"nimbleness" poems
stained glass with sunlight streaming,
a single rivulet, a single tear,
slips silently down the bridge of a nose
to fall silently to the tip of another.
eyes meet while hands continue to cradle
the face of the accused, the prosecuted, the expatriate of vagrants:
three words, blooming like delicate flowers from deep emerald vines that grow freely and climb the trunks of trees with more nimbleness than the lost boys themselves,
three words, gliding like the lone droplet from the lips of the holder,
descending to the ears of the held,
and they rang out as much as a whisper could, among dancing dust and gentle breath,
"you
are
forgiven."
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
My voice's fine motor skills are poor.
I've developed this fumbling tic over the buttons of the spaces between my words,
unable to fasten them to meaning and sincerity
when in front of a crowd.
My grandmother would be so disappointed in the drops in my blanket of words.
dropping the stitches and the lopsided lines I weave
Unable to make a pattern and fix the holes I've made.
The nimbleness of my syllables have dwindled down to self-concious pauses with filler words.
I think I could use some practice.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
distances which speak,
of minds which never met,
posing for the world,
customary and yet
we seal the fate of hearts
in molded nimbleness,
amidst world's curious eyes,
exploring restlessness
and as torrents of time,
shall wash upon our being,
we sail a wayward tide,
but into stranger seas
to dream a poet's day,
and wake a lover's night,
breathe in a halo pale,
perhaps a transient sign
hinting a life of dreams,
bestowed upon our souls,
we walk eternity,
all so unexplored.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
Oh How I loveth thee
A quite quaint angel in my own eyes.
With dark and white broken wings.
Und'r ****** falls.
I shall waiteth, and comf'rt thee.
Liekth thee loveth thy beareth.
Until the endeth of p'riod.
A hoarse voice with angelic tone.
Haer like the colours of my chameleon.
The tend tender lips of loveth.
A smileth and mind of ambivalence.
I shall loveth with nay judgment.
A halo as bright as the mistress
Possesseth in humans death's-head.
The lukewarm blue chopt lips.
The sleep chamber the lady did lie upon.
H'r ilness, but I accepteth death.
I can kisseth with green valor breath.
The strength of a giant.
The nimbleness of a lilliputian fairy.
Thee can doth aught.
Yon can crustheth and slipeth.
Through the cracks of timeth.
Thee can beest fell'r joyous.
Liketh the visage of a monst'r
I loveth thee f'r who is't thou art.
Thee can beest the wild animal with scars.
mine own canine ears ope to hark.
Thee can has't warts liketh a toad.
A belly as big as the univ'rse.
I shalt beest a fath'r.
thee can has't barb'd wire on thy corse.
My chivalrous armour does not mind thy pain.
Thee believeth chivalry is gone.
Somewh're on the planet, 'r in the heavens above.
Sickl'd by the grim reap'rs ploy.
The apparition 'r man you love.
I'm the pap'r thee loveth at which hour thy depress'd
The smileth thee misseth.
I am thy sir'r knave at heart.
I'm the knight thee wanteth me to best.
The lasteth sir standing at the edge of the w'rld with thee.
Thy the only ***** I protecteth, and loveth f'rev'r.
I give you can seeth how I loveth thee.
This poem was written by Shane Michael Cleary at 12:42 2017 on June 30th.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
We read that all functionaries in the Moscow Kremlin use typewriters and messengers for in-house communications.
Typewriters cannot be hacked. The cleverest listening devices aboard lurking submarines and in space spy craft can pick up the tap-tap-tap of a typewriter, but cannot interpret an e-tap from a g-tap.
Better still, typewriters break down only every twenty years or so. No typewriter sends you a message that the Microsoft Word lifetime package you bought has no existence, and that you must buy it again, nor does it give you a blue screen because it has no screen at all. A typewriter tells you nothing; you tell the typewriter with the nimbleness of your mind and fingers, and it obeys.
Beyond that, one does not imagine Vladimir Putin passing idle evenings playing Candy Crush. Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia crush, maybe.
A computer, any computer, unlike the manly typewriter, often suffers the Aunt Pittypat vapors and falls into a faint, calling weakly for smelling salts.
Thus the brevity of this column.
Y'r 'umble scrivener has spent much of a beautiful spring day attempting to coax Aunt Pittypat into waking up and doing a little work:
But all Microsoft's horses (I was thinking of another quadruped, but the name is not appropriate for a family newspaper)
And all Microsoft's persons
Could not make Aunt Pittypat anything but worsens. (That's not a real word)
A personal computer is outdated before you get it home from the Godzilla Box Store, and this moribund machine is some four years old. In dog years that is...something; I forget what.
Tomorrow morning I am off to buy the cheapest machine I can find, for personal computers are as disposable as toilet paper.
I will pass another beautiful spring day re-installing programs and apps (because I am good about backing up all my files) and addresses and all the tiny little dragons that speed along its circuits, and by next week should have a brilliant and well-crafted story to tell you.
May your electrons never fail.
-30-
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
I dreamed that I was old: in stale declension
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat-nimbleness, and green invention,
Before time took my leafy hours away.
My wisdom, ripe with body’s ruin, found
Itself **** recompense for what was lost
In false exchange: since wisdom in the ground
Has no apocalypse or pentecost.
I wept for my youth, sweet passionate young thought,
And cozy women dead that by my side
Once lay: I wept with bitter longing, not
Remembering how in my youth I cried.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
Fire doesn't scare me anymore..
The matchstick hardly burns the tender hands to tears.
The profusely bleeding wrists give me a kind of strength;
Of an empowered Me!
Walking on embers no where feels like a once terrorising nightmare,
When mumma left me to sleep alone, away from her embraces.
The nimbleness has evanesce into thin air.
The inner kid glowing with innocence has perished to the tragedy of life.
Perhaps, my once learned lesson about time and experience as the best teacher has come out true.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC