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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.
Wordsmith Oct 2018
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
This poem takes a different view on a mask. Does it shield who we are? Or does it allow us to be who we truly are?

Isn't it ironic fantasy too is part of human reality? A realm revealing psychological truths.

Masks addresses the various facets of a personality. Our fragmented identities. Multiplicity in individualities.

Halloween is round the corner. If you had the chance, who would be the Hyde to your Jekyll?
Elizabeth Dec 2014
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
Clive Blake Mar 2018
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 ...
Judy Ponceby Jan 2011
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.
Random Words from Charming, Fun and Fanciful.
Car. Yellow. Storm. Crane. Weird.
Homunculus Jul 2019
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!
(Paraphrase of System of a Down song from 2001 tour) I'm on drugs! I'm on drugs! Iiiiiiii am on DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm on drugs! I'm on drugs! Iiiiiiii am on DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!!! Doooooooooo yoouuuuuuuu like DRUGS? Iiiiiiiiiiiii ammmmm DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" But so are you, really. You drank coffee today, didn't you? AHA! Caught you right in the act! Case closed. . . .
Yolanda Smith Oct 2013
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?
You're not allowed back.  


Much love,

Madame's X's
Elizabeth Dec 2015
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.
Published in the Spring edition of the Temenos literary journal, 2016.
Dee Sep 2014
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
Thoughts, musings
Kvothe Nov 2020
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.
Feedback would be great!
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…
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!'
J T Gaut Sep 2012
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.
Pauvel Jétha Jul 2013
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."
teenageoverdose Mar 2015
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..
Julia R Ervin Jan 2017
inspire
1. to fill with an animating, quickening, or exalting influence
2. to fill or affect with a specified feeling, thought, etc.
3. to influence or impel

inspired
1. aroused, animated, or imbued with the spirit to do something, by or as if by supernatural or divine influence
2. resulting from such inspiration

inspiration
1. an inspiring or animating action or influence
2. something inspired, as an idea
3. a result of inspired activity
4. a thing or person that inspires

Inspiration is not often thought of as something with feet. Something capable of wandering the earth.
But rather, it is thought of as a thing. A thing that occurs. Be it divine or natural, it simply is.

Some people find Inspiration in nature.
In the woods, among weeping willows whose vibrant leaves cascade upon the earth in blissful waves.
Others find it at the edge of the water, as they observe their reflection in the piercingly clear, blue ocean while the tide brings waves rushing endlessly forward into their bare, goosebumpy legs.
Others still find it under the skies, as they stare up into an endless mass of meteors, meteorites, and stars of all colors, burning ever brighter, flying through and twinkling against the night's black.

I fear many people live their lives without meeting even a subtle glimpse of Inspiration.
These creatures are not capable of living; they simply exist.

Inspire is what we are capable of doing.
Inspired is the way we are capable of feeling.
Inspiration is the difference between being alive and living.
People are born and die.
Their lives simply pass.
They exist, they do not live, for they have never caught a glimpse of Inspiration,
even out of the corner of their eye.

I am one of the lucky ones.
I sit, among the harmonic symphony of coffee and cigarettes, across from Inspiration Himself.

We sit.
We sit on a worn, green metal bench that has become familiar and comfortable.
He hugs His legs against His chest with His feet crossed, bobbing up and down as though He feels the ebbs and flows of ocean waves beneath him.
He looks ponderously at the words in front of Him, words so brilliantly crafted,
woven from His life's toils, troubles, and joys.
Words that I hope He sees fit to share with the universe;
Words that are simply beyond me.

We are no more than two young minds,
One, spectacularly brilliant, and the other, exceedingly average,
but whose brainwaves crash into each other as
thunder and lightning join in a perfect storm,
a collision of angst and unhinged emotions and laughter.

There are people in the world who live without Inspiration.
Who never even see it out of the corner of their eye.
But the few lucky ones, like me, will tell you that
you simply have to look in the right place.

You can find it in the trees.
You can find it in the seas.
You can find it in the skies.

But if your mind can't seem to focus on something so vast and universal,
you simply have to look into the eyes of a friend who has never left your side.
For an old friend who changed everything.
6 June 2015
Ben Aug 2014
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.

#introspective
Elizabeth Nov 2014
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.
In memory of an 18 year old that died in our campus's botanical garden pond on the Sunday evening of Homecoming weekend.
Destiny sans mine family of origin domicile
   locked in a full nelson,
   and...eventually wrestled
   to the ground as pile of jagged rubble!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Synonymous with fragile hulk
   (pitted against backhoe and wrecking ball)
   incredibly resilient,
   when incessantly whip lashed
   until unanchored off mooring

thence, her frail exterior (rabidly
chomped via humungous steely toothed jaws)
bowed, teetered and collapsed
stern weight accosted, beckoned, and caved, 
spot on dead reckoning,

   non bash full machination yen
suffering being most weather beaten
   since about nineteen ten
embodying painstaking craftsmanship
   from way back when,

effort to build an enduring domicile
   ruled as blueprint for a den
not necessarily of thieves,
but extra ordinary ship shape,
   rich n hard folks (The Leipers)

fancying innovative
   Hercules hue men, and women 
who wrought their family genealogy
   via quilted pen
predecessors of Barbie and their ken
Erected by strong strapping young men.

Since February 28th 1968
   mighty noble domain occupied
by thine now octogenarian widower father
echoing with ghosts,
   who formerly inhabited 324 Level Road
(plus spirit of deceased mother), 

a plethora of past occupants came to life
when’re he visited berth of his lady friend
who lives in the langhorne area
haggled with Gambone builders
   to pocket a *** of cash
resigned immeasurable

   blood, sweat and tears all for naught,
nor without Miley Cyrus astride
   the demolition destroyer
which hundred year old mansion
once a stately summer resort
   (to the upscale who owned 
the Bell & Clapper),

   a respectable haven for well to do Philadelphians
whar English ivy obscured visible slated patio
upon said pseudo pier viewer proffered view
where lily padded fishpond aqua culture bounded

(where froggy went a court'n
   hopping tubby a prince) below decks
which once renown estate
accrued facade as mere dark shadow 
sitting like a charade along,

   the outer limits of the twilight zone 
casting shadowy silhouettes, 
   sans lovely bones the edge of night
versus former vestige of former radiant glory
prompted this prodigal son to be somber and brood
perchance never to set my eyes, whereat 

no artisan gentrified abode of vested gentry 
thus, debilitating, hunkering,
   and landing plain trampled
so much uniqueness expended viz zit by the hands 

of thine extraordinarily dexterous
   hands of me papa,
who spent immeasurable energy
and countless precious blocks of time 
to gentrify, mend and rescue
   from natural degradation

(whence thee bell tolled the hour
   maws gouged gored a gaping hole 
from this fixer upper, 
   the entire complex edifice
Like fate of humpty Dumpty

   did crumble and fall 
vis a vis, our own Roman version
Thence, my father removed a sign
passersby (whether on foot or via auto de fe), 
would never know, nor glance to read

historical indication, viz the original occupants 
i.e. captain Leiper, and listed in registry
steered his shipshape tract titled "Glen Elm",
a vast vibrant 100 + green acres
before dilapidated home
   listlessly lumbered ponderously

with nary hub buyer shaking hands at acceptable price
thus, the sad outcome as indicated above
mine dada did agreed
   on a deal with contractor 
who bought scrappy spit of land

Acres bandied crumbs
   dealt enough finances "bread"
hence (as explained)
   by the end of November 2012 
demolition crews 
   bull dozed childhood crucible
   of memories without fail.
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
/\
one exquisite cloud
ponderously puffing on
letting blueness drench
bcb Mar 2020
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
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.
Ari Apr 2020
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.
Travis Green Jan 2023
I wanna be your flaming fairy queen
Your dazzlingly impassioned
And most matchless spectacularness
Eminent and graceful feminineness
Invaluable, adorable hotness
Sole, bright delight
Greatest glorious sweetness

I wanna be locked in your all-powerful ardent arms
Lay on your resplendently dreamy chest
Such vivid, thrilling thoughts
That invade my mind’s frame
The more I take great delight
In your sumptuous supple seductiveness

Let me embrace your lush, dynamic nature
Your utter stupendous dreaminess
Queerly romantic enchantment
Ponderously hypnotic and rock-solid sturdy man
I yield to your unequivocal ideal slickness
I wish for you to consume me
Like smoky, slow-cooked baby back ribs
Like the finest finger-lickin’ barbecue chicken

You are so direct, fearless, and energetic
Inexpressibly amorous and dangerous
The hottest suavest sauce king
That makes my liveliness swing
That makes me have a fondness
For your legendary and impossible astonishingness
Travis Green Jul 2021
His masculinity
Tamed my wildness
Captivated my brain waves
Such a sweet, rich, aromatic flavor
That drew me deeper
Into his viridescent vortex

I was entrapped
In his thuggish cadence
Listening to slow jams
He played on the radio
Licking me up and down
Squeezing my velvety breast
So ponderously obsessed with him
As he took me, entranced me
Romanced me infinitely
Aditya Roy Jun 2020
If I put my feet in your shoes
I will keep talking to you
You shall follow me
If you have a bit of love
Then, we can see it through

A memory of us
In an envelope for when my heart is broken
Smiling ponderously and drinking my gin
What do you take your ice in
Be prepared, here is where we meet

A bunch of flowers with thorn'd ends
With a hint of sarcasm, the barmaids hold you
We welcome you to the new day
Fractured and insecure
We will be
Count to three, when we as one
Shall be released

The new day approaches
When the falcon hears the falconer's call
The sparks fly awry
While the lightning claps under clouded sky
I said if we count to three
We will be released
Do you trust the revolutionary?
A cheeky effort on my part.
SIFTING SOUND INTO SHAPE

“S”

he scrawled silently
(tongue in cheek) .

“ILE”

the pencil pondered ponderously
(an awesome feat) .

“NT”

his head empty
(...empty...)

“LY”

“You’ve got to try! ”
(He could only cry)

a prism
of tears
enclosing the word
(a microbe microscopically magnified)
by his despair.

The black markings that he made
would not talk back to him.

He saw only the silent white
that glowed around the lonely letter

felt only the emptiness
that writing cut out
of the page’s snowdrift.

He could not claim
to know how

letters chiselled

meaning into words

until once
(suddenly it seemed)
upon a time

sifting shape
into sense

there fell
through the mesh of letters

nuggets of words
golden with meaning.

“Gold! ”

stuttered his stunted pencil.

“Gold! ”

his startled hand mimed.

“Gold! ”
screamed his mind.

“Gold! ”
“Gold! ”
“Gold! ”

— The End —