"reposition" poems
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
The first night I stayed under the stars at your house,
I tossed and turned until finally I woke you with
Soft kisses over your bare shoulders and on your chest
Just above your heart.
After stirring out of your slumber, your lips brushed mine
And the crook of your arm fit perfectly around
My body as you held me close.
One of us just barely awake, the other wide.
Learning to sleep with someone new takes time;
Discovering the way their chest rises and falls
Like the tide comes up to kiss the sand
Before receding back and pushing forward again.
Listening to their deep breaths as they lay
Almost lifeless on their back,
Matching their breaths to heartbeats beneath your cheek.
The way they stir in the sleep and reposition
Themselves so their arm holds you safe and secure
Even when they’re dreaming.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
twinkle birds and tessellates, bends my mind to outer space. lands me in infinity of never ending affinity to the universe.
but sweetest ideas were shortly lived at reality slowly sifts away to repeated visions that turn loved faces into panic that glitches me into unbreakable circles of walk away, walk away.
no awareness of a before from this feel the abyss of this helplessness **** me into no ending so I seice to begin.
but as the panic subsides my mind starts to ride the energy that resides in my being from the kingfisher floor to the fish strewn ceiling.
sentient beings **** at the seams, my dream of weightlessness pull the windows to break towards the secrets of simple existence.
invisible water sends the strands of fur swelling and glowing into talk of the polar bear whose hair weaves into the atoms that feed my jumbled dreams.
hands rip through the plaster as the sounds grow louder and faster, helicopters shake the boiler from the pipes but I still feel great.
the tables tremble as I soak up the bass and the treble. sensual overload through my eyes the magic multiplies, angels can hear my sighs as the roof opens to tunnel towards the skies.
geometric patterns that I could never have imagines circle and sweep, creeping my further from sleep.
I have breached something new, an extreme that dares its self to be seen only my the few who ****** it. I grab these new senses and attach it to my masses of emotions, that have been formed my these chemicals. neutrons and protons that explore the breadth oh Pantones schemes, weaving into the atoms that feed my jumbles dreams.
release my mind from the confines of rinse and repeat, out of easy street and onto the sunrise that surrounds me. revelations that never siese to confound me.
destruction was peace pulling my beliefs, daring the world to touch me as the floor tips the cabinets from the walls. I am small. here in this perfect world. my hands make the plants grow as they show me all it takes to break the confines of the human condition is to expand your mind and reposition your nervous system to reach a different supposition.
little lion
please read my other work if you like this one!
http://trivialitesofabusymind.blogspot.co.uk/
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
A POSEY OF SHEEP
She a butterfly
in her little blue dress
chasing butterflies
blowing bubbles after them.
Butterflies and bubbles
skitter here and there.
Her "flying flowers"
as she names them.
One b one by one she
picks wildflowers.
They blossom in her fist
losing more than she collects.
I take the ribbon from her hair
tie them tightly in place.
"I have a garden
in my hand!"
She runs and runs and runs
as only a little girl can
joy and speed
fused together in her.
And when she returns
her petals have all gone.
She holds only stalks
in her hand
flowerless flowers.
"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing.
"Look what you have found!"
And I let perspective
take a hand/
On each stalk now
a sheep replaces petals.
The sheep unaware that they
have become surreal flowers
only existing
at a certain angle.
Who cares if they are not real.
It's the seeing that matters.
She holds a posey
of sheep.
I tell her they are
flowers made of magic.
On the far away hillside
sheep still safely graze.
And when she moves and
finds them "GONE!"
I reposition her and
there they are.
"Hold still!" I tell her
and pick each sheep
pocket them
mind them for her.
Happy once again she
runs and runs and runs
clutching her precious stalks
in a tiny hand.
All her imaginary sheep
tucked up in her mind
possibly for ever
if not
longer.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
I cast my line and reel in my bait
I cast my line and it's a snake
I cast my line, a reprobate
How much longer till I break
Patience is not a lesson I care for
I like waiting even less
I say, "that's enough", You say, "there is more"
- I'm breaking, I must confess
Vice on my heart, squeezing out tears
Thoughts are swirling all of my fears
Ripples in the pond spread out from my float
All goes still, there is a lump in my throat
Chin in my hand
Slumped and alone
My pole, unmanned
Heart's monotoned
I have cast in shallow waters
And reeled in dregs
Wandered forbidden corridors
And near lost legs
How much longer must I wander?
I trust You not to tip my boat
Believe You've brought me where I float
You've kept my rod from breaking
But not my hands from aching
It's the catch that I doubt
It's all one endless bout
I'm trying to practice trust
Though my heart's dusted with crust
Fishing, endless fishin'
Waiting on fruition
Fishing, oh, endless fishin'
Perhaps I'll reposition
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 9:53 PM UTC
there is sweat sliding down the backs of my legs.
there is sweat residing on her sleepy self as well.
the blanket is tangled in knots,
my head is anxious and irritated,
her breath is slow and rhythmic.
the night bats her eyes,
laughs with security at the sight of my sleeplessness.
the night bats her eyes,
as i roll mine and reposition my legs.
lauren woke.
she woke in wonder.
lauren woke.
all perfect, skin all white.
i offered to sleep on the floor to cool our bodies.
she clung to me like a child.
i offered to sleep on the floor to cool our bodies.
she said, "please don't leave me."
a monster and a little girl curled up tight.
i said "goodnight".
a monster and a little girl curled up tight.
until the dark lost to light.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
Anticipation spans the season
Gone so fast with just a trace
You leave no rhyme nor reason
Off you fly with cold malice.
Even the driest patch of grass
Restores its former chloroplasts
Bright green trees begin to fade
Your legacy is leaving.
Splash, the constant drumming
Sets the tempo and transition
Swap the pastels for pantones
Go indoors and reposition.
Not one to miss a queue
This rain was built to last
The whipping winds harmonise
Like blowing over hollow glass.
The interval is all but over
The show yet to be recast
Fly in the white cliffs above
The Dover shore blends at last.
The tapping of rain becomes a thud
As the treetop leaves lose their colour
Gales whip up - down empty streets
The people crowd indoors in horror.
Fearsome is the cold and wet
Now that joy and happiness has passed
Regale stories of the Summer
And hope that winter retreats as fast.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
The night is here and the wind is slightly rushing at our entrances; although, inside the climate has it's differences. In between the thermostat providing warmth, dimmed vision, television illuminating our faces, cinnamon scents floating through the vents, my arms are imprinted from your sudden firm grips. It's my lap you sit as we watch continuos scenes of outburst, followed by your hysterical vocal siren. Unsure if this movie is actually getting scary or if its because the Hennessy mixed apple cider is wearing. As the fallen leaves picks up by the breeze I can hear growing alerts of "trick or treat", which happens to be the most exciting sight of your night. Seeing you so enthused by the little costumes, loving how well you are with the young; therefore, it's blissful to witness you having so much subtle fun. Temporarily able to shut ourselves back inside and it is obvious that the gusts have been having it's way with your bun. Reposition as "Netflix and chill" get back real. You get your last shivers out as you find shelter for your arctic feet. Took us a couple of tries to agree on what's comfortable, finally. Now I'm back to supporting your marshmallow like body in my tightened arms when I'm stricken by this rush of paradise. The feeling of triumph, due to being able to give you what you ultimately asks of me. You didn't know you'll be spending nights like this with your superhero dressed in a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants. The uniform that none of the candy seeking children glorifies; however, they don't know how high I jumped, how hard I stomped, how straight I punched and how fast I had to run to save you from all those jokers.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
Nights spent with fingers crossed
make it hard to return texts
but the message I forgot?
Whilst occupied with shit-talk
and sliding 'cross these frosty sidewalks
was you won't be forgot
Coughing, choking down this spite I chew
I'm through with slowly dying here
and rotting out my youth.
I know this stream of epithets
pouring out my mouth
sometimes missed its mark
and unfairly wet you down
I'm letting this town down, now
But it always did the same,
and shame's the only lesson I have learnt.
So, with bridges burnt, I leave behind
these Dow and Main Street blues
Shoes worn through, I bid adieu
to Broadway and Alger
to the lumps in my throat
on the 5th Street bridge...
Forgive me my distractions,
dispositions and my scowls
I'll reposition my tongue, now
for milder words
But still...
This place will ******* **** me
if I don't leave, right now.
So plant one on my cheek,
or clasp my arm and see me out.
This ghostly whisp of smoke
has found its proper breeze
and punched its ticket
to touch nostrils in a new locale--
--Punched its ticket to say, **** it."
and pull a solid form
to cover all this ether in.
The granite sky's eroding
--finally!--
Rocky dust falls down, lithic snowflakes
But I'll shake it off my shoulders, now.
I'm sick of sighing, sick of shame.
Fed up with guilt, I settled my bill
with all I can't forget
Because,
"My kids will never scrap **** 'round here,
And I won't die crying in a pint of beer..." (McGowan)
I'll turn my back all fondly,
But sneer into the wind.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
See you're thinking
Remembering the old
The loving
and the untold
Stories,
Forgetting
A moment I didn't miss
I couldn't help but kiss
The last remainder you were
In my head you are
In my heart you were
Stars reposition
to bring the
already happened
long lost cadaver
Lets stall the inevitable
The longing indubitable
The longing insufferable
The last remainder you were
In my head you are
In my heart you were
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
I
creeping up slowly through the dew
dirt and grit stuck to a slimed back
trailing off into the pre-dawn purple
pink elastic head pushes forth
exploring new territory for foodstuffs
on a chilly morn
near a dilapidated barn
greying wood darkened
both by the time of day
and the coating of early morning moisture
stretching out and doing
a masterful accordion impression
the tiny flesh-colored soldier
presses on so as to eat
before the sun finds and cooks him
II
still wet, a brown milk cow travels slowly
bell clangs randomly
as if the uneven ground were sheet music
and her hooves the fingers of Bach
long lolling tongue stretches forth
to clean away nostril debris
and reposition yesterday’s cud
one large eye scans the farmhouse door
looking for a light or signs of life
as the daily fest arrives
with each breaking day
a low bawl escapes her mush filled mouth
an attempt to signal as the sun cometh
III
upon a post a small finch lights
without fanfare or announcement
a song bursts forth
filling the quiet valley with whistles
followed by chirps and tweets
the greeting is returned by a thrush
hiding in the brambles
soon a chorus erupts to greet the sunshine
and express gratefulness for another
beginning
bouncing down and fishing a twig
the little finch, proud of her concert
returns to the job
nests do not build themselves
and the young will come in short order
mashing the twig
into a muddy slot
and stamping it perfectly into place
eyes cast across the meadow
seeking flying insects unaware…
breakfast at the farm takes many forms
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
I came to the conclusion that all I ever do is talk. There was no taste for words in my mouth at that moment. So I sat up on my bed at 3am on a school night. I hear my mothers' pill bottles rattling and my father's almost inaudible snore. My sister sleep talks about her rough day at work and my dog exhales loudly as he changes positions. The fridge is buzzing and water drips outside as the snow melts. There is a high frequency sound coming from the charger across the room. The roars of cars from the express way and the whistle of the wind from my cracked window. Police sirens fade as they go farther and father. My bed frame creeks as I reposition my left foot. My ears ring when all sounds seem to seize. I got it. Something, I'm sure. Now I know why they say "peace and quiet." But that phrase is redundant because now I conclude that peace and silence are synonomys.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
there is someone inside my head, reminding me of the sacred
lips, eyelash, one pupil slightly larger than the other,
mesmerized by bite-sized working villages
i will shroud you when i can
i’ve felt the irrefutable joy of knowing where to step
and the cigarette in the eye, the ice and defeat
curled hands around my ears, sobbing
for not knowing myself
who among us has not felt this – or rather –
who among us has felt it but denied the time
to reposition
trusting myself to open the door quietly
grabbing anyone’s hand in the dark
i wake up encased in my own sweat
what am i afraid of
what am i afraid of
what am i afraid of
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
*They hide in shadows.
Reposition. Lie in wait
'Til it's time to strike.*
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
-
i lie here beneath unfinished skies,
watching a rainbow evaporate
into shadows of daylight
my intellection suggests they are
made from billions of thumbs and
forefingers holding tiny mirrors
between me and my beyond,
lying to us with images of ambiguous
white columns in a gigantic panorama
of shape-shifting mistakes that constantly
reposition to hide the flaws
but i can easily make out these errors,
committed upon sensing inadequacy–
adjusting abstract creativity mapped
with ill-conceived perfection
which is likely what blew
this rainbow apart ,
the precipitation here was
so immense !
and somewhere—
droplets rise to form a tremendous new arc,
glimpsed now by a humble roofer
who wishes only that the sun
would hide once again...
s jones
2021
.
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 6:47 AM UTC
Trying to make it happen
is only making it dampen.
The fulfilled look of love has drained away
left with only a look of disdain.
You should have known you could only push so far
before you tore from heaven the star.
You hung it there with such care
but ripped it down without as much as one last stare.
Climb back up and reposition the moon
and please, please do it soon.
Before what was so preciously made
is just left to wither away.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
My blue heron
is actually gray.
And actually
not mine.
She visits,
then vanishes.
On land she carries her feet
floppy as waffles on jointed sticks.
In flight she ***** slowly, folded neck, gliding
just above water, then stands
still as sculpture
toes in mud
until with a sudden **** of head
(can she hear them?)
that swift beak plucks a fish,
lifts, grips like pincers,
points to the sky.
A slight shake of head
to reposition above gullet,
and she swallows
with a smacking of mouth,
a gleam of eye.
She is a beauty.
Sorry, fish.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
You see things,
Like no one else before you
And I’m afraid I’m
Falling in love with it.
With the way the
Light hits your cheeks,
In memories
Held tight forever
In film grain
And photo paper.
And you are
The angel
In composition,
Artistic reposition,
That reminds me why
I fell in love with it to begin with.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
We are our favourite flowers
Steeped in a full vase
Seasons pass -
with the dipping water.
We forget / or were not
taught. To add our own flower
food. To cut our own
stems. To cultivate our own
cuttings.
Seek not to be
crisp, divine, distinct
For it is already
apparent.
Be it if you
are fanned, variegated or needled
voluptuous or diffident
fresh or heartfelt
Or just ****** herbaceous
We are own favourites.
We forget that to be in the vase
was a choice
For we can always resettle, reposition, repot,
for the coming season.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
i like it
when you fall asleep
in my arms
while watching tv
hearing
your breathing slow
getting shallow
feeling
your body relaxing
softening
as you shuffle
reposition
and mumble
“baby, don’t go”
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 10:44 PM UTC
I will always
quietly disappear
From where
I’m not valued
No muss
No fuss
No begging
No words
No tears
No Ma’am
No Sir
For I would never
Reduce my value
By indulging those
who do not communicate
value to me
Value never begs
Nor makes noise
It simply
Reposition
Aug 5, 2023
Aug 5, 2023 at 3:11 PM UTC
her fading shadow
for a moment passed
before the sand dunes
and her silhouette was ****
reposition that rusty sailboat
and let me take
another look at you
before you drift away
for good
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC