"pongs" poems
It starts at the bottom
Of my belly,
Right above your
Favorite spot,
Then it pings
And pongs
From elbows to knees,
From toes to shins,
From heart to biceps,
And from head to fingers,
Taking it's final bow
On the parts of my back
You sculpted-
This is how I miss you,
In every bend, crack, snap, and creek
In every bone, vein, muscle, and tendon.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Girl of imagery, of MacBook and Photoshop.
In a Skype conference with designers and
Project Managers across
Europe,
Smiling to me when I enter the room
Quietly; she's working. I was in Sweden
With the guys. Bragging. *She's good for
You,* they said, raising
Beer cans around the fire. *Woman
Accepted, dear brother!*
A little too drunk, I felt, to phone her from
The hill with reception. No need. She'd
Texted me: *Sverre, I am perfect for you;
As you are for me. I adore your energy
Around me. The thought of you
Dances around in my head
Like my last marble, playing pinball with
My insecurities and confidences,
Scoring, then dropping, being
Thrusted back out, making PINGS and
PONGS, and my knees weak. I love taking
Care of you, between all your cares taken of
Me. By Odin, I love you, my one true
Man.*
Woman, you turn down all other
Volumes, leaning back with eyes closed
When I read for you. Naming me poet,
But I see now; there's not a medium in
This world you cannot tame and utilize.
I've painted with you, now write with me.
You are a rock star superwoman.
All I can teach you, is that attitude.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Deep breath, in, out, again.
Feeling my heart beat, being my heart beat.
Hearing the quiet hum, spin and hum quietly.
Smelling the air, just the air.
Seeing the harvest moon, Selene and Demeter go hand in hand.
Tasting the dry water, from the stale cat's tongue.
Ahhh taste. mmmmm taste.
hot apple cider, darkest of chocolates, his kiss.
Ahhh sight. oooo sight.
warm of the leaves, cool of the water, his eyes... are both.
Ahhh sent, hooo sent.
winter mixed with fall, dinner, his embrace.
Ahhh sound, bouuu sound.
pings and pongs, whistles and clicks, his laugh.
Ahhh touch, wooo touch,
warm skin, cold wind, his heart.
So much thought, one thing to think about,
then why am I so busy?
Just,
Deep breath, in, out, again.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 6:29 PM UTC
Smoke rings out of your ****
Sitting in a wigwam playing tom toms
What a lovely day; tomtom along
Tambourine jingles while I'm playing this song
Look at all the children dancing; nothing shall be wrong
People always want something but I smell a fishy that's horrid and pongs
Playing tom toms calms me to centre thoughts of the past and the devil's tongue
You use people freely like a troublesome one who will string you like a puppet then simply move on.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
I wait for the winter like a wind-up bird, chattering its chipped porcelain wing—the music box croaks on for my finger still trembling, an intermittent sweet note gliding away like a fugitive tear. I crane my neck in vain against the days growing shorter, the nights deceptively embryonic—I swim in them. Eventually the water and I become one languid body, a vinaigrette left to sweat, a sad salad. We do alright, we do with the flies. One wing tip-dipped inward, this one never thought he’d come too close, that one never thought, head fully submerged in a bowl of subtle acid soup.
And then the ladle-eclipse, its gorge swooping beneath me, engulfing me in its inverted belly, my limbs gangly-dangling like lifeless antennae. Soon I am spooned onto a saucer and served to the Universe’s most pretentious dinner guests. Old Man Winter is the first to **** his pongs about my tender torso, and I am reminded of last season’s stinging and stabbing, though I manage to escape unscathed, however canned and stored in the crowded freezer. There I forget the Sun. I forget how to liberate my emotion, how energy can become a circuit of temperament. I am released when the Old Man retreats. I remember the post-circuit-breaking fear of being thought crazy, of the accuracy of those perceptions. I re-experience the cackling pleasure of moving against the grain. I learn how to harness and channel high frequency vibrations.
Flattened and sealed in the sardine can I healed. I grew in the dead of winter, I grew even when the goblin would meet my gaze in the mirror. I hear the ticking of the bird but now only in my left ear. I peer into the future and watch the bird fly away.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC