"preens" poems
When winter's glaze is lifted from the greens,
And cups are freshly cut, and birdies sing,
Triumphantly the stifled golfer preens
In cleats and slacks once more, and checks his swing.
This year, he vows, his head will steady be,
His weight-shift smooth, his grip and stance ideal;
And so they are, until upon the tee
Befall the old contortions of the real.
So, too, the tennis-player, torpid from
Hibernal months of television sports,
Perfects his serve and feels his knees become
Sheer muscle in their unaccustomed shorts.
Right arm relaxed, the left controls the toss,
Which shall be high, so that the racket face
Shall at a certain angle sweep across
The floated sphere with gutty strings--an ace!
The mind's eye sees it all until upon
The courts of life the faulty way we played
In other summers rolls back with the sun.
Hope springs eternally, but spring hopes fade.
5.7k
There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens
What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green
There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'
There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes
Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be
Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'
There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'
In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine
'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'
From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array
There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
There inside the chamber sits,
Awaiting patiently;
Gathering discourse and their wits,
To match with Chimpanzee.
Primate statues loom the loft,
‘Mongst whitening Baboons;
Fidget in their seats too soft,
Indifferent of this room.
For ghosts of former nobles peek,
In shame, as they observe;
The power of the abject weak,
Enable them to serve.
Parrots cackling ‘mongst themselves,
As peacocks flaunt their fan;
Gorilla preens, while tries to quell,
With gavel in his hand.
Chimp arises, intently poised,
To embellish his appointment;
Words rehearsed to fill the void,
Deliberate and pointed.
For he, and only he, shall reign,
While rendering his will
Upon the reaches, lakes and plains;
‘Pon feather, fur and gill.
Yet irony betrays this horde,
Of chosen beasts that thrive,
Who seek to witness own accord,
On who should live or die.
Baboons and the Chimpanzee,
May climb to endless heights,
Gather fruit from tops of trees,
And relish in their might;
But those who scrounge upon the ground,
Or forage in the sea,
Cannot relate to this debate,
Nor self-idolatry.
So this becomes an exercise,
In futile words exchanged;
In bartering the truth for lies,
Leaves jungle quite estranged.
Such is then, the sacrifice,
That satisfies this troop:
Lions shall compete with mice,
For homeland and for food.
This seems just, this seems right,
So pleased to then arrive,
To alter former terms of plight,
Ensure the like survive.
Commune must have order,
Compliance is then deemed;
Life must have its borders,
Confining self-esteem.
Parrots flee to bring the news,
Of brighter days ahead;
While creatures of the air and blue,
Fear the distance spread.
Content to reconvene again,
As this is their employ;
Govern those outside the pen,
Such honor they enjoy.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
She has decided to grow her hair.
Not for frugal reasons, mind you,
rather, to see the extent of the future.
Or, how tangled it might become at length.
Why do women grow their hair?,
she postures to the mirror.
*It's like deciding to go to market,
when there's already sufficient in the pantry.*
Pouring water through the tresses
to cool like an Icelandic fjord,
trickling bubbles down to a spurious sea.
The squeakings bring enjoyment,
a sense of karmic victory.
Knot it and make mysterious!
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But **** I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
A plume should be a thing lovely and light
dancing violet as it's fanned
at the flanks of the blue
bird-of-paradise
who hangs limberly
to solicit a mate
It should curl
blinding white at the back
of the puffy Samoyed
prancing fancy to please a master
who also preens on the oval
of a sawdust track
It should flop
red at the top of gold-painted tin
helmet awry on the head
of an aspiring actor
who plays centurion for tips
outside a mobbed Colosseum
It should spray
as clear and cooling drops out
the copper mouth of a grass-snake
green hose uncoiled by
the sneaky dad who tickles
giggles from sweaty kids
It should flutter
gray at the tail end of a quill
bouncing to the frenzied
jottings of an anachronistic
frump who takes the pain to outfit
himself far too seriously
A plume should not be a thing of plague
riding currents kissed by taint-
sweet crude blasted from a wound
gouged in the crust
of a frigid deep to feed
our shallow lust for eases
It shouldn't choke
It shouldn't muck
It shouldn't tar
It can't help
poisoning that last pretense
we cared about anything,
be it plumed or not, but
the finality of
a bottom line
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
Offense is a proud, pretty bird
preening her feathers just so,
resplendent in attire
crested and crowned
looking down over the world
without warning,
the wind dares to
tousle her hair--
affection between
connected hearts, between
friends, between
the flier and the flight
the bird shrieks
at her ruffled feathers,
the caring gesture,
and the good intent.
she broods
she resents
and she preens
when she is ready,
the wind does not come.
she shrieks at its absence
as she did at its presence,
but she can't put her pretty feathers to use
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
*Cinnamon and black grey
breaks the summer's doze
the voice gives away
it's sitting somewhere close.
The shade of a mango tree
that rests the wings from sun
breaks the day busy
to a lonely space for one.
In its eyes black bead dark
solitude wears a skin
a sadness makes its mark
of a silent cry within.
It dips beak deep for preens
cleanse that's daily a chore
another day quick spins
shadows are longer more.*
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
We drink wine
As the weary wings of the dove
Labor over restless graves
Weaving between the carnival cruises
Drifting along the red canal
Three hundred cubits long,
Fifty wide and thirty tall
Rivers red overflow
The cypress whip cracks
Licking the ****** hide
With a serrated tongue
Ripped from gnawed ******* Raw
From the desperate lips of brothers and sisters.
Rivers red overflow
With the whimpers of last breaths
Muted by the blade of violent delight
And teeth grinding machines
We sit in our squeaking rubber boots
Cutlery clinks and clacks, saws, severs, slice.
Rivers red overflow
With an anguished unholy
Screeching sound
Deaf are our saintly ears
We drink wine
As the weary dove
Returns empty beaked
Once more to his perch
And preens his scarlet feathers
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
there is a place i want to see
which no man yet has seen
a city built around a tree
where it has always been
where animals feed off the fruits
and no man's dared to step his boots
where flirting sun in sky just smiles and preens
a city built around a tree
which no man yet has seen?
how could a city none could see
be built and always been?
who built it if it wasn't man?
could animals, and if they can
would they also build zoos for you and me?
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
drop dusk and there lies sleep
dawning of dream
vital within
there's a **** throat of energy
a body of landscape
and a primal language sewn obscene
oh here comes alike a monkey
see lung as he preens
engorged tongues of mystery
read thirstily read fingertips retrieve
little ******** from all surfaces
all terrains and rearrangements
of past furnishings
lashed is all
generous gobbings and ravishing
demented in cementing and invasive warmth and
decanting honey-clung vital ambrosia
tightens and loosens human in ravel
swallows of emerge and implosion of curtain
it passes til sistence
it passes with yawn
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 10:06 AM UTC
*Lips that ‘scream’ velvety
Embodiments of perfect symmetry
Glossed to a gloriously red sheen
Undoubted indication of religious meticulous preens.
Of these I seek some bliss
From the eye catching miss
With whom my heart she unknowingly holds ransom
Hope this feeling in me does beautifully blossom.*
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
Boldly **** and glowing with pride
The sun preens and shows off what’s inside
Why think of lemon when you can think of lime?
This bright growing color is really sublime
Cool and aloof, all hear the crashing of tides
Stridently true, it gallops and rides
Nothing rhymes with purple
That *****
A draining line that rolls and spreads
It blurs our eyes and fills our heads
Nothing rhymes with orange either
Maybe purple and orange should hook up
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
He preens my feathers,
fans my flames-
he lets me grow, he lets me destroy him.
I am happy.
.
but you still flip off my street when you pass it.
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 12:37 PM UTC
Dull silver silk slipping through my travelling fingers.
Metal bees buzzing past others with upright stingers.
Concrete flowers bloom as a final plea to the heavens.
But they are hushed by grey rainbows as their pain deepens.
Colours of the rainbow? They fell on to steel boxes of function.
But as they fell, they turned ugly around each intersection and junction.
Flowers abundant only in temples and no more do they grow wild.
Like a mother being offered her wounded child.
We ate all our cookies all these years in plenty.
But now we are stingy as the jar is gradually empty.
The inspirations of many were adorned by diamonds and gold.
And today they walk with black ear buds so cold.
I want that teal horizon splattered now and then with red.
Just beyond my black slumber slowly creeping on to my bed.
But when I turn over I want the silhouettes that zigzag across grey.
Bearing pride and promise for tomorrow and every other day.
Can’t we have both worlds, grey towers as well as vast greens?
Maybe if we try we can hope for a world that preens.
Will we ever give up preaching the things that we don’t do but know?
Should we ever give up teaching and let them learn as they grow?
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
I have taken you already,
my love - many times;
my heedless husband surrogate.
His (your) teeth at my breast,
drunking my head,
my belly close to –
lungs coursing in time
with his (your) tongue;
yet wresting (just)
his name
from sodden summer sheets.
Breathlessly my
eyes slam closed
as he preens pretended prowess.
Hollow, but composed, I smile;
reach out (to you, to you…) to him
and speak the wooden line
the scene demands.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
A bit of string,
A tangle of yarn,
A trinket, harvested from the gutter;
She's searching for something special in the unwanted.
A bright eye glitters.
A talon snatches.
She flies on...
Bearing her treasures, she floats above her shattered nest
That clings, forlornly to a crooked and lifeless branch.
Her wings grow tired, yet she must complete this task;
-To make whole, what is but a semblance of haven
-yet, it is HER nest
Lighting upon the branch, she weaves and tucks
and struggles to secure it.
She adorns it with the fruits of endless questing
And believes it into wholeness once again.
With joy, she skitters to the very heart,
Preens her feathers -opens wide her wings
And bursts forth with a heart stopping aria.
-her mating call.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 4:21 PM UTC
The Author,
Having said
What is to Say,
Submits the Text
And Steps Away...
What's to be Read
Or Heard
Or Seen
Is Said and Done.
Then Comes the Fun.
The Reader
Ambles In shuffling,
Struggles In fighting,
Bumbles In stumbling,
Forges In determining,
Skates In gliding,
Rides In on a horse named Fluency.
The Reader wears the Text:
Tries it on for size,
Shrugs before Self's Mirror,
Stretches,
Shrinks,
Dyes,
Preens,
Thinks s/he sees the Whole,
But cannot even see the back
For lack of some connection,
Then ambles off to share
The Text with others.
Later, at the Readers' Circle,
Each wearer of the Text,
Each Poem Creator/Holder
Whose individual Poems differ
After putting on the Text,
Compare.
And though they twirl and dance,
Though they stretch and pose,
Though they must adjust,
No one wears the Text
The Same.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
EVIL rides in SUVs with the windows all blacked out.
HONOR drives a plug in car that leaves no resdue behind.
APATHY rides in secondhand Nissans with the clear coat
flaking off.
CELEBRATION rides in limos with open tops for standing up in.
TRAGEDY rides in a long black hearse with all the horses
under the hood.
BRAVERY drives a bright red Moped that cuts in and out of
traffic.
POVERTY must ride the bus in a much too long commute.
ARROGANCE drives an escalade that’s the fourth left turn on a
yellow.
BOREDOM drives a station wagon missing the left rear
hubcap.
PANIC races in the family car where panting and blowing
isn't helping.
HAPPINESS drives almost anything with a baby in the back
seat.
MACHO drives a Ford F350 with wheels even bigger than
his ego.
MELTING *** preens in a souped-up Chevy that dances like a
hip-hop star.
PRETEEN rides a bicycle and dreams of a Mustang.
YOUTH hauls *** in a Jeep Wrangler with the rag top
down.
MIDLIFE CRISIS rides a Harley in a group of seven on weekends.
OLD AGE drives slowly in an ’83 Chrysler Imperial that
won't fit in the parking spaces.
LOVE floats along on hopes and dreams and has no
need of wheels.
ljm
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
Manners
No one told me I was dead.
Rudely left me out of
their conversations.
When did I begin to guess?
When the coffin’s black lid
chewed up the last bit of light.
*******************************
Bonnets
nodding,
almost nuns
in their plastic
accordion
rain bonnets.
Old ladies.
*****************
Moon
Now is night a gauzy curtain
blown by the breath of the moon.
Moon wears diamonds in her hair,
the sky preens and primps.
Secret destination...left unsaid...
gently calls out your name.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
To the magical what are and what is's
That tattle on each other while riding on a naked leather
Saddle
Nonsense from the other side of a lover's fence
The way she preens herself in the afternoon light
Hair falling as if trying to take flight
With eyes that move back and forth
A pendulum of absolute consistency
Round about in Her love which trickles down a recent rain struck
Staircase
Nodding for from the base which breaks and ticks
With a fit of the nick bleeding from a cutting pick
Razor's edge in a pledge of beauty but falsifying cause' of another duty
From hair turned pin points to appoint oneself again
Into humanities mainstream realizing that it may all be just a dream
Where reality evaporates into a sky that slices into pieces like pie
And love was a thing to do when you didn't want to be alone
And hate was a thing to pass the time because you hate to lie
And regret was a feeling that never knew how to quit dealing
And obsession became all of one's reason
To keep on stealing
May 14, 2011
May 14, 2011 at 11:12 AM UTC
the painted lady butterfly
stiltstalk, struts around
the edge of
my bread and butter plate.
ballerina, delicate,
in black stockinged feet.
she is coy,
at present and has her wings closed and is only showing her,
mottled, brown, bathroom robe underside.
she preens across the plate,
to the sweet quarter of,
blood orange heaven
i was yet to eat.
her curlique tongue,
quests out, in hope of heaven.
allehlieu !
she finds sweet citrus juice,
much to her liking
and now a miniscule ribbon,
pumps and pulsates as she
drinks
her wings slowly open,
oh ! her iridescent wings,
blazing orange, amber
saffron and gold.
set well against,
the bold, blood citrus coral
on which she stands.
her wings, fabulous as they are, belie her underlying nature.
as they, flit and flutter,
in time with her greed.
and we are truly, mesmerised.
she withdraws,
the tongue,
a dance in itself.
a flex of fire
and then, she is gone.
and only the visual echo,
of sublime beauty is left,
resonating, in the summer air.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
I have waited her for so long,
She promised to call here one day,
And my passion enjoyed the waiting play.
I never suspected I’m doing wrong.
In my heart, she shall forever live,
On my hopes, love shall ever thrive;
Her pleasant eyes shall keep me strong,
Wise and with enough stored passion,
Strayed not by time or paled ambition,
I shall meet her where she left,
Wavering between dreams and reality,
I shall touch the waves on her hair,
And kiss her lips as we kissed there,
And rejoice the greatest love’s gift.
O, sweetest promise on paths of ignorance,
Time preens itself in ever spring and glows
With colours of every weather’s ardent rose.
Eating my smiles, my life, and a voiceless chance,
I passed, before a mirror I see my ghost,
A withering figure on that path, gray and lost,
Time ruled, but my love story is the same,
Remains of a lover bides with the same old name.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC
I Miss my Northern Exposure Tee Shirt
We could drive into town for a beer at The Brick
Listening to the radio as Chris-in-the-Morning
Reads a chapter from Doctor Zhivago
Connecting Yuri with Uncle Roy Bauer
We could drive into town for gas at Ruth-Anne’s
Marilyn and Ed will talk about movies; Maggie and Joel
Will argue some more on the sidewalk outside
While Maurice preens before his reflection in the glass
And then to The Brick: Shelley behind the bar
Holling and Dave-the-Cook wrestling the grease trap -
I think I left my Northern Exposure tee shirt
In the laundromat in Cicely, Alaska
We could drive into town and look for it
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
Fake smiles on plastic lips
Prima facie prima donnas
press play on broken records
cheap words on repeat.
'Beauty' preens on billboard prints
as sundown slicker paints the sky
over 'salt-of-the-earth', white-collared wage-mules
and souls too worse for wear.
So they lie, yes, while they lay
in flesh caskets upon prime real estate tombs;
"I've lived the life," they'd say while peering down
on those who lived just to live.
And the world plays this sad charade
in clockwork symphony every single day
as its asphalt veins pump with diesel fumes in streams
from the steel entourage with their precious cargo.
So press play on broken records
for humdinger proof
your sorrowtide serenade
the grovel & groove.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC