gifted,
colliding with a gravity pulling her,
into a pleasurable deep sleep.
Now wide-eyed awake,
the hombre muses and
poetry pens this tale
of his restless confusion.
O. Henry's words refurbished,
rise up, infiltrate his consciousness.
**Of all who give and receive gifts,
even the simplest,
rest undisturbed, rest completed,
they are the wisest,
everywhere they are wisest.
They are Magi.**
2::03 AM, a few years ago.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Multiples Personalities
I’ll defeat you, I said
I have study your every moves
You clustered my inside,
Gasping for air, I struggled
It snow, I wore a tee shirt
No boots though, I took the train
Trouble follows me
Outrageous! I scream
Split personalities, alters assembled
At court street, Nevins and Applebee
Each taking turns to maneuvers in the cold breeze
I fought with all my might,
then headed to the voodoo priest
Gibberish sounds he offered
However, not for too long
With some great effort
Conquering we fought the beast
Depression you lose; we won.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
In her dreams, the docent
maneuvers schoolchildren
down museum corridors,
shepherding their bodies
into evacuated galleries
where nothing changes
except the patterns
of nails hammered
into plaster walls.
She speaks pedantic
falsehoods until one
by one the children
disengage and find
themselves a constellation
of nails upon which to hang.
A renaissance takes time, but
not as much as you might think.
Come midnight,
the museum is full
of masterpieces.
And though the works
of art make her weep,
the docent is inspired
to study each small frame
for a brushstroke
that might signify
the break of dawn.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
Love Everlasting
Until the last gasping of my life suit
United we savor life’s sweet fruit
Free our minds from the pains of the winds of change
Life is grand and love is strange
The water that flows in a universal way
Regardless of time and space
Unseen intelligence maneuvers the actors on stage
Like Melatonin and DMT in a dreaming brain
No matter what the situation they all relate
Just metaphysical metaphors to the cosmic state.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
My body disobeys me.
Each step forces me to exercise parts of my body
I didn’t know had subsisted.
I hardly controlled my maneuvers,
as I basically drifted.
Even my helmet is showing signs of weakening,
under these steepening,
enormous pressures.
Terrified and trembling with my humanly gestures,
I must have sent vibrations throughout
the cold water as the creatures began to circle over my head.
I could see off in the distance
the submarine of my former occupation.
A distant iconic stationary emblem of my failures.
Then, the porpoises and scaled beasts parted
to contrast a heavenly sight.
*No corpses or failed feasts started
in the ballast of this night.*
For a maiden of duality
saved my beckoning soul
from the eternal slumber
that had otherwise awaited.
The rest of this tale I leave up to the mystery
of word of mouth.
But what must be said is that underneath
the blue waters lies
much that we do not begin to conceive.
Take it or leave it,
I cant force a man to believe.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
She was poetry,
The way her curves aligned,
Bouncing out the walls of a perfect physique,
I could write verses of her.
She was music,
Her voice would rhyme it's own articulate songs,
Roaming the airways--
Her voice traveled down halls,
Lined With famous portraits,
She was the "Mona Lisa"
--of poetry.
She was the sun,
The moon,
The sky,
She was life,
AND she was temptation,
The chill down my spine,
When foreplay leads with ice,
When water melts and maneuvers itself in hot places I never thought,
Felt good cold.
She was poetry,
She was music,
She was Life,
She was temptation,
AND she was beauty,
Most importantly she was everything she wanted to be and more.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
We stilled the ghosts of the past,
after a prolonged dog fight.
Targets obliterated
thanks to our fighter pilots,
with their swords of light
and skillful maneuvers.
Remember it like yesterday,
the phantoms danced
an ecstatic samba,"Let's eat poppy flowers"
the chant rang throughout the dance.
The river of fire, we reached at midnight,
inner light flowed and we wept,
that was a night of silver blasts,
sky lit in brilliant white,
deep silence of the stars froze in to diamonds.
Find me meditate in the thicket of clouds,
we heard winged angels of peace ringing
silver Christmas bells, aloud.
When the stars winked at me my being came alive
with the boundless light of cosmic pyhrotachics.
*The big dolphin jumped up braking
the frozen sea mind,
Come now, we'll walk the whole distance smiling.*
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
when those we have elected tell us blatant lies
and call them “alternative facts”
we should not wait too long to call them liars
make them aware that we don’t share
their newspeak fantasies and visions
removed from everyday reality
nor do we treasure their maneuvers
that keep the media all hyped up
reporting every tweet as if it were
one of the ten commandments
Moses once held up in stone
while
unmentioned
behind quite secret White House doors
the leader’s relatives and cronies
incompetent but greedy
are nominated for positions of whose duties
they do not really have a clue
a friend of oil & coal & fracking
supposedly protects our environment
an ignorant billionairess
who never really saw a public school
is now in charge of education
a business man with heavy ties to Russia
is asked to steer our foreign policy
a judge well known for his quite racist bias
is thought to fit into the supreme court
and many of the Wall Street’s alligators
whose swamps the current leader
has kept promising to drain
all through his great campaign
are happily assembled ‘round the trough
of power influence and money
facts quite ‘alternative’ indeed
from those that had been promised
for over more than a whole year
by that self-styled
‘candidate against the establishment’
with not so secret Russian ties
simply unbelievable
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:14 PM UTC