"preening" poems
a (the) woman’s body (pretty pleasing)
is my reciprocal
her waist is my happy place
her neck is my doorway
the rest is
best when she is mirror accessorizing,
preening, **** upon first rising,
tallying the gains and the losses
unaware of my watching,
never satisfied she, tho she is 98% unadmitting contented,
as she shifts her weight,
from knee to knee extended alternating
with slow delicacy
for the pleasure is trebled
for her imagine image reverberates
throughout the house
for ever(y) mirror is pre-positioned,
accidentally angled just so, lol,
her image transported from living room to dining alcove
all the way to the kitchen’s bleacher seats
she doesn’t know and asks why I’m grinning,
answer is
no confessionary, no telling I’m swelling and
sinning
eyes scheming-dreaming of her reciprocity
she smiles and says
“good morning bad boy”
maybe she does know
but you won’t tell her,
we, you and me,
are pretty pleasing
she is 1/me
she is won over me
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn't even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You've worn a badge of shame.
I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.
But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.
The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.
I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let's leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.
The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.
And still we rise.
4.3k
Crowded lakeside,
more than expected
on a normal day.
Hoping for a quiet
rendezvous in private
she looked aghast,
at such a turn of events,
nevertheless started
to make eyes at him;
patience wasn't her best friend.
Shutting up like a clam
he was a picture of contrast.
Every desire she expressed turned
to a love sick wood duck
soon a flock was billing and cooing
preening and polishing in haste,
making amorous advances
with an aggressiveness suggesting
intolerance to his reticence.
They chased his silence with
irresistible mating calls,
raising hell as if in heat,
making him regret.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
Incessent drumming and the roar of raindrops
Keep me from sleeping past dawn
Welly boots step into the cold, wet day
as the sky weeps for the loss of summer.
The wind takes the wheel,
driving water up trouser legs, into socks, under hats
Blown out beş lira umbrellas discarded on the overpass
A graveyard of useless metal spiders.
Still,
Still it rains
Impromptu lakes form from the spontaneous rivers flowing in every street
Bosphorus babies, cleansing the heart of the city
People look like street cats;
Soaked, preening, cowering under any shelter they can find
And still, Istanbul.
Still she rains.
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
I am shylock,
In the attic barely used,
Barren exuberant floorboards creak in exhalation,
Of your footsteps.
There you find me,
In the dust;
A wooden trunk with brass fixings,
Didn't I tell you I held a million treasures?
You breathe in the sunlight,
From the round attic window,
Preening itself in your vision basked in gold.
I am shylock,
You moved a gilded hand,
Guided by a unknown force of union with the lock,
The air is silent around you,
The room is intrepid in its wanton stranger,
Who dares to enter this chamber of dust.
I am shylock,
You take my fingertips from the cup of a hand I had placed gently on your cheek,
The night before I had told you,
Of this room,
You gently take my fingers and place it on the lock.
I am shylock,
There is a gentle click,
That soon awashes the abated room,
That sways into a tsunami of grandeur,
Of history, emotion, silence and tears,
And it consumes the dust,
The acrid air and essence of my fears settle on your eyes and the homely mouth.
I am shylock,
You know how I came about,
Now,
You know how this room became accustomed to the dust,
And the floorboards, the dust,
And the window, the dark,
You are breathing me,
The trunk is open and waiting,
And at the bottom,
A ragdoll awaits your palm,
Your strength, your gentleness and patience,
This is my shy,
This is my lock,
And you entered the room and consumed me.
Burst through the door, cut down the labyrinth,
and found me.
Picking me up,
You,
Became me, attended me, held me,
with grace sensitive to my touch,
with the intention of a protector to my defence,
And the brazen warrior to my battle.
Now I am entered and countered.
Protected and put together,
Unbound and in your arms;
Now I am open and free.
My ragdoll, your love, and me.
Together, unlocked,
together I and you become, we.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Sighting the preening peacock
Slithered into the bush
Wily snake
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
I can't stop to chat
Sorry, I'm really busy
There's so much to do
I'm getting quite dizzy
Wallpapering, painting
And a whole lot of chores
Along with scrubbing and replacing
Handles on doors
Carpentry's enjoyable
A skill that I relish
But it tires me out
So for a break, I'll wish
Got a five minute break
Rush a quick cigarette
And a well-earned coffee
Then back off to work I set
Packing my boxes
And many a bag
Put them all in the attic
So tired, it's a drag
Hoovering all day
Kitchen needs cleaning
For the fourth time today
Then the garden needs preening
Make something to eat
To recharge energy
Sit down for a moment
With another coffee
Then it's time to go shopping
For food, drinks and more
Come back to yelling
As I walk through the door
"Mel, help me out!"
"Mel, pass me that!"
"Mel, clean the carpet...
The pup crapped on that!"
"Mel, make a coffee!"
"A sandwich might help!"
"Then get back to work!"
I can't help but yelp
Back to more painting
And scrubbing the halls
Cleaning the windows
And papering more walls
Then rest for a while
With a lovely big meal
To end the working day
And help muscles to heal
I'm aching all over
And I can't seem to sleep
So restless and sore
The job-pile's too steep
Toss and turn all night
I'm going insane
But I have to get up in the morning
And do it all again
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
you are
the heckler in the crowd
trying to rip out
the rug from
beneath my toes
silent was the treatment
firm was my resolve
indifference
between books,
tables, & legs.
it lasted until
the viewing party
preening, fresh
dye, a new luster to
your slick, sheared visage
you smile & draw
a little bit of blood
it comingles with your own
hot & thick,
(they await
with baited breath
the proper demise
of union that never was)
& slackjawed, wide
eyed, resolve dis-
solved
I set you
on a pedestal again
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
Maturity is knowing what your limitations are…(my daily chore)
<>
“Maturity is knowing what your limitations are. Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
Kurt Vonnegut
<>
maturity comes when you cannot,
even try, to fool oneself,
indeed, you preposterousness,
make you laugh hardest
at your very, fully owned, selfhood
preening mirror disguise
Is this a poem, a lamentation, a pithy regurgitation
of Vonnegut, and you say: “Don’t care, it’s words
that gotta come out, be released to empty the heart”
a daily excess removal of that daily overflow of the
days first words when new day light and nighttime’s REM
sleep overlap, and the music starts of a life time of favorites,
and like a pleasant thorn direct into your temples brain,
the leaking, then the spilling spirals unstoppable onto the pages, and the first true relieving exhalation comes with
the excited exorcism of the stones of your life, come outside
your body and there is a freshly born stripe upon your face,
not yet a scar for it is yet to ripen by healing, but it is your
creature for loving…and it is good company with so many
prior guests who have checked in, stayed for a moment’s
observation, departed after getting an extended checkout
time, joining the many who came and went, disappearing
in to the internet’s ether, where we one will join them eventually,
though you smile at that thought, cause you’re mature
enough, baby, an all growled up dude, to know that when
you reached that stage, you will be, non-stop laughing
at *** serious you imagined you were, and wondering out loud
why it took so long to recognize that mirrored visage as
one big ole fool with a smile upon his face…
p.s so much for that promise to take a break from beating
yourself up, but you know what, it is pleasing, in that way
when upon the grand occasion of waking up to another
unexpected day of living deserves a deep, but rueful,
laugh out loud and others’ look at your self and argue to
only mischievously agree,
you are indeed,
still crazy after all these years…
Jul 8, 2023
Jul 8, 2023 at 8:24 AM UTC
Old stones weep in the rain
their darkling gaze unblinking
Glowering with ancient pain
of distant glories thinking
Preening Lords arrogant in imagined might
would quail could they perceive
The majesty of osprey flight
True rulers still of Threave
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
There are many limitations sometimes. Of course these are only restrictions we place on ourselves, but we groom certain communities to fulfill a certain appearance and dismiss the breakers of unspoken rules. Don't drop the status quo.
Paradigm.
I want to write and not write about things. I don't know.
No, I do know. I want to write without the stigma that these topics bring.
I want to write a poem about Facebook. See how much appreciation that gets.
Poetry about Facebook won't be liked often.
Write about how it ****** me off that your ex boyfriend (that I dumped, by the way) has a new girlfriend with better taste and better photography skills than me. Remember how I made fun of his ex's for that? They're doing that about me now, I stomped on his heart. I teem with insecurity thinking about it. ******* selfish, I feel like a *****
How I'm tired of being self-depricating because I don't want to seem like an ******* I've come a long way as a person and I'm not allowed to brag about it. I'm barely allowed to take a compliment or I'll look like I'm preening.
Write about how I'm tired of being kinda ugly sometimes.
Write about how I had *** with someone, how when I told someone else, I could see them and society drawing a big **** crown of judgement, and how that's ****** I wish we could all grow up.
I wish I could explain that my apathy is, to a certain degree, purposeful. Because looking at feminism articles every day made me feel like **** I felt like a victim constantly, and I alienated myself from making friends with normal people because I was an extremist. I got tired of constant misery and misinformation. The feminist community was cannibalistic too, and I don't think I wanted to make friends with such hyper-aggressive people.
Write about how I want to be a writer and how I can only write three sentences and then I look at the screen hopelessly. How lame.
I'M SO ******* NAIVE BECAUSE
I want so badly to be different in a better way, but I know I'm just the same.
I want to be able to change the world and I know I can't,
it doesn't matter anyway.
I haven't been able to cry in three months. I'm tired of trying to find my brand of catharsis.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
I’ve spent thousands of
smiling hours
cupping the soft pit
of intellect in my hands
preening with its glow,
casting the shadow of lecture
on my greedy eyes.
when my feet sank
beneath her earthly soil
weeks slipped quiet
(like notes shaken from leather spines)
with no discussion of Plato.
the hardened sphere was
drained of all prestige
footnote and reference.
sometimes, before sleep,
I sharpen my doubts
and carve it out.
it sleeps by me,
a guilty golden mistress.
I am afraid
she will hear the warmth
through my phone.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
She strolled along the narrow pathway through
the park. Her soft skirt flitting in the breeze,
her long legs smooth and pampered, sandaled feet
took mellow steps under the Springtime sun.
She caught the eye of Fred, who from his book
rose up bespectacled and drank the scene
of one young beauty carried by the breeze,
and thanked the Lord for all His wondrous things.
She noticed that he noticed and she sneered,
disdainfully and crushed him with the lids
of scornful eyes that closed upon his face,
and cursed the womb that birthed this pervert live.
She caught the eye of Tom, whose magazine
dropped to the bench from fingers preening hair,
his lion's gaze devouring this gazelle,
and she took notice of his notice there.
She threw back hair and turned to meet his gaze
with sideways glance, a wink, and half pursed lips,
amazed a stroll from bench to bench could find
a pervert and a stud so side by side.
Both men came to the park to sit and read,
and read indeed, then both, like men, did do
what men so do, and neither differed there,
yet one was deemed a pervert, one a stud.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
pigeons perch themselves preening
on marble fauns ambivalent to their
perch, while dark skinned men prowl;
seeking tourists (Americans) to sell
cheap novelty items, over priced, yet
bought to drive away the insistent
merchants; ignorant to the realization:
if you remain silent and don’t make eye
contact you will not forfeit your money...
merchants who ruin the peace and awe
of grand feats of sculpture—I know they
are human (on a base level)—craving
money to make a living, yet there are
many (more respectable) professions…
their presence crowds the already
crowded (streets and) piazzas—aggregates
of language babble—old women and men
meandering along waiting to die—hoping
it is true: the slower you move the faster
time flows—if not: to hell with relativity!
(should have put chips on more than one table)
can math really explain all?—or
is life more than abstract objects?
while the din of crowds palpitates my heart
making way for anxious calculations,
C— and I hurry pass to find some area
to give the artefacts the respect they deserve
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
— after W. B. Yeats
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:51 PM UTC
Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are sleeping
like baby lizards in their caves. Breathless from
a day of pillage. Restful after a time of destruction.
Somewhere, on the other side of the hill, a boy
is playing in the woods. Caressing his manhood,
he becomes a symbol of self appreciation.
Be quiet. Don't disturb the boy in his game.
It is his only means of achieving satisfaction.
A reaction would disturb the molecules from
their expected conclusion.
The boy does not realize how close he is
to potential danger. If he awakens the
dragons, he awakens his death.
Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are dreaming
of future conquests. Illusionary REM's of human
body parts dancing in their heads. Helpless
after a day of mass frustration. Hopeless
after a time of complete desolation.
The boy is finished his game. He smiles
to himself at his clever disguises. Yesterday he
was a soldier in the war of indifference. Today
he is a hero, a legend in his own mind.
He screams in abandoned pleasure. He
yells because he can. Racing through the woods
until he comes upon the entrance to a cave.
Takes a breath, than slowly enters in.
The dragons are no longer sleeping. They are
preening their scales in preparation. Their red
soul-less eyes look at the boy. The boy, with
his brown empty eyes looks at the dragons.
None of them make a move.
Each of them recognize the emptiness of the other.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
I watched
a preening robin
on my windowsill
today.
Looking around,
it watch itself from
every angle
scratching at feathers.
It did not flinch
at me behind the glass &
I felt there was some
sort of a connection
of some sorts.
Never once
did I consider
this beautiful creature
a narcissus,
it was only
taking
care if itself.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 2:18 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Soft weakness
gives to absorb the blows
Like some vague elastic stretched
over the chimney top
Stubbornly holding the black smoke in
Pigeons nesting and ********
Causing the thinning elastic
to cave in
further
White birds like the warmth of that sick steam building
underneath
Preening, oblivious
Hot weight questions the integrity of black edges
Mother bird stands at attention
Baby birds bicker, oblivious
Their hearts skip in unison when they begin to
fall
The smoke swallows them
and that black elastic
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
Blue hills yet again beacon
in a language
my spirit understands
so very well.
I trek alone,
prompted by
the most sublime love
brimming in my being
that makes my life
less of a puzzle.
dreamily I move
following in my mind
a subtle music
that seems to me
is the greatest reward
above all else in this world.
No method
to value its worth
is yet invented,
is there a need?
The path winds up
I drink foaming green
with my eyes,
jungle orchids of various kind,
play their orchestra
blending fragrances
with finesse.
the music
playing in my mind,
merges with it;
real magic is within us
yet again I realize.
Two jungle babblers
catch my eye,
cuddling closely
preening each other
In a world so deceptive
I cannot but wonder:
a love so mature
or a parting gesture?
I ponder a moment,
in silence
about the vagaries of life
before my ascent.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Faded gilding, rubbed through to cracking, flaking wood.
A glamour of ages, sliding, flies to the breeze.
The little bird perches on a once-fine moulding;
Head tilted, one bright eye turned towards the mantle
where a half-blind mercurised mirror barely reflects
an army of creeping vines, consuming naked angels
and the God of this house.
Our hero’s velvets are ruined, dripping and eaten through.
Where riches have lived, decay succeeds.
Nature’s velvets; opulent mosses and emerald lichens
are devouring damask
and smoothing over marbled hardness.
The bird listens for footsteps.
The lady would scatter crumbs on the windowsill
and he would flutter, unafraid,
to peck at her sweet feast.
Once, she drew him.
Fine-lining passerine delicacy,
her pencils fetched him,
and bestowed him an artist’s nobility.
He turned, this way and that,
flashing gold-touched wings,
miming a duchess snapping open a fan.
She’s gone now,
and so have the crumbs.
The bird senses no sugar on the sill,
nor the faintest reminiscence
of lavender perfume, glittering as star bursts
at the hollow of her throat.
He sings regardless,
a mournful beauty
longing to return to a glorious, lustful age,
where light refracted in cut crystal,
danced upon frescoes
and illuminated the ugly –
- to render them enchanting.
He swoops to dance on the mantle,
answered by the mirror
and sits a while, preening.
The gentlemen and ladies are gone forever.
Ejected from history to echo as ghosts of fancy and excess,
undeserving of remembrance or pity.
The bird will never forget.
And knots up secrets
kept tightly in his breast,
committed to his tiny, fierce heart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC