"palmful" poems
butterfly in palm
as bright April flowers bloom -
my heart meets nature.
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 10:06 PM UTC
Look!
I'm super ******* clean!
I stepped into the falling water
and inched my way toward total
submersion. It was steaming hot
and my skin had yet to acclimate.
Upon said acclimation I lathered
up a palmful of smell-good gel
and got to work on my armpits
and my torso. I washed my way
down to my belly button and then
I retrieved another handful of body
wash. As I worked it into my hair
then my beard, and I used the excess
suds to scrub my **** and my nuts.
From there I covered my thighs and
worked down my legs. I turned away
from the showerhead and scrubbed
my ******* clean with one more dollop
of Old Spice. I stepped into the burning
streams of water and rid myself of the
day's sweat and grime in one big,
dark puddle swirling down the drain.
I took one more dab of soap and
worked it into a foam.
But I hesitated before I washed my face,
because I realized that I had just
*scrubbed my *******
with the same hands I use to
*wash my ******* face** with.*
But I then sighed and did it anyway.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
After Amadioha went into sweet nightmares,
he made us to breath through the chest of the sea. from the celestial bodies of the shrine,
We shone our forefather's smile with a mirage,
a little littered mirage spelling words in ellipsis.
these were the rose crumbs tailored in the sand castle of our glassful laughter, we're the Palmful morning in the eyes of our home in the abyss.
when a child cries, he forgets that the route to
his home is written on his body as a tattoo.
when a girl thinks of gathering firewood in the heart of the forest, she thinks of her thigh &
the bushes surrounding it, nature made it so.
We do not think of our skin as a poetic of agony,
We do not think of our eyes as poetry letters
but we draw lines and currents of imaginations describing how rituals made men insane.
We carried out those prilgrim for the boys,
our forebearers made us cracked our head up,
they carved pumpkins traces for this generation; for this humble journey mixed with fire & water.
Our souls, our dreams were the Shakespearean places you never had the chance to see physical.
they are the rituals of nature, a side Sithoulte,
a wonder land created like a paradise you don't stay often but in your dreams & imageries.
We are birthed here as debris & plump scars,
a tortured lips holding the past & the present.
We are the foundation of everything evil spirits,
We were born in the ritual of a grievous war.
to say a human is a benchmark of his own,
to say a man is a mango dropping without a choice of where and how to touch the sand,
to say a man is everything fretwork of agony;
to say a men are slaughtered memories...
but to this edges of rites & repeated steps,
We'll remain the gospel from every mouth.
Our ancestral hands shall still set a table,
to tell the girlchild how to sit in a public hall
to hand over the shrine to the boychild
to tell man that he owns a woman as head.
to keep birthing good and ugly children.
our hope will always depict heavens glory
and, our darkest fears as the skin of hell.
And it must be passed down to the next
genes to tell the next & sand keep multiplying.
This is the ritual of mankind to remain alive.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
The leaves in winter, they all fall in place.
In endings hidden, embers of a new life.
Every once in a while an unknown girl
walks up close on a smoggy night;
And an awkward lank woos her with
half-withered roses by the south bank;
Going after severed kites,
landing now by the memory lane:
by the Thames, holding a palmful,
saying, this river's named after you:
she has a dimpled smile;
By the lakes, deep at night, when the moon
walks over the waves, dancing with the swans;
Where the Lee bends around the corner,
a red bus emerges out of the mist,
a hero on chilly nights of the early autumn,
when the dhak welcomes the Goddess home.
Teals, wobbling out of the pond, by
the temple of love, closed for ages now;
Crimson paint dripping from the evening
sky at the corners;
Every day when loving this way
seems like a picture painting away,
get lost walking by the Thames;
Whirling back like the descent from the Eye,
time and crackers light the sky,
on a Guy Fawkes night.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
i hold a shaky palmful of death
noting that it is surprisingly light
i swallow reflexively
feeling shocks through my hand
i could just do it
i could just do it right now and it would all be over
why don't i do it
my body, fighting to survive
my brain, begging to die
and i am no man's land
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 2:34 PM UTC
off-beat, head wobbling, knobby
girl-knees and small hands. too small.
I put everything of the world inside my body
and turn it into tiny green sprouts
the white glow from street signs at night
a cupped palmful of water and fish scales
falling from my half-open mouth and rising up
around me to swirl through my hair like a fever dream
and dissolve back into starmilk
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
The earth you stand on is older than you can fathom.
It is millions of years of ash, bone, and rebirth
Layer upon layer of ages gone by
Time you will never experience first hand
You hold uncountable births and deaths
In your cupped palms as you fill them with earth
You cannot know how many lives were lived
In that palmful of dark sand
Your toes time travel as they sink into the sand
You bring back eons under your fingernails
As you dig further back
Trying to feel what the world was like
when the world was still new
And time had yet to exist.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
sun begins
bow to sleep
sets sky
in vermilion haze
present me
with palmful
of touch touch
pacifies palm
could be lined
with sunshine
happy lemonade
threads
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 4:20 PM UTC
from time to time I pull on the shades,
roses for dulling the pain.
but I return to piecing the mirror back again
each hoping the reflection won't be the same.
you stand in the kitchen, clutching coffee and *****
try to drink the ache away.
you can't quite identify the void that's carved inside
but this has become the routine of your days.
with only two hours left to sleep
your dreams followed you through opening of eyes
and you made your home inside the haze.
words burn in the chamber of smoke
as faces fade with the pink shade.
you find yourself at the window once again
wondering what it's like to fly.
you and I know the only freedom we can hold
is the release int he act to die.
six feet under you hold me down.
I'm left confused, dressed in blacks and blues.
keeping a palmful of ground
so while they see that it's only me
I'll always have you around.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I feel that I have lived much longer than I was supposed to. The seconds draw their claws on the chalkboard slowly, slowly, slowly... The razorblade separates the skin, the familiar inferno engulfing my body. The familiar deafening heart throb as I lay in the pool of my own emptiness, my regret. The shame of returning to the old habit. I did not count the pills, the tears did not allow sight. But a palmful later, I found myself on the ground, curled up with him. Potential has always been my greatest enemy. I have been running from him my whole life. I've been trying to drown out his screams. It was a good game.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC