"miniature" poems
"This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did ******
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant ****** drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending."
-Marge Piercy
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
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
This salt
in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a broken
voice,
a mournful
song.
In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.
12.3k
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'
Ankles dry, calloused thoughts, skin peels to reveal oozing flesh. **** sinks in and swallows floating zinc; immune. Consuming ex-cadavers in mall parking lots and pushing the crippled in shopping carts, an ankle twisted, a mother swallowed monetary ***** the stock market became the shelf market, and creation wondered if we were okay with frozen pizza for dinner.
Life dragged on and on, the world swirled on twitter feeds and Facebook statuses, the streets completed laps around our better judgements and our better lives, we sank to scheduled escapism and believed that one day we would find the light despite our never left-look.
Massive intention swelled to disjointed shark search. A witch-hunt to burn unhappiness in it's own angry passion. Bones; cost efficient at the least and designed in the weirdness of erosion-return. Miniature intention swelled to grabs solidarity. A manhunt to freeze stillness in it's own endless silence.
What complete? What shatter-tastic ******
Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
After the rain, I see the daisies,
In their clean, white dresses,
Fresh and perfect.
Washed and bright,
Their faces lifted to the skies,
And open to the sun.
Is it their youth that makes them so fearless,
Despite their diminutive size?
A naivety of spirit or
Lack of worldly knowledge?
Or do their fleeting, precarious lives
Lead them to so embrace the now?
No, their beauty springs from a truth far older,
For they are neither flashy nor flamboyant.
A daisy knows no subterfuge,
Has no jealousies, no conceit.
Its wisdom lies deeper,
And it bends with the wind.
To value the time that we have,
To see beauty in the smallest places,
And to love without fear,
Is a talent easily lost,
And the line between happy and sad is drawn
With a thin pencil and a light touch.
In miniature perfection,
A daisy lives fully,
Its face in the sunlight.
It lives, and that is enough.
Vicki Watson © 2014
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC
Imagine my disappointment when,
on discovering a tiny door
in a hollow tree,
locating its miniature key
beneath a buttercup,
unlocking and opening it
I found not a world of tiny folk
not Tir-nan-Og nor Avalon,
but a spectacled man in a white labcoat
holding a clipboard
and making notes on my reaction.
"Initial shock", he jotted,
"followed by anger and suspicion.
"Likely to require counselling
"within a year."
I closed the door as politely as I could
and went back to my books.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 7:01 AM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
What has become of me?
I've turned into such
a reprobate.
Watching **** and
neglecting writing.
I think of Nin and
Henry Miller, turning
lust and clitoral
stimulation into
****** literature.
And here I am...
*** stains on my
laptop, and looking
sadly at the miniature
bust of Shakespeare on
my writing desk.
Even he looks disgusted.
Feb 12, 2022
Feb 12, 2022 at 7:52 AM UTC
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.
Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Arrays of stars land softly
on this thick bed of pine needles
under your graciously reaching tree,
and we see impossibly blue, miniature
flowers with centers of infinite white.
Tunneling underground, more
have been born over the decades
since you planted their mothers and fathers
by hand, here in this garden that has become
a secret woodland, even in the middle of town.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC
The Washing machine that fits comfortably in a backpack
It means being prepared and not in lack
Your clothes will be clean like a tack
The mission is too carefully pack
Take the portable miniature washing machine wherever you go
Your ***** clothes you won’t have to show
The true clean puts you in the know
Turn hiking dirt into a kirk
The refreshing clean with the assistance of detergent Mr. Clean
***** cleans will become lean
Tough on stains and dirt with after being clean
Hike up any trail and mountain being confidence
Refreshed clothes as your testimony in instance
Pack that portable washing machine and let it turn your hiking experience into endurance
Convenience in the wilderness
Outdoor clean in the happiness
The stains that will come out
Add another detergent of Shout
Now that’s what I am talking about.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 5:11 AM UTC
In Ohio I order a pizza. The menu says one of the items I can put on it is Mango. That's curious.
I buy a Hawaiian mango at the new Supercenter Grocery Store, and the check-out girl asks
what's this? and I say it's a mango. She says, no it's not, that's a mango, and points to the green pepper.
In Hawaii, I work at a farm, and pick some Lilikoi. A customer asks my co-worker if we have any passionfruit, and she says no. They ask me if lilikoi is like passionfruit and I say its dakine, but she's a visitor and doesn't understand, so I say, it's the same thing.
There's a Hawaiian family with a fruit stand; I like to trade the extra lilikoi for their really good mangos they grow, but the Hawaiian word is Manako. Since they know I always want manako, I ask dakine? They were out, so instead he asked you want some Apples? I thought he meant those little red pears they call Mountain Apples and looked perplexed when I couldn't see any, so he picked up a clump of miniature bananas. Oh, yes I love Apple-bananas.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
I know of just too many Cyclopes,
Let me describe one of them better,
The one who preys on values of men.
So miniature he is - mere few inches,
So often in our pockets he is found,
So crooked he is with a single eye.
When among beautiful babes & gals,
He is active getting used in clicking,
Also used up is he sometimes by fishy men for fishier purposes.
This Cyclops was filming one such similar affair with a lady unaware,
Stripped naked was her body exposed to that bare,
Trick or truth, clothed or naked, she thought not about this cyborg Cyclops filming her **** ever in her wildest of fears.
The young lady is then blackmailed by the Cyclops's master,
"Be quiet about it and serve us in our industry,"
Threatened with publishing publicly of the moments - she gives in to this blackmail.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
In white water lilies ;
Miniature specks of radiant light
Swim in clear water of minerals, nestled by honey brown soil of nourishing elements
Engulfed by inner petals of delicate but impenetrable comfort
Transported by wise ripples along a translucent rectangle
Eager to drop off the water-fall edge of the plane
To fall as rain and unto its chosen carrier
Of whom shall be called its mother
Waiting to start developing physically after the essence of the mother's choice is fused with her very own jewel
The essence belonging to whom it will call father.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
All I see is up
The pink flower stretches to forever at the sky
I stare wishing to be among the clouds
Its anterior filters the sun’s warmth upon my soft arms
I sit upon the dark, sodden, summer earth
I am all to myself. Alone.
At home under their stems
So benign am I encased by the pink flower
The pink flower trembles under slight hand of a summer breeze
Honeyed are its petals,
But dangerous is its center
Pricking my delicate fingers
If I am not careful
Yet I watch a dragonfly land on it with grace
Fragile insect legs grip tightly at the miniature pointed peaks
Wind caresses wisps of hair around my petite face
I am like a fairy
Not knowing the wonders of the world
Only the kingdom of the pink flower
Moisture sweetens the air
Drenching it with the breath of nature
Almost as if a mother is breathing comfort into my small body
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
Cream puffs, cannoli’s and Saint Joseph’s pastries
I can’t decide which, cause they all look so tasty
Chocolate eclairs and Cheese Danish rings
These are a few of my favorite things
Creamy napoleons and crisp apple strudels
chocolate truffles, oh yes!, give me oodles!
Black and white cookies and chocolate ring dings
These are a few of my favorite things
Girls in the pastry shop stifle their laughter
they know that their cheesecake must be what I’m after
miniature pastries, boxed, tied up with string
These are a few of my favorite things
When my belt’s tight
When my pants split
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
America
is a vintage ad
with a miniature sticker
on the back
that reads...
"Made in China."
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Meditations and French Fries
I sit watching you nibble on some Mickey D's fries,
And taking sips of your milkshake,
Your two hands grasping the cup as if to make sure
Nobody could take it while kicking your feet,
That barely touch the floor, and humming.
This makes me love you more than I already do.
Your eyes move up and stare at me and I look at you,
Searchingly, but you cross them,
Making those crazy eyes that make me smile
And then you let your lips curl into a smile matching mine
And show the small fragments of your teeth and you are beautiful.
You are so content with sitting here, with oily salty potato slivers,
With impersonations of milkshakes, and more importantly with me.
I love you, and your tiny teeth, your short legs, your belly.
Everyone says you resemble me, all your ticks, your mood swings
Your ****** expressions, your desire to learn, your sweet tooth.
You are a copy of me, a miniature me, but you are not really me.
You are my brother, my blood but not my copy.
I see the differences between us, the different upbringing, you know what
A childhood means, you know fatherly love, and for this I am thankful,.
I wish you more than me, more knowledge, love, confidence than me.
I wish Mickey D's is better too, and that the economy doesn't go bust
And that you could afford some fries and a milkshake for less than 10 bucks.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
stuck pig
injecting
in a tiny house
on a green island
raining
a jungle of
cable
internet a
septic
tank
I run a
maze
grow bananas
wait for delivery
departure
line up
for my plastic
sippy cup
eat
pancakes
stack
Bromantane
for breakfast
nootropics
family
replacement
new tropical
smoothie
maker
prime member
of the Amazon
got to stimulate
my work in the garden
see that
water feature
it’s a duck pond
no it’s
an empty kiddy pool
but on a tree
I’m over it
an antler bromeliad
hunting trophy
a certification
of my triumph
the plot
next to it
my head
in the mail
a miniature guillotine
to repatriate
my body
and tail
still moving
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Have the flower in your hand,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
See the electric wires blaze at the joined up parts,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
Feel the river's setiment move up stream,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
You cry and speak this rainy dew,
But does it mean anything of sentiment value to you?
You had the flower in your hand,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
You saw the electric wires blaze at the joined up parts,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
You felt the river's setiment move up stream,
Cupped in rainbow rain drops.
But do they mean anything of sentiment value to you?
I saw you have,had,feel,felt,see,and saw these special things,
But you never showed any attention to them.
Maybe you just sit and hide your thoughts from me,
Maybe you just can't notice these tiny details that happen every minute of everyday of every year.
Maybe you haven't discovered these miniature rainbow rain drops,
That you're covered in from head to toe, yet.
But you are cupped in rainbow rain drops.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 12:58 PM UTC
Never allowed to grow
Beyond ornamental,
Small perfect leaves
On small well pruned branches;
To please the eye
Of miniature torturers.
Cramped in a micro life,
Roots restrained
Within un-natural boundaries.
The promise of a tree
Never really fulfilled,
Beyond a whisper.
Fussed over relentlessly,
Like an O.C.D.
Perfect shape and form,
Trained from natural beauty,
To sit on a shelf
Hidden from reality.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 5:55 PM UTC
the kids
that you didn't know existed
all winter
have been jail-sprung
they litter the sidewalk
like snowdrops
riding miniature bikes
with training wheels
zipping up and down
the street
in their
shirtsleeves
the easter bunny
coaxed them out
into the park
to search for treats
but they decided to stay
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
a ladybug in spacious blue
splattering specks of red and black
with miniature aerial stunts
that speckle through uncaring air
it takes a keen eye to notice
a ladybug in spacious blue
a tiny snippet of fancy
in the otherwise simple sky
whizzing past wonderfully so
no trail or perfect plan concerns
a ladybug in spacious blue
her patterns flying forward fast
unhindered by specks of debris
fitting an insect debonair
sweetly dressed for a world's party
a ladybug in spacious blue
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC