"protuberant" poems
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
A baby takes steps
such deliverance and liberty,
and each one taken, a sculptor's dreams,
raw clay to break life's mold.
A painter and a skeptic,
each stroke of the brush
questioned.
Why? Why? Why?
A festoon adorns his hall,
forever and ever
seemingly falling,
gently riding the curve
ever-expanding.
Pin down the treacherous worm,
defiled in soul
and callous has it become,
shun shun shun
holier than thou I have become,
a revolutionary I have become,
an angel in your eyes I have become,
and an apple beheld by Eve's eyes I have become,
true neutral,
true blue,
on and on I live.
Flew through the window,
was a crow,
it weaved and spun
a marigold story,
till it near melted
down through the drain.
Protuberant mound of earth,
bulging eyes pierce the sky,
enlightenment from the ground,
insects yearn a nihilistic life,
existed they never did,
and their ashes carried to the wind.
Farewell,
au revoir,
march in the perilous parade
hastily prepared for the world,
but please do bring your sandals.
The Sculptor and the Child
have crafted in their dreams,
the ideal world.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
Gently scraping the adhering paper from the firm plastic, colorful cube
That beared a delicate weight in my soft, precarious pink hands,
I grasped the sticker and pressed it on my protuberant little veins--
“Innocence!” Clarence cried my misleading appellation,
“Are you cheating? You’re taking off the stickers, mindlessly relocating them
To unravel (or reassemble, rather) the poor little tormented Rubik’s.”
*“Nay, you fool. I’m just rearranging them so that no one can solve the puzzle.
I’m a sadist, not a fraud.”*
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
And then he stepped into my mind.
His ephemeral arrival
Flirting with the departure of our time.
I could feel the rising tide,
Pull me in toward,
Atlantic suicide,
Planted and watered.
Peripheral with its crystallized hand.
Seductive with its transient satin touch.
I dressed my face with a painful smile
Lacerated like a mutilated porcupine.
And watched a rancid trace of gooey paste
Bleed through sticky crumbs of debris
Like cascading turpentine.
It consumed me whole.
I was swallowed overseas.
And then he strolled inside my brittle soul,
Bloodshot in disguise.
Impermanence
Beginning to realign,
Within the stitching of this blanket.
Suddenly,
I find it towering over me,
Saluting with protuberant glare.
My tugging devotion,
Had lead to a realization...
And then I stepped out of my mind.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
She stops before the glimmering mirror,
falters and prepares.
Gangly and awkward,
Legs unfolding, leaning forward
she drinks.
A slender skyscraper gallops,
sashaying.
A wet bud uncurls and blooms.
Winding, uncoiling, plucks a leaf.
Enchanting daughter of heights:
Embraced by the clouds,
Smooching the stars.
Towering sky-queen, ossicones her russet crown.
Bronzed cloak, auburn jewels.
From protuberant knees to shadowy lashes,
a lofty leader,
willowy wanderer.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
And when the time comes,
what will be left,
will love be left?
hatred as well?
Will the protuberant
gestures
of a worn-down society
still stick up
like bruised,
but not broken,
pimples?
Of what discharge
will humans finally be made of?
We have told ourselves
that we come from the *****
of God, and the ovaries
of Mother Nature.
But God drinks too much
and comes home wasted
far too often,
far too drunk
to ****
And mother,
well,
mother does the best she can.
So what we come from them
is spurned love,
of untruths often told
over bed-time stories
when God was talking about
his drunken outings
more than
morals,
and we listen
with beady little eyes,
because God is drunk,
and try as we might,
we cannot stop loving him.
So we come from love
and hatred,
addiction
and
hopefulness,
Mother giving us as much as we can
until we betray her.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Walking home,
a girl in an orange
of a shirt and long
bell-bottoms
with a small protuberant
***
turned around to look at me.
Her eyes were large,
and the way she looked at me
was a question almost:
Are you dangerous?
Maybe, she wasn't looking at me,
maybe the breeze kicked up,
and she just wanted to shield herself.
But I don't know,
something in the way
she looked at me,
The quick stoicism
of her large blue eyes,
shocked into a quick
heavy moment of recognition:
black guy.
hoodie.
black baggy pants.
the scowl.
I knew that soon her eyes
would wiggle out of there sockets
and dangle behind her
always looking back
even as she kept moving forward.
The illusion of moving forward.
I felt like the black guy
the news tells you about,
the one that's dangerous
to all lonely white females
at 9:00 at night,
as his tongue lolls
and his head wags.
Maybe,
I'm being too sensitive.
Maybe,
I'm being hypersensitive.
Why is it
that whenever I see a white female
walking towards me at night
I cross the street?
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:22 PM UTC
I watch the people walk to the bridge everyday
their morose march to earn a crust of bread
all eyes are staring fixed to the pavement
as they trundle, a procession of living dead
All heading into the jaws of corporation madness
dragging their feet, with heels that scrape leather tears of sadness
their grey columns march to towers of control and deviant deeds
all for this monstrous city, where all broken hearts do bleed
By each others side of the green river of envy
they dump their souls into the black dump skips
he nods with his camera filtrating laced eyes
for the good and kind ,they do dispose and despise
They want you to adhere to all their sick commands
with all their protuberant spores of hate, lies and no mercy
come children of eve, they call with chimes hateful and evil
for their want is for you to never be clever and know the fallen
Yet here one sits by the green river, watching the happening
in tears of silver and sad despondency that I do smell
for I have my wings of glorious majesty
as I was made in heaven to fight in hell
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
i never really liked the color yellow
so protuberant
kinda theatrical
too blithe
but it just so happens to be your favorite
and that's exactly what i need
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Yes you
you know who you are
Would you kindly return
the bleeding heart
(is it bleeding yet?)
you ripped so tenderly
from the gaping
chasm between
protuberant man-breasts.
And perhaps
(should you be so kind)
under another cover
also post
the rib you broke
removing it.
Send it express,
the weight of life
support expels all
the air from my
spirit.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC