"recumbent" poems
Yes, mechanical leaf mover,
create the shrillest sounds known to man.
See if it doesn't just slowly make the world a ******** place
by taking away the joy of crunchy leafs,
which gradually become moist, squishy leafs,
then, after a long period, emerging from a snow covering
thaw and lie there, fully exposed, recumbent,
depriving the dormant seed of grass its sunlight, preventing grass,
freeing up water for infrastructure needs more urgent and rational
than supporting the most boring of decorative plants encompassing our lives.
I guess what I'm saying is that, not only are your sounds annoying,
they're just another of the short-sighted endeavors our present society insists on.
You are the "circumcision-for-hygiene-purposes" of our urban planning.
**** you, leaf blower. **** you and the excruciating environmental ignorance you represent.
I SAID **** YOU, LEAF BLOWER, YET YOU PERSIST!
You need to let that leafy-foreskin grow,
covering the shaft of ground.
Rid it of the pleasure-impeding growth of grass!
Let the earth cry out for the sensation of tiny points of pressure
moving delicately along its surface.
Let the ground erupt with wild flowers, or at the very least,
the trampled exuberance of plodded soil
and the desperate levels of human debris that would collect upon it.
Or are you trying to hide our wastefulness from us by removing something
which is nothing, a nothing, invisible barrier?
You've already succeeded in giving my apartment complex the ambience
of an industrial production complex
which I suppose it always was.
Maybe your attempt at concealment
has been a revelation.
Or maybe I just can't think straight,
because there's been a ******* leaf blower
circling below my window all morning
and now a heavy, riding lawn mower is coming to cut the grass
that hasn't grown since September
but has been watered every day
even though it froze last night
and it's almost November.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..
Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.
Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.
Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.
Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?
Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?
Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
this combo presents itself
inexplicably demanding a
poem~all~its~own by gum, (1)
though the brain refrains from
providing any clues where/what
might be inside the intersection of
the Ven diagrams of cross pollination and enervation
but as an only love poet,
he thinks he is brilliant,
and visualizes the intersexual
excitement of two insects (bees)
recombinant/\recumbent after the stimulation
of cross pollination as most
enervating
<>
said the Queen bee to a worker bee:
"*Honey, be a dear and pass me a cigarette,
all that pollinating and wing flapping is
just so enervating, I think I'll just die*"(2)
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.
The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.
At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.
Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.
I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.
My dilemma grows horns.
I half dream of ******
at least amputation.
But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.
At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.
I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.
Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.
(There's someone standing in my elbow!)
Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look! Gold on gold!"
The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.
I wave back.
Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.
My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.
A few deft cuts......
Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.
Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
To see you naked is to know the Earth.
The Earth glistening, empty of horses.
The Earth, reed-less, pure in form,
closed to futures, horizon of silver.
To see you naked is to see the concern
of rain searching for a fragile waist,
or the feverish sea's immense face,
not finding its own brightness.
Blood will cry in the alcoves,
enter with swords on fire,
but you will not know the cache,
of the toad's heart or the violet.
Your belly is a knot of roots,
your lips a dawn with no outline.
Under the bed's cool roses,
the dead moan, waiting their turn.
1.4k
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.
An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.
In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.
Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
The sky was ablaze like glass in the church;
recumbent on stone floors / we had knocked out
the windows to let in only the blind light,
the blind arches that pointed heavenward, now yawning
narcoleptic houses of God grasping at sky and god
somehow / we captured daylight in our hands / we were
yearning for ourselves again between long hours of waiting
we believed in gods that breathed that great sky, we believed
in the breadth of cosmos more dazzling
than the church doors that we blew asunder
in that latter architecture where we decided the height
& breadth of the pillars in their proportions like
the proportions of man, exhausted & exaggerated,
man exalted, exaudi, exaudi, voca meam quam olim Abrahim
praises to all our lords on high, we sang in drunk
communion hailing, our communion with one another,
all of us there on the stone flags, hands in hands
we beat at the chests of each other, the eyes of each other
(we were just kids beating off to one thing or another)
and it was *** and chaos between those stone walls, it captured
us, bewildered us, those yawning heavens under the church ceiling,
the one that blazed with the dazzling color of windows
covered in dust like our skin the way it crept along the stone
and we craved it and the way that it seemed to creep,
the sky seemed to creep above us, seethed with light
some days we didn’t know which way was light, up
or lower down, it was usually easy to tell after you came
but we exhausted our voices, exaudi exaudi orationem meam
believing that something would hear us—we heard ourselves
more clearly in the throes of ****** nothing was more alive
more human, than anything, than anything that sang like that blazing
sky/ so we tossed ourselves forward into lightward, lightness
dazzling ourselves with light / it was the summer of everything closing /
the bewildering truth of our own god in cells and precious molecules
we made god in the throes of ****** worshipping in the dazzling sky
we had to propel ourselves forward, it was our stunning captivation
with that dazzling maze of flesh on the yearning sky, hands
searching inscrutably for hands, for god in the feverish sky, god
who doesn’t live in the sky, the god who climbs
with us, the god who screams in our ****** with us,
exaudi, exaudi, orationem meam, ad te omnes caro veniet…
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
How long, how lost,
how
lonely
is the day?
The sun lies recumbent,
as I do:
languishing in cold storage,
perfectly preserved
in its hollow corner
of sky.
I'm
learning
that we're not unalike.
We burn, with equal intensity
and others, love best
to gaze at us,
from the furthest,
faraway plains.
I seem,
to bring naught,
but discomfort.
Wrapped in pain
like the fading aurora bloom,
of day,
I'm a solar-powered picana
so, please...
avert your eyes.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 7:53 PM UTC
The darkened corners of forgotten yesterdays clouded the view as the gaping maw of need stared across the chasm at necessity . Almost as if there was a reason for it’s contiguous constituency it reflected the myriad animations of it’s creator . Crystalline forms in infinite diversity beyond the subjective sublimations of mass crowded the integral forms of it’s subjugated spontaneities perversions as the well of it’s unity sang of the cause for it’s being .
The single-mindedness of it’s recumbent beginnings were all but lost to the ramifications of itself as the children of it’s repulsion waxed and waned .
The twinkling of an eye , the integration of ages , countless extrapolations of it’s *********** vanished into the nature of their being as the tainted refuse of their wanton progressions began their mutual processions back to the source , or wandered through the surrealistic ethereum of their eternally predestined nothingness .
Causalities purity reigned as all became the reason for it’s own creation , and vanished into the implosion of it’s own ***********
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
I’m lying on a beach, sun-punched subconscious
not too hot as a briny breeze still blows ashore,
but warm and melted onto the ground
like candle wax spilled over
nearby recumbent girls, unmoving as statues,
**** Aphrodites raised of sand and sea foam
splay across loose opened chitons
unfurling scents of oils and lotions,
awaiting their animation from kisses of salt mist
or ocean tide come in too close
they’d vanish by next glance
lost in minutes or hours passed
the impressions they’d left filled with glistening sparkles,
constellations of miniature stars fusing
then extinguishing by pairs to gray flatness
ascendant on gulls' laughter, wind-stretched,
entangled among broken waves
in an endless silk scarf god once made
but left behind in his dream at dawn
when light then carved each grain its shape -
this beach for me to sleep on
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 9:14 AM UTC
The mainstay of guests,
Their backs against chairs
That are backed against walls,
Readily seated and settled
Into tight knit sub communities
And discussion cells…
Thrashing out social failings
And political ineptitudes
Gleaned from broadsheets
And RT News updates,
Mumbling agreements
Or gentle dissents,
Some too ****** to participate
(should have “passed the kouchie
‘pon the left hand side”).
One spills red wine onto white cloth
And they all laugh longer than necessary
About the irony of it all
Even though there was no irony
In the situation to begin with.
There are a small handful of male guests
That I feel I could get along with.
I give way in the doorway
For the hostess to deliver nibbles.
There are a handful of female guests
That I think I’d like to ****
(the hostess included),
But none of this allays the reluctance
To step through the threshold.
The hostess exits the room
As I pin myself to the hallway wall,
“It could be you”, I think,
And try to relay this through a raised eyebrow smile
That goes unnoticed.
I attempt my break in
Just as the conversation turns to
The importance of contemporary art
In modern society
And the relevance of Jim Morrison’s poetry
In the cerebral world of words.
I search audibly for a conversation
Centred around Adele’s latest album release…
And I NEVER, on a good day, want to talk about THAT.
In for a penny, I take the step with a fuzzy indifference
And am drawn to a hand extending the offer of a spliff,
And to the ***** of empty wine glass on full bottle,
And a “will you, won’t you?” expression,
And I trip and fall over a synthetic fur rug
Lying, recumbent, too scared to take my eyes
Off the pendulum light bulb that hovers above me
And all I can think is that the hallway
Was a much safer place to be.
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 5:39 AM UTC
Golden disc retreating to a pallid horizon.
Tree tops bathed in fiery glow
Rendered starkly against brooding clouds.
Coal black shadows recumbent on a
slumbering landscape,
As summers prime colours sedately ebb away.
Pale silver orb awaits curtain call.
Whilst the first chilled kiss of Autumn caresses skin.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 5:18 AM UTC
My sweet butterfly
emerges
from night spun
silk cocoon...
unabashed and naked
framed softly
within the first rays
of morning
her lace wings
fluttering
gently within the breeze
she turns to alight
once more
beside
my recumbent form
and bowing her head
she shares again
the sweetest of nectar
within her butterfly kisses.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
This magic hat, a crown of thorns sometimes
Hard pressed and poignant, we blessedly wear
Till death recumbent stills the joys the care
The strivings found in all sentient forms.
We walk upon this globe each day without
Wonder nor concernment for monolith
Thoughts arisen, seemingly threaded with
Threads still hidden though faithfully throughout
History named and imagined. The full
Ever-vescent multitude, a flash, the
Portion illumined, then grasped as all in all.
This cause repeats repeatedly, a breath
Of mind cognate and fleeting that does swell
Our conscious state to mortal width and breadth.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
Grow, grow, growing grow
Taller, wider, deeper, steeper
Topsoil cracking
Foundations creaking
Interstitial water leaking
Gases pluming
Sun too hot
Birds forgetting how to fly
Flies all set to multiply
Central heating turned up high
Fish recumbent on the sands
Hail brave campaigning elephants
Who rampage through
the concrete jungle
eviscerating 4WDs
with tusks awry
trunks outstretched
eyes akimbo
Vanguard of a worldwide army
of feather scale and bone
all stitched up
By might is right
into a threadbare tapestry of deprivation
Today we spread, we glow, we grow
In rampaging delight we gag
on feather, bone and scale
We suffocate ourselves
Tomorrow
The earth will fry
And so might I
Is this the way to end our poem
© Diana Korchien 2012
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
The worst part of a funeral is not the sombre faces,
Nor the awkwardness of people
Who know not how to be at such a time,
It's not the heavy sense of sadness and loss
That permeates the air or the brash jollity of those
Who over compensate,
It's not standing to eulogise my friend
In so few minutes
When he was so vibrant and ALIVE,
Nor seeing in my mind's eye his face
As he lay recumbent in the coffin's cushioned dark
And airless embrace,
Not the sobs that came in public as I sat
After giving his farewell my all,
My first eulogy and sadly probably not my last,
No, the worst, the most awful thing was the wet thump
Of roses red falling on his coffin lid,
I tossed a handful of dry earth,
It sounded better,
Seemed more fitting,
An example followed by others,
A better more respecttful
And indeed final fare well,
Rest now Damien
Rest in peace
I will see you soon enough
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 7:11 AM UTC
Sincerely, what images come to your minds,
When you read this one name of my nation?
Whether
A land full of people who speak languages,
Many languages in the recumbent country,
Or
Rich heritage and history both poorly kempt,
A land of several classes among its citizens?
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
Plug pulled water gone
Sat semi recumbent
Now heavy no longer buoyant
Gentle popings as the bubbles disappear
This body has changed some
Not how I remember it
Not how it began
Gravity has done its evil work
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
Forgive me if I’m being recalcitrant
I truly feel lucky to have the chance
To know who you are before what’s between
your pants
My ****** longing for you has me in a naked
dancing trance
You may not know but I feel lucky I caught your glance
And now we’re at the precipice of romance
Close your eyes and open your heart
You’re a ****** to me so I’m throwing darts
I have no diamonds but I’ll take you to the stars
… and we’re kissing and hissing, no touch will be missing, listen to this fiction of fusion conviction, trust intuition and let flow the rhythms as we’re on ****** mission…
And I pull down your bright underwear
Keen on the response I stroke you unawares
You surrender and I lay you there
You’re recumbent and I unleash my monster of erotica and his appetite is severe
How I lament those who never got you to relent
They are absent, I am here present
Ready for this love ascent
As I smooch you all over your body, you stroke me with your fervor
Before I enter, I put on the plastic leather
And I penetrate your foam of juicy vaginal dribble
I enter the gates of grind and fiddle
Slowly I propel my vein of love ‘til it nibbles
I am in the hoard of secrets and with this key I solve a few riddles
Love is in the air as we cohere
The pulp of this sensuous fruit has my sensitivity in jeers
Moans and groans are bellows of this coalescence foam
Like an adolescent teen, watch as I roam
Curling toes and dancing hair
Mellifluous singing and celebratory tears
Wave after wave until the showers save
Spurts rushing out, we have reached the crescendo
Spelling magically the body’s diminuendo
Vibrational frequency on a positive high
Ethereal electric sparks slowly fly
Lost in each other’s eyes, in a moment we live and die
In the silence then, the blows echo
and while you’re still shivering, I lick the *** off you
I **** out the residue in your *******
We lay lazy and squeeze the tension out of each other
--Excuse me if I have been an excessive ****** bother
But this is the first time since I became a celibate spiritual brother.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
No more shall we tread the dusty lanes of youth
or lie amidst the meadows dancing flowers,
marvelling at nature’s simple truths,
recumbent ‘neath the cherry’s florid bowers.
To drink the crystal waters of the stream
or watch the red throats in their watery home
and gaze at Dragon flies adream
or dig for pig nuts in the sandy loam.
Deep in the bracken oft we lay
to watch the towering citadels float by,
then up again and off once more we’d go
beneath that vast dominion of the sky.
Though sixty years and more have quickly flown
yet still the memories come flooding back,
bright memories that live in me alone
of friends like Sara, Joe and Toothless Jack.
What fun we’d have in far off distant days
at harvest when the corn was cut and bound,
we’d help the farmer build it into stooks,
like little houses on the stubbly ground.
In winter when the north wind brought us snow
our sledges from the coal house we’d all bring,
and joyfully, with faces all aglow
heedless of the bitter wind we’d sing!
A candle in a jam jar for a light
hung from a stick and held on high,
would cast long shadows in the wintry night
that followed us wherever we passed by.
Gleefully we’d breach the wind blown drifts
and make our tunnels in the spotless snow,
hoping that the blizzard never lifts,
as through the fields and byways we would go.
But now all things are changed for good or ill,
The wind comes from the south and brings us rain
I think this nothing but a bitter pill,
and would make the howling North Wind King again!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
A blue cat is quivering
inside a recumbent statue's eye
Its wintry eyeball
a bleak shelter to her
She ponders to be grabbed
by a cypresse that soars around
But she dares not
to attempt the leap
You see...
the statue is fastened
to a bony finger
And the height at the firnament
is tremendous
So she remains dormant,
snared to the will of time
Some pewter birds flying above
Celebrating their capability to fly
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC
The mist of some Autumn days, make's me rather recumbent
no way do I rise on a grey morose day liken to this icky sticky day
it does my lungs not any favours and I choke on it's moist cloak
and if I go out with an umbrella matter not, my clothes get truly soaked
Let's see the forecast again for tomorrow
maybe a Mack I will ask a friend to borrow
but they are not like me, up at the crack of dawn
so I go back to bed as I stretch and yawn
Forecast low cloud and mist again
they must must be taking the ****
those ****** weathermen
are truly one off the wrist
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2012 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
I emerge from the forest and an inevitable sense of insignificance overwhelms me.
The stars blow my mind,
They live without my time.
What we see is already dead and some of that legacy lives on within my being,
Yet I will never be regarded as special or as beautiful as them;
They are the uncontrollable apple of your eye.
Why don't they need our love, those stars?
Part of me thinks they just don't want it.
How can they possibly live without the warmth of society's recumbent limbs?
(For even when all humans unite, are we weak)
Maybe they have dissociated themselves from us.
All we do is dim them down
With our light pollution and our ****** rows,
To the point where some aren't even visible within the sky-
Or within the likes of you and I.
We gaze at the stars
-We look at them in adoration-
But they will never do the same.
We are but nothing like them.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Time,
realm that holds everything,
eon’s mobile picture.
In the Time, there are no shapes of human souls.
Only the one from the gear between states of life.
The Universe;
the Been;
and the Time:
Delitescent, ethereal, infinite.
The Time its sited on a bench of the Existence’s Park,
waiting for the life or death passes by,
while reading the Book of Life.
The Time is recumbent, listening to the Destiny,
while this, calmly sings to him.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
The thing is she's an unforgatable thing..!!
She's stuck in my mind..!!
She'll be stuck in my mind..!!
when i'll be at that age..
When i'll have white hairs on my head(50)..
she'll be there in my thoughts..
when i'll have A cup of tea in my shaking hand(60)..
in front of me i'll imagine her..
When i'll have a hundreds wrinkels on my face, cold blood crawling in my veins..(70)
I'll feel her warm body into my arms.. !!
I'll feel her fingers caught between in mine..!!
When i'll trying hardly To take breaths..
recumbent on a bed guessing which will be my last spring..(80)
I'll hear her whisper in my ears..
I'll feel her touch on my lips..
i'll smell her fragrant hairs falling on my face..!!
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC