"ponderously" poems
Elephant seals
gross and flabby
ignorant of protocol
ponderously scratch.
Uniformed unicorns
importune
tame peacocks
wearing pink petticoats.
Fluted columns fade
at twilight
into the secrecy
of a passing thought.
Toy soldiers
on parade
fragile, glittering
lost.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Day by day I fritter away
Observing decorum as best I may
Meet me as you meet — reserved somebody
Leave me as you leave — dull nobody
Dreary, weary, listless, spiritless
A resting spirit clamours to emerge
Unguided, wild, free and seeking
Boldly defying reserved somebody
But how, just how do I unleash this defiant spirit
For it is to cross all conceivable limits
Oh but a mask, of course a mask!
The perfect accessory for this task!
Careless of propriety
Boastful of daring
Acting against my will
Or in tandem with it?
This mask — just now I can't discern
Ponder I do with great concern
Does it shield my identity
Or render truth to it?
So now just what fun in masks
One may ponderously ask
Masks, bring to life fantasy
Fantasy, a realm of our reality
Reality, wherein lies multiplicity
Multiplicity, within each individuality
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
Winging ponderously through the grey tortured sky,
A crane makes its way to its homeland.
Lightening blazes illuminating with weird yellowness
Torrents of storm rain plunging earthward.
There, sighted below, a car trundling through the downpour
Yet another traveler homeward bound.
Jan 16, 2011
Jan 16, 2011 at 11:05 AM UTC
Would you let me?
Have a thousand years
to make ponderously slow love to you?
I'd just rather we hurry up and get on with it
Why not let me charm you
and make proper woo
to sweeten your heart to my liking?
I told you before, don't get weird or I'm charging you double
I'd like to search the bittersweet corners
of your mind and rewrite them so you realize how much i dearly love you
Whatever you like but I'm not wearing the image of your dead wife for less than a thousand
Would you let me stick a mike up your *** so I hear the throes of your passion
wh think o
**Understand it's not you, I'll be *thinking of*
You should have used just a little more rouge and a tad less foundation here let me fix it
Oh dear the image fell apart, it seems that you are not the girl I came here to find
Less foundation? Brick or grant?
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
When my ear first orbited your throat
to listen for a roaming balloon of nestled flesh
I heard trailer home hollowness
in copper vein pipes.
You draped a scarf over your superglued
neck, telling me it was normal to fistfight
death at 35.
On Dad’s desk, your weight breathed feebly
inside a sandwich bag. At night
its nuclear green cast Orions across our ceiling.
I never knew what real stars looked like,
while you had completely forgotten.
Years later,
in the dark of our 17-acre home,
you handed me your thyroid in its bag
swimming in opalescent fluid
and you looked at Polaris for the first time,
as that same glow painted the Big Dipper
on neighboring snowbanks.
I dropped the bag on the dry rot porch.
We heard your cancer flatten to a deflated bicycle tire,
sweating from death,
watched through squinted eyes as its glow turned
from hazardous neon to cinder.
It dried in the moonlight,
a forgotten, frostbitten raisin,
and our eyes readjusted to the perpetuating darkness.
I saw it then like a long constellation
line connecting star to forehead.
It had been a lie before,
but the North Star is truly the brightest
in the sky. We looked through its surface
underneath the star’s skin to its heart space,
and we realized that Polaris can only be seen
when thin plastic holds inside
damaged shadows of family
dinners bathed in deionized salt,
where I ponderously stared at the ****
in your esophagus, drawn with knife
like ruby crayon into office paper.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
Stardust complexities
s
h
i
m
m
e
r
out in golden blue.
The exacting clockwork of the cosmos ticks
ponderously
in Kepler seconds.
Chronology here is kept by
the
pendulous
sway
of
planets.
Aeons as minutes.
We are just dust
on the gears.
Galactic flecks,
swept up
in the filigree pirouette of an
astronomical timepiece.
Here, but not here.
Q .
. U
A .
. N
T .
. U
M .
and fleeting.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 12:59 PM UTC
*Call me whatever you wish
As I creep in stealthily
Leave you sighing
Endlessly
Am I necessary?...Most certainly
Leave your soul restless
As you wonder
Ponderously
A coma, in the sentence of life
Reflect on events of past
Take a deep breath
Gradually
I could leave you much wizened
Introspect in me sanguinely
I am your very own
Solitude*
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
i’m going to steal you….
In the middle of the night
I’m going to steal you
Like an expensive piece of art
I’m gonna steal you
Like the rain steals the dryness
Of the dessert i cry on
I’m gonna steal you
As you sleep
As you dream
As you mourn
While you eat cookies con leche
While you watch a random movie
As you iron a wrinkled old shirt
As you cook huevos rancheros
I’m gonna steal you
Voy a robarte
A la antigua
A la buena, a la mala
Between sombra y resolana,
I will carry you in my canana
As a bullet for revolution
I’m gonna steal you
While worlds wage war against each other
As the corn goddess watches over
Little children of a poor neighborhood
In Vegas
Voy a robarte
Y llevarte entre las piernas
Like bootlegged tequila
During the prohibition
I’m going to steal your superstitions
And show you
That words carry such a strong action
So strong
That we seldom belong in our own realities
The realities imposed
By every single law of attraction
I’m gonna steal you
Like la Llorona
El calzonudo
El Diablo blanco
Los gitanos
Or el viejo del costal
As you rest your feet on the floor
Ponderously looking at the sky
In your search for a perfect star
In july’s cielos…
I’m going to steal you…
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
To Garryowen upon an ***** ground
Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,
As in the tumult of a witches' round.
Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.
Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.
The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.
High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.
The music reels and hurtles, and the night
Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light
Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused
With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,
Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags
Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused.
***
The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.
Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.
It must be true. The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:--
'The Gods are Dead!'
994
Low light and the murky air
Damp, lurid; dust parade
Stale breath and the pounding of soft wood
Stage set, waiting for life
Walls set so high among the purple sky
The hills but glancing over the parapets
Icy hot stone turning me away
Perhaps the gate is on the other side?
Music starts, blank stares
Somehow betray a thought
As movement becomes grace, grace becomes meaning
And for once a call beckons
And the walls begin to tumble
Chipped by every sigh and every turn
Waters rush through the hills, sweeping aside
Sage brush and hot sands, charging
To drown out the scared girl’s cries
Yet they seep through the cracks
And lift you up
I had sent a ship to these shores
And the polished wood moaned as it came
Happy tidings of wealth and good-fortune
Its sails flapped in the winds
As I ponderously shoved it on course
Tentative as a mother releasing her child
The cold winds shake and maim
The crack of the heavens scare and restrain
The heaving hearts of the galley crew
Between the charming bay, engulfed by flame
Flares that failed and faltered when needed most
As the crew found themselves dashed against the rocks
It is odd to see this city, where my wares were bound
Inundated, gloriously awash
Perhaps my wares will float right through the gates
And betray effort and worry and care.
Because they are still out there
Floating through lurid seas, waiting.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
Raindrops descend, puddles form,
A stream engulfed, a river is born,
A course is set, the sea to reach,
Meandering ponderously to a far off beach.
The sea reclaims its myriad young,
Kidnapped by clouds, thunder-slung;
The storm is long past with calm all around;
Albatross glide, with a whisper of sound.
Seagulls circle, dogfish sleep,
Gannets dive and dolphins leap,
But black clouds return and lightning flashes
O'er storm-tossed seas, as thunder crashes.
Once more a stealthy cloud abducts infant water,
The sea's own offspring: a son ... a daughter;
The thief sets off at a wind blown pace,
The anguished mother unable to chase.
The criminal finds refuge in a partisan crowd,
A formless body in a vaporous shroud;
The cloud has no guilt, shows no remorse,
But heads inland on a predestined course.
A hill stands guard, like a customs post;
It stabs the guilty, but allows past the host;
The rogue cloud is ruptured, severed seam and pleat,
Releasing its captives and accepting defeat.
Raindrops descend, puddles form,
A stream engulfed, a river is born,
A course is set, the sea to reach,
Meandering ponderously to a far off beach ...
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
As little Ben lay down to sleep,
sinking into his soft bed,
The night air brought with it
a sweet fragrance on it's wings
to lull him into sweet dreams.
His father coming to tuck him in,
Said Ben:"Daddy,why is it
that the sweet Night with
the pretty Moon and little Stars
does not last long?"
Replied his dad:"Because Ben,
then the Day would be sad.
And the Sun would pout.
And the Night only comes to help
the Nature prepare for Tomorrow"
Thinking about it,said Ben:
"But what if Day gets sick?
And the Sun takes a holiday?
What would happen then,
If Tomorrow never comes?"
Ponderously,said his dad:
"If Tomorrow comes,
there would be no end
to the Dark and his secrets,
No stopping Cold's mischiefs.
The Moon will walk away,
and Stars may be shrouded,
No more will there be Light
to show us the way
and drive away the fears.
No more will the Mist flee
but will snare us into her net,
to get us lost in her depths.
No end to the bad dreams,
No more warm rays of comfort.
No more Dew's pearls on leaves,
No more the sweet chirping
of the silly birds in the trees.
No Sun for the flowers to greet,
No Dawn to make them sing.
No more the frenzy of the bees,
No more the races of butterflies.
Nor the games of the rabbits.
No more prancing of the does.
Only the hooting of the owls.
Never again will the rain seem fiery,
Or the rivers golden.
No more rainbows in the sky.
No more the dancing of colours.
No beauty in the Nature to see.
No Joy to look forward to,
No Hope to wake up to,
Relinquishing hold on our dreams,
Desires and wishes unfulfilled,
We will slip into Death's slumber."
Realising Ben had fallen asleep,
his father got up from the bed,
turned off the light
and silently went to his room,
thinking all the way.
Unaware of the grave thoughts
his question aroused in his father,
Little Ben slept on,dreaming:
"If Tomorrow never comes,
There won't be no school no more."
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Destined fate restored, artistic, prowling ponderously under my nail biting exterior she saw the beauty in the way my eyes glowed devilishly unshaken. I explored her covert. Lavishing lashes pranced about her glowing pupil. She felt intensely vigorous letting her hands demolish my unseen temple. Lips laying rose tinted kisses upon my lying fortress. Unclaimed desire to escape the tidal waves. She answered in great confusion to my curiosity. A bitten lip, weary eyes, sharpened words stabbed at the heart in hand. Yet reluctant to see that as the answer i persuade my inevitable heart to rapidly beat to the sound of her singing. As her tempo began uncontrollably my heart simultaneously racing. Thudding almost as if fireworks went off in my chest blessed. Yet heartbreaking in such since the way she walked was always away. I persumed maybe just a bit to soon. Then her hand grasped mine & our feet waltzed on the moon. The fireworks were no longer in my heart but in the sky. Out of the depths of neverland a loud clock trembled through us. I looked away for a second or two. In that instant i was left only holding the cloth.. fury & heart ache. Curse you time. Love never waits on me. It rushes my life..
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
i do my best soul searching while
cumulus colossuses ponderously trudge
under the last soft fire rays of a pastel sunset
with silver stars crowning the purple velvet horizon
and a mirror clear view up to incandescent heavens
all reminding me of just.
how small.
i am.
*
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
City lines illuminated by animated street lights reflect off of your skin.
Images of infant filled houses
and hospitals with new born fetal babies, juxtaposed fatal mothers,
emit off your body
in black and white stop motion,
slicked by this canvas of fluid blanket
And you, victim of lifelessness
lie cold and waterlogged
inhaling liquid, the new source of oxygen,
your eyes fogged and inverted submissively.
What was sung to sleep by hymnal chants
of incredulous mourning moans now lies
Dead
on a forgetful Sunday Evening.
The street lights give no respect
as they ponderously encroach,
Leaning in to hear your fleeting birdsong.
These lamp poles, tender and limber,
flex to form prayer circles, forgetting their rightful footings.
And with each inch bound tighter,
the circle emulates a power emitted through photonic light beams
bending irresponsibly to get closer to truth.
They then see it, and so does woman
Stopping by this wooded mausoleum.
She stands with inquisitive mittens, palms open and receiving.
Flecks of skin lift off your sinking vessel as what was you leaves into better places.
They drift, forming a clouded colony
crawling up webbing left to lead them correctly.
Each inch spreads more purity,
each meter strengthens recent weaknesses.
Woman notices a cloud gather above you,
and each particle refracts the whole galaxy with increasing detail and accuracy.
As your body turns to skeletal structure
you seep faster into the silt-heavy waters below,
your bones creating playgrounds and Eiffel Towers, hospital white in hue,
so clean it hurts.
The cloud moistens with rain,
it becomes heavy and starts to drift,
rocking,
in futile attempt to birth again.
And each fleck takes woman.
She spreads eagle and takes flight.
Toes lift individually and with lessened pressure,
she stretches each appendage as your flesh meshes with woman’s in unconventional ways,
every crevice and crack blanketed by you, what was.
The street lights pulsate as they observe in amazement
your transformation.
All is forgiven while the lamps induct you into purity
and absolve woman for witnessing this connection to God.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
i’ve been stitching a tapestry
the ends frayed with words
I’m not sure who they’re from
I'm not sure who they're for, I
sit un-stitching errors every
once in a while there’s always
a dark thread holding lighter
ones together towards the
middle there was a face and
I’m not sure it belongs to you
anymore I haven’t finished it
I’m broken up with pieces of
you they keep falling into the
thread and I can’t get them out
I built a castle around you but
I’ve forgotten the key and you’ve
locked every door
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
there was sign of life.
the modest gathering of juvenile boys, unbeknownst to man, tread across our barren land with their threadbare sneakers and sentimental minds. the youth spoke of our unspoken parlance. entranced, they were, of our melodious style, our sultry sways and intrinsic device. preserved ponderously was the allure of the oracular clouds and the virtue of the boundless sky. beheld from this came an admiration that stretched far beyond the comprehension of a closed eye, an admiration that could be felt. it was the youth who asked to see that of what could stop them. it was within the life of us that we could present nothing.
how far they might go.
be well,
bcb
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:54 PM UTC
one exquisite cloud
ponderously puffing on
letting blueness drench
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
I build an altar, parade in the streets
**** on a sugar skull, stamp on your grave.
I want to weep, but instead I write
words like skeletons that leap and click their heels
grinning with jaws of orange like choked marigolds.
I wear a warren of jade, a den of ivory, a lair of shells
to wake the dead with a dance.
Why do the catrinas resemble you as you live?
Why do the calaveras still smile and tip their
top hats mockingly at your tombstone?
Alone in the colors and candles, I row this mariposa
dipping my paddle like sugarcane in taffy
reverberating grief like a sack of chattering teeth.
From Ocotepec to Patzcuaro, masks mourn
their losses, stars are pulled from the night
islands are invaded, bones rattle like marionettes
bells seek their towers, corpses leave their caskets
crosses fly like kites, feet clap in a frenzy
mayors deliver speeches, waves stutter ponderously
souls are exhumed from tobacco smoke
yellow ribbons cascade from the deaths heads
and we all dance like madmen, the dead grieving
the living and the living grieving life.
Is this the red chaos that you gulped down, the
dagger that distended your stomach?
Who draws from the pail that draws from your well?
Your body is half water.
You will rise with the moon and pass as we all dance like madmen.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:09 PM UTC
oh, what darling things live
in me continually announce her being:
the indent of my hands
the grit of my teeth
the ache of my bones when i move
far away from you
the intimate commune of my mouth
to the supple fruit of the world
and my mind wandering
what to make of nakedness when
you have displaced my weight
into something air's deft hands dare carry!
we are only afloat in each other's
fervid atmosphere.
there are spaces i yield when you ******
forward, killing the fires that live
in me,
the silences that confess the
mild affliction of the bed now void
and impression-laden,
how swiftly i was taken away and how
plodding my return has been,
not so much now myself denying
the imprint of such sharp moment
weaving your truancy
that whenever we make love,
there is something in me that dies
repeatedly, even now, alone
underneath a latticework of dark,
for love clung rather ponderously
stifling all words quivering
and panging and there is now
you, rolling together with the continuity
of these words, thralling me to
one more embrace.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC