"pivoting" poems
Chant that you are brave,
Even as your body begins to quake;
Exclaim that you need not be saved,
Endeavor to alter your own fate.
Affirmations deserve more credit;
Say anything enough and you'll believe.
It's wholly possible to edit,
A new response to fear needs to be conceived.
Therapy is not at my beck and call,
But willpower will help me revise,
Prevent me from facing a dastardly fall,
A pivoting, terminating demise.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Every piece of pride,
Pivoting on the pinnacle of pleasure,
Perishing on the petals of a rose,
Pink rose.
Spring rose.
Sprung rose.
A perverted willingness to pursue,
The spoils of what matters most,
pink matter.
Outshone a impossibly beautiful performance.
One meant for the faithful & virtuous.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Leashed by loves lynch till I’m dropped by my lack of respect for the beauty’s presence
Thank god she wasn’t curbside taking tips with perked lips for a stranger’s ****** fix,
But I needed to feel the evidence that the pieces fit,
That’s why this is about me and a barstool princess
Getting close enough to taste the moans of vodka’s venom
Get close enough so I can know my needs can be fulfilled
Like a lunar eclipse this species keeps grinding its teeth when teased
Time and time again we’ve been taunted by,
The mistress our ancestors once described as the serpent of Eve,
When procreation was preached as an STD
Yet we’ve been perpetually pivoting,
To defy the chastity of a species
Grandfathered misconceptions relating to why you and I exist
As wickedness warms in the covers of the lustfully parallel
So let’s drown in this bliss,
From head to toe, eye caught, grazes at the nose,
From the bar stool to a lonely man’s home,
From one dollar tips for two *** and cokes
To the bedroom of this writing,
The nights like this, that remind me I am alone
But this isn’t about me loathing the fact that I won’t hear her whispering for more body warmth,
Nor am I looking for you to pity me because I’ll be sleeping solo
Enough is enough since we are humans seeking ****** catacombs
I’ll try to be an adult about how the human molds but it started me at childhood,
When those that conceptualized love gave me this world,
And now I no longer have to listen to what I’ve been told
This is about how to perceive something we can never truly control,
Lucky enough to avoid a contraceptive despite unable to remember the doctor’s pull,
Its night’s like this I get to question,
When will my sheets meet the perfect fit?
When will this be more than just a humanizing fix?
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
this mumbling fog lurks tonight
across pointed shadows,
living between triangles of manufactured light,
pivoting between and around one another accordingly,
shaping themselves how they are queued to.
this smoke reflects against unlit windows,
like these dogs that howl in chorus,
breathing a shift of movement into the air,
leaving the city under a bested silence.
a finely tuned design
that these empty streets
may speak without interruption
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
pink silk, floral embroidery
black ribbon, white trimmings
paired with soft slippers
& a twinkling tiara
Bibbidi-bobbidi- Boo!
mirror flashed, smiling sweetly is a princess;
skirt floating & feathery feet pivoting
dancing in the woods with merry deer
& singing birds
follow the faeries, drown in their music
the shinning flutes & playful pipe
luring one to a gentle doze
low bells chiming
woke up to an enchanted ruin,
go home, go home
crawling thorns & ****** roses
greedy crows & harden earth
body bursting & long limbs stretching
mirror grinned, a princess no more
but a grown woman
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 11:25 AM UTC
**Long brown dream
her legs akimbo
apex flushed dark
arms bowed at hip
******* accusing
Breathless, the
******* seesaw
tight curls crown
angry beauty
teeth blaze hot
golden eyes
spit hate
spinning slowly left
proudly curved
bending exposed
face framed a
toppled heart
lips lick entice
three rising paces
the suite bar
long fingers reach
the glass held
waist high
pivoting back
all swift motion
a somersault roll
landing grinning
******* bouncing
a silent scream
lashes out blinding
red wine**
*All loves promises
tumbling bouncing emotion
an ****** spite*
**leaving me
naked rivoletto
sashed red
seeing blurred
ghostly negatives
of forever young
screaming
bouncing *******
I say “Goodbye
true love” to
the tall glass
on the bar
my coat and
open door
to the
clothe strewn
bedroom**
*Clothed party act
a pint spinning somersault
quaffed down brim full*
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 5:11 AM UTC
I went outside, and met a black queen that ruled over all of my
thoughts – hoping she wasn’t a bad dream. But she'd still love me
despite my arrogance; my pivoting thoughts that swing along my
many moods swings. Fair enough; she’d understand me better,
knowing I wasn’t treated fair enough, under the same sun that
makes her skin fair as much.
Still is there a woman of your dreams when you barely feel awake;
the grass is always greener from a distance, but your eyes can never
catch the green of their snakes. And whenever I tell a short girl
a good short joke, she looks at me to keep it brief – but if I said it in
short: a laugh from a girl, is a guy’s idea of knowing he can get a
taste of those lips. But wouldn’t we love to dream in sweet relief,
while I find it less attainable when someone has me losing sleep.
Please give me my peace that comes with my piece: a piece of mind,
a piece of spark to a piece of love. But when I met the queen, I never
thought it would come with love – but she never felt a spark, paying
no mind to me. We were just two strangers in town, walking on two
different paths, who happened to glance at each other, only once!
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 7:36 AM UTC
Through my Mother's eyes,
There is no reason.
No place to turn to when in pain.
Where is the shelter from her tears?
For they drop like the poison of her persecution.
It's cold and lonely in her misty gray world,
Forcing you to always seek safety.
How can you hide from what's all around you?
No justice or truth will penetrate and shine
Through her clouds of defense.
It's tearing you up,
Beating away at your walls of security.
She's wrapped around a web of disbelief,
Trapped...merely pivoting from blocked pathways.
But that will not chain me,
I seek the freedom that honesty grants,
I will survive in a way that aids others to follow my path.
I can't live my life in deception,
Seeing through my Mother's eyes.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
A great and sprawling land, China.
I flew halfway 'round the globe
To find a vast conundrum:
Cities burgeoning,
Young and old
Spires of glass
Pillars of steel,
Empty or filled,
Roads new and old:
New Bentleys and Buicks,
Two cylindered trucks,
Three-wheeled taxis,
Bell ringing bicycles,
Wheelbarrows laden,
Grandmothers pushing carriages,
A million mopeds...
And everyone busy.
Ships at Qingdao,
Lovers on the boardwalks,
Blue-green glass touching the sky,
Reflecting the ocean.
Sidewalk musicians
Strum Chinese songs
'Neath kite-filled skies
Beside the spiraled Winds of Change.
Beijing, capitol and dragon-city,
Towers beside the ancient Wall,
Hosts the world,
Puts on her civil face,
Bows greetings to the fawning planet,
Eager to earn industrial favors.
She shrouds herself in smog,
Hides her slithering tail
Snaking world-ward over distant mountains.
---------------------------
Uneven is the change;
Wealth beyond imagination
Fuels the work of towering cranes
Pivoting above a poorer crowd's starvation...
A jet set crowd whose growing never wanes...
Economic challenge of the oldest of all nations.
Published today 14.12
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
Anne drew in a drag of thick, suede cigarette smoke
she turned to her lover on the pillow,
pivoting her jaw to face him
and muttered:
“I miss the way you used to
spank me, loudly proclaiming your passion
for my inner thigh and rubbing my ****
with your tongue.
I haven’t been happy
in a very long while. I sit here, each night,
waiting for you to tell me that I love you
but you hold it in, like a drag of thick, suede
cigarette smoke.”
Andrew turned to Anne and smiled broadly, saying:
“I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes upon
you. I caught a glance of you gleaming in the moonlight
after we left the disco in separate cars, friends
surrounding everyone.
I told you then to call me, and you didn’t. But
I waited three days until I found you
at the coffee shop, alone, and said ‘hello’.”
Each sighed and dropped the pretense of knowing
what the other was seeing.
Then, they turned toward opposite directions and slowly fell
into themselves
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Weight back, son, back -- now! Pivoting in air, I felt wood crack
and sent one screaming over first. My three mates whirled
around the sacks and fierce joy burst past, or through...
First inning, Father. Bags full. And all for you,
who, miles off, listened hard beneath a static sky.
The radio crowed: "Grand slam!" -- and "You'll be next to die."
Once, you showed me something about the stance,
how the weight came through, and how the dance
of foot in dirt was beautiful and clean --
I don't recall the point -- not now, I mean.
But I still can see your hands, the coiled way
they worked the wood, and how your wrists turned,
mirrored snakes, twin roots, and how the simple day
was shaken by... what was it?... by all I'd never learned?
Your fingers were stubby, grimed with grease, coarse hairs
tangled over bulge of blood. My youth still fares
its way from lost to lost. I move my dancing feet
to match the steps you traced with yours -- and life's complete.
Yet as I gape and gasp in desperate dark,
a voice returns, riding warm winds from that park.
These forty years, I've been turning into you.
I have your hands, your heart -- and these will fail me too.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 12:57 PM UTC
I take a step back, pivoting on my right foot
to remember behind me a clearing in the trees
by the old apartment complex
where dirt raked over by lifetimes of weary
American walkabouts
snakes down hawk-eyed, single-minded
toward the old muddy river.
One might brush aside broken branches
blocking the way like so many nails and thorns
but I know the way.
At the bank where acid rain and sewage
can lick the dying summer dandelions
I try to cash a check for one epiphany
before it starts to rain more violently.
A suitcase probably designed to hold a laptop
lies abandoned by a crushed beer can and
a newspaper clipping filled with prophesies
written to a dying world about a world soon to be dead.
I look inside but no glint of metal shines back
at unsuspecting hopeful children eyes.
Turned over with a fallen stick
lying in a field of blood nearby
a giant slug is stuck to the back of
the faded leather bag dropped for
God-knows-what-reason.
A snake slithers away back up the trail,
I hear a hawk screech into the gray sky,
and I swat a spider hanging from
the nearest tree almost alive in the sunset
bearing the weight of the world.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC
Your presence passes me
like a slow-moving satellite
revolving around
my head, slurred
into mesh—so gravitated.
Love is a shade which
covers me close
to your body, in sync
like the movements of the planets,
pivoting harmonious in the
deep, dark mystery
of your sheltered embrace,
and the universe seems
to settle around me
calm and constellated.
Your eyes, a deep depiction
in the mind, so starry, I
see nothing more
but stars.
Bright as the brilliance
of the fire of my affection
at the core of my soul, lit
with passion, intense
as a thousand suns, a
million moonlit galaxies,
is my love which seems
to have no end.
Your presence passes me,
a slow-moving satellite
revolving around
like a moon to Jupiter,
boy, I feel that pull.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
If I was asked to write a story
I will write about hope
For the little she child
Germinating like weeds in the streets.
Pivoting a tray on frail neck.
Hawking fruits while books lay dormant.
Look at Her!
Lemons sprouts abruptly:
Buns smeared with oils of lust.
The she child: An object of **********
Forced out of secure fences
By the fierce fire of hunger and starvation.
Mummy told her not to talk to strangers
But to strangers she must sell
Out of sight and out of cover
She was pounced on and devoured!
Another maiden is bleeding red tears.
A child becomes a mother!
Even if I had a mandate to write
On clean placards for all to see In white.
I wont waste my ink and sheets
For this generation does not read nor see.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
“…you’ll love this riveting memoir.”
One longs to see a memoir riveting,
Setting in place with tongs the hot red steel,
Bucking the tail, and quickly pivoting
For another – a worker’s life is real
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC
which were the center of the Earth.
A rill, a gentle excite that rolled from side to side
touching the verdant moors and bridging the tepid winds
through the mirthy wood.
She
afluntered, pivoting in circles,
pronouncing an aubade for a throng
anthropolatrating agelasts.
Her palms and dactyls outstretched. A chilliad had passed, still her astereognosis never produced the fields and trunks before her. Amending the acronycal light an aeolistic caitiff arose, piercing the crowd, rising to her circumference. This clapperdudgeon and callet woman rang out in a cacophony of sharp jabbering, then another blellum arrived, then another carker, soon they were all cloffin at the pyre.
Her lips
instantly wet, her mouth broke its pursed chastity, and among the meek she suddenly was overcome with an incredible basorexia.
And so she began, bussing left to right, osculating
the buffoons and bavians.
Some cullion tried their way
towards & towards
and then disappeared in a comestion, another dratchell roused himself, sudorous and covered in culch. The concilliabule was dwaible now, those who weren't prying for her kisses were dwaling about frantically croodling, mooing, even barking. This wild frenzied lot of basiation and baisements. Beazing in the dying sun she began to crose and cough. Her blood and spit, her saliva became estiferous and unstable, she began to eroteme herself, her healthy figure was now ectomorphic. Her thoughts were unsettling, she began to fantasize her own decollation. Some sauntering madman with a sleek leather overcoat and an enormous hatchet hunching over her. It overcame her, this auto deicidal ideology in addition, the sweet kir began to wear off, and all she could feel was lackluster, emptiness, indifference. Eventually her acrasia overcame her and in her accidia and overbearing mania she took her own life. Her head slipped from her shoulders and rolled casually past her body, her knees collapsing before her feet, before her torso. And the abderian men and women cackled,
just sat and stared
her life, her love, all gone and disappeared.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
the lack of compatibility between this and that
continues to mock consistent instances
where left is what is
as two is prime,
and visionary stances
rest on average thighs
after pivoting lead to no-where
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
#1.....His Bearer's Plea.
What would it cost to send a million dogs to war,
Than turn my babes into raging Beasts?
Leave the Boys to grow and revel in age.
Leave them strapped to their mothers *****
until nature run's its course and calls them MEN.
Without guns,rage and War pivoting that stage.
Too many broken Boys parole as Men,
building bridges without appeasing the gods below.
Too many hold life at its helm,
boasting of nothing to risk or gain,
Inflicting Pain to ease their pains.
Too many were sucklings before Wars came,
cruelly snatching them from their mothers breast....
handing them guns when milk was what they needed.
#2...His Lover's Plea
What price COULD I have paid to save my lover's head from being Twisted with tales of war?
the man I once knew now resides in a realm of obscurity
dodging reality, dreading emotions, refusing one ness.
A man with hands now Cold,
my skin forgets the prowess they possessed in the past,
a gloomy present looms.
the man whose weaning I continued, now bites hard till my ******* bleed, the taste of blood he now savours.
Cries of war creased the tenderness off my lovers tongue.
What did i owe the earth to be robbed this way?
What kind of man will my children call father?
Well....What will it cost to send a million dogs to war,than deny our babes the privilege to wean until nature calls them MEN?
©Comfort Amiso Pius
2018-08-29
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
mama warned me
about becoming attached to ghosts,
about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids,
trailing their
ruminant symbiology
down labyrinthine tunnels
till you're left, stranded
in a nowhere from where you started
and they fade
away
to nothing.
...
I keep loosing sight in the lag
that hesitant flickering pivoting between footsteps,
those pauses of breath between paragraphs
of the mold in the ceilings dictated speeches,
the decade old dust encrusted spider-webs on the coffers abandoned superstructures, intricate semantic patterns, still present, present, but encapsulating nothing.
(Educations warped my mind
into prescriptive paradigms
drugged up on science fiction
alternate attritions of future presents)
–//
One day,
the ocean promised to swallow the world,
but failed to set a date; just a vague sense of inevitability.
and everyone gets uncomfortable about the liminality,
and there's
a moment of rupturing
unveiling the blanketing
in the process of our mass comatose suicide,
That no ones sure what to do with.
And we collapse into the indecision
of what to make of this wavering present
loosing sight
between barricades of candy bars and cheeseburger pies
while the radio static sighs
'boys only want love if it's torture'
(i find it a bit optimistic)
//–
I keep becoming waylaid in the lag
the hesitant faltering between long warn down footprints
travelling down some path set out by the last
in no way definitive; but, at least, defined
by the haphazard indentations left behind
while sometimes there’s treasure in the depths that we climb
it's never the kind
that explains itself.
(But still time turns and churns and burns
while we frantically mine all the scattered urns.)
–\\
The philosophers and neuroscientists keep working to find the foundations underlying why
we think what we think, why we feel what we feel,
they peel up the carpet and peer into what's beneath, but
they just keep finding
ripped up carpet and musk.
\\–
I keep searching for home in the lag,
the tumbling bind of footfalls enshrined.
but even if there's no way out of here,
there's occasionally a whisper of camaraderie in the air
(you never escape,
no no,
but sometimes
the enclosure unfolds )
...
mama warned me
about becoming attached to ghosts,
about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids.
but here in the dark,
i'm not sure what else to follow.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
I often think of the swimming body,
arms unfurling the rough afternoon lake
into smooth planks while stretching
through the catch,
carving mosaic reflections into
shapes reflecting glimpses of the sun
before strewn onto the surface like
broken pearl necklaces.
It was in this practice I learned patience,
in the process of the crossing
and perfection of glide,
the conclave with the lake and flow of
language between body and water
the dialogue of the skimming, rotating torso,
forehead below surface line, chin down
consummation of movement.
The body suspended
above the muddy bottom,
stretching through the round shoulder,
the square shape of the hand
with fingers slightly apart coiffing
currents,
surging naked anatomy forward.
In Autumn, the buoy clangs louder
conversing through fog
of the changing season
to lake swimmers, row on row,
blinded at their bow
reminding them of the turn,
the edge of the precipice
before cavernous depths
pilfer reason,
those masters of rhythm
turn attention to stroke of arms
away from blackness beyond sight,
where creatures dwell.
Pivoting parallel to the lakefront,
elongated through the feet,
into the legs, along the chest,
barren ******* cutting waters
connecting one shore to the next,
before absolute zero of winter sets in
the vein splitting East-West coursing
between inlets, skirting islands
and birch skinned canoes
dancing atop foamy plumes,
It was in this practice I learned patience,
when all thoughts are flex of body,
the slight curve of torso
and abdominal reach toward shore unseen
through glistening sheets of
morning’s mosaic surface
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
I often think of the swimming body,
arms unfurling the rough afternoon lake
into smooth planks while stretching
through the catch,
carving mosaic reflections into
shapes reflecting glimpses of the sun
before strewn onto the surface like
broken pearl necklaces.
It was in this practice I learned patience,
in the process of the crossing
and perfection of glide,
the conclave with the lake and flow of
language between body and water
the dialogue of the skimming, rotating torso,
forehead below surface line, chin down
consummation of movement.
The body suspended
above the muddy bottom,
stretching through the round shoulder,
the square shape of the hand
with fingers slightly apart coiffing
currents,
surging naked anatomy forward.
In Autumn, the buoy clangs louder
conversing through fog
of the changing season
to lake swimmers, row on row,
blinded at their bow
reminding them of the turn,
the edge of the precipice
before cavernous depths
pilfer reason,
those masters of rhythm
turn attention to stroke of arms
away from blackness beyond sight,
where creatures dwell.
Pivoting parallel to the lakefront,
elongated through the feet,
into the legs, along the chest,
barren ******* cutting waters
connecting one shore to the next,
before absolute zero of winter sets in
the vein splitting East-West coursing
between inlets, skirting islands
and birch skinned canoes
dancing atop foamy plumes,
It was in this practice I learned patience,
when all thoughts are flex of body,
the slight curve of torso
and abdominal reach toward shore unseen
through glistening sheets of
morning’s mosaic surface
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
The sun’s demise bequeaths my birth beneath the outward heavens.
A glitter of the heavens caught within a twinkle of my eyes.
Travels on the shore lead into the isle, converging upon the core.
Galloping through fields of grain under the starry dearth.
The voluminous trees approaching entry, darkness towers evermore.
The trail adulterated by weeds, thorns; leaves wilting, rotting logs.
A beam of singular light from the canopy given by the silvery moon,
The ray guiding out of the brush unto the yonder blue darkness.
Here at the foothills of the forever peak, a glance upwardly shot.
Moon and stars eclipsed, light extirpated; the fog lies lower than the peak.
Scaling treacherous red glared boulders, sliding rocks collapsing beneath.
Blood rasped hands grapple and cling in the storm of fog.
The zenith of the world…perched; scanning back to the fog
Of lightning and incandescent famine; a tear rolls down the rocks.
Glaring up to see the stars and moon, warmth pounds behind me…
Pivoting to see the mountain gauntlet traversing into the promising sun.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 7:54 AM UTC