"sinewed" poems
I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time's irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.
I do not dream that you, young again,
might come to me darkly in love's green darkness
where the dust of the bracken spices the air
moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness
and water holds our reflections
motionless, as if for ever.
It is enough now to come into a room
and find the kindness we have for each other
— calling it love — in eyes that are shrewd
but trustful still, face chastened by years
of careful judgement; to sit in the afternoons
in mild conversation, without nostalgia.
But when you leave me, with your jauntiness
sinewed by resolution more than strength
— suddenly then I love you with a quick
intensity, remembering that water,
however luminous and grand, falls fast
and only once to the dark pool below.
9.6k
for Lori, Riley and Kendrick
the questioning words jump off the page,
into two hands transforming,
words shape shifting into
multicolored ink stained fingers,
now, all a chokehold on my brain,
my throaty gasps rasping from
a simplistic convolution -
single questioning deserving an answer
what are you made of?
the obvious answers left in the slow lane,
bone, tissue, rivers and arteries of blue bloods,
just oil and fuel of a containership,
but the cargo carried, that’s the real stuff
you have insight inside that cannot be seen,
self-survival instincts that morph into morals,
our shared air affects you differently,
a sense of defending, caring,
costless and costliest simultaneously,
spaghetti strands strong sinewed intertwining,
into a better human than most
to call you hero is wrongly insufficient,
but the thesaurus lends me no substitute,
weep, I do,
as the spring and summer blushing green
will not be seen by you at all, and by me,
seen now so differently,
when thinking of
soil-born courage instinctual that has no name,
but grows only in nature
what are you made of?
we know now, but knew not well,
that thing that makes you leap first,
was all you, the entirety of the best,
that exists, existed, as reminders to us,
to mine it, wear it,
medal it upon our fabric
*you three,
breathe it back, exhale it from where ever you are,
that trace chemical odor in our atmosphere,
of life-giving sweetness, a rebirthing chlorophyll freedom
that we humans all desperately need,
even just to know it exists,
and inform us*
what we need to be made of
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:43 PM UTC
Coarse granite slabs split the earth
glinting at the fractured sunlight.
Sly winds whip and lash the grass and gorse;
disconsolate skies weep upon the land.
Rain rushes in to bloat the meagre streams,
and gulleys slash the sinewed clay.
Pulse and sluice. Erosion fashions
new forms of contoured legends.
Ragged crows snag the horizon
blasted and cursed. Little else
between the walls of weathered stones:
hand-laboured one on one.
The moor muscles its independence,
frowning at the low land,
bragging to the skies
its ancient splendour.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 6:56 AM UTC
Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of the universe
to lure a dreamer into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of limbs and fingers,
he entrapped his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked: “How
can I walk through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear: “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”
And to the tremor of his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper into the night. Soon
his lips dripped with her muffled sobs, the stench
of his slobber drifted into her pristine dream;
and he confessed: “She came to me;
I’m innocent.”
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
*Weathered oak of ancient age
Sandblasted by Sirocco storm
Ribbed and dry and redly sage
Deep corrugated graining, worn.
Grown on hillside far away
Far, in England’s verdant land,
Hewn by artisan of old
Hewn by axe and sinewed hand.
Hauled across a raging sea
By barque of seaman’s sail and hope,
Washed by salted wave and gale
Lashed to deck by weathered rope.
Dragged across hot dunes of sand
To a land called Galilee,
Hauled by He, betrayed by man,
Upon the hill of Calvary.
Hoisted high by Roman hand
Stark against a leaden sky,
Red blood stains on oaken cross
On which His Crown of Thorns shall cry.*
M.
Easter Sunday 2014
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Morbid hallways swathed in death,
smeared with blood soaked discontent,
wrought with cacophonic lament;
this is my asylum.
Eyeless gazes pierce the veil
that separates my mind from Hell.
Though, thin's the shroud that shan't prevail;
this is my asylum.
Lipless, toothless, ear to ear;
these wretched grins sinewed with fear.
Putrefaction rots their sneers;
this is my asylum.
This is where the dead don't die;
this hellion mire's where they abide
with fleshless hands stretched toward the sky;
this is my asylum.
Asphyxiation, let me breathe,
lest I join these mortuous fiends.
Purge my soul; I shall bequeath
myself to my asylum.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
When I consider, pro and con,
What things my love is built upon--
A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist;
A questioning brow; a pretty twist
Of words as old and tried as sin;
A pointed ear; a cloven chin;
Long, tapered limbs; and slanted eyes
Not cold nor kind nor darkly wise--
When so I ponder, here apart,
What shallow boons suffice my heart,
What dust-bound trivia capture me,
I marvel at my normalcy.
1.4k
good god a gaggle of girls
read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine
and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older
(husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and
back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment)
~oh yeah,
for Medusa~
this megillah message team meant for me to assauge my
mother hubbard accusations only partial reveals the player’s names:
but if you google a
gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a:
Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball
in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered
under the mental health clause of a health care plan
but only in
California
too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps
sinewed strength in arms that can
carry three children at once,
age is not a factual issue,
for there is an army of
women soldiers who are a troop contingent,
everyone’s back is covered always-full stop-
they curve like the Earth’s crust,
magma formed strong and mineral rich,
curved to better resist
the comets the heavens cannot resist
to send & test the mettle
of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined
reenforced
alas
the grandpa must here resist and rest,
lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon,
in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses
and all our shushing noisier than their giggles
just google a gaggle of strong kids,
you’ll see what I mean
in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise
sunday 10:15am
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
Words the counterpoint to our pain of existence;
Finely scattered fires, on the tips of arrows
Buried deeply beneath brooding flesh;
Blood seeking missiles, to destroy a lung or a heart.
If the syllables were aimed well enough,
And once my convulsing heart is all twisted and held
In the sinewed leather embrace of your quiver,
I'm busy reading my death in the end feathers.
Because a word is mispelled, and it takes my final breath:
I am impaled on your imperfection again;
That word is a secret message, that can fly swifter and straighter
To inform me, that you were thinking of something more
Than just dinner, and a hide to comfort old bones.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:33 PM UTC
And rather die as a mayfly, in one day, on their feet,
Than live as long as an eagle flies, on their knees.
"...It's funny how one insect can damage so much grain...",
One instant can damage so much Grace,
Yet, abominable that only 400 years of supposed science has almost
Destroyed what it took The Evolution 15 billion years to create, the Earth's life!
Extinction is forever and no one will wear it well, the corporate structure's
Convolution need not con anyone, we let them steer our perceptions and ships.
Walking in nature's balance, giving back to her abundance, "...we(e)...",
Illimitable in potential, and indivisible as life, evince to be!
"...They don't stand a chance against our ...(heart),
No, they don't stand a chance against our love..."
If you're lifelong students, self-actuating and evolving, leaving no footprints
That followed none, they will echo forever on, in all ways, always,
Only if humanity gains the sanity to abolish the 'use' of fossil fuels,
Thereby abolishing global defacto-slavery, as well. Be well.
"...There's a beacon in the sky meant to catch your eye...",
Words weren't meant for cowards, be brave...".
The Cosmos can't stop us from basing global society on scarcity, instead of nature's abundance.
Tragically, our delusions won't be dispelled until that premeditated extermination of 7 billion.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination.
Winds that billow in bellows of blue balderdash,
that hides these vague souls in the elephant grass,
as white horses run for an unconsecrated pass;
I sit sipping lightning from a small green flask.
I cannot see beyond this collision of cataracts,
sitting in a puddle of Alzheimer's and absent facts,
hard to predict parlor tricks' and posthumous pacts,
metamorphosis of those we ****** on, lies intact.
Veins constricted from catastrophes and contradictions,
synapses sinewed by audacious biannual addictions,
misdemeanors of malicious misnomers and maledictions,
breathing in the beneficent bleating of benedictions.
Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
a stopping sort of started ending newing knewing sort of ended stopped and beganed sort of yesing sort of wooing newing
sortofandalso
alsok
i
nd of stopped starting begunning
like well gee the summer was a nasal laughing roughness kind of sort of.
i'd like to kind of
or else to maybe
with autumn who was distinctly haired
in rich arresting dead
that kind of starting stopping started
or well i'd like to think
it,swellwhynotanywaybecause noone never didn't atall even in the big gabled church of dawn that strung the sky with gelatinous heaving fibers
all rabidly gesticulating puffy sansfinger hands grimaced on the slender naked
blue and black and bursting sort of kind of because sinewed fluffy hammers on because wrists because
when you get all ***** in the mucky sterile daughters little pink little rose bud climbing open little rose bud up open big blooming like pink little sort of big sort of small sort of rose bud
you kind ofwell you clean kind of your you you clean kind of clean it straight razor cleaning your you
you cleaned with her big sharp little ******* all sharp and little and big under her shirts under her skirts kind of sort of because
that,s
wher
e
she keeps it she
keepsitin there
summer:
she was unfreezing fresh squeezed lemon wedges sugar hilltops sweaty laughing nightmares in the big in the pale in the cordial surly pillow thick skinny heaps of gobbled luscious hot raining balmy slow quaking deaths every day i stood on that hill and i looked out over the city and she was really well gee sort of because.... . . . . . , ; ' "
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 4:00 AM UTC
Drain the sinewed brain
of twilight's limboed occult
help the humane rest
inspire our futures first
nightmares die
where good dreams live
Jan 10, 2023
Jan 10, 2023 at 4:22 PM UTC
Oct 2020
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.
This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.
Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.
This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.
Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.
Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.
Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.
Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.
Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.
And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.
Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.
This is nothing short of miraculous.
Just like friendship.
All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.
But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:
All humans are poems.
All poems are human.
Solve this poem for human.
(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 7:32 AM UTC
Loneliness walks hand in hand
With he who strides the long way forth,
With he who walks the path alone
Through solitary’s East and North.
Firm his sinewed hand so strong
That steers the compassed vessel back
Bridging pitfall’s chasm wrong
Through deft manipulation’s track.
Guiding they who pledge good faith
To fall then, by the wayside, weak,
Then in bridging disappointment’s song
Instead, he helps them to their feet.
So long that night of solitude
With stark decision’s crucial stack
When none would share that brutal loading
Weighing solely on his back.
Lonely is my leader’s song
Lonely as his dying day,
Would that he could share a word
Who would understand his way?
M.
17 October 2015
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
it was pretty much last night
it was, pretty much, last night
it was, pretty, much last night
it was last night, it was pretty
much
last night
the air was strings of farcical serious unheat
that clutched about our wayward
strips of
meat
in a the street was a lot like
a neon painted carpet of a
trillion quick sparkles
glinting sorely
on the
immense nook of eve
where was huddled darkness' slinking cloth
a twill of slutty
colours they prattle on the door
ways on the hinges
and the unopened lids
of the fire cold skin
that my lady wheres the night like a carnal shrug about her
well sinewed luxurious shoulders;
to which i'm scuttling fingers
over her vibrant trachea
and down the small
premise of her
sternum
to the
able stillness
of her *******
and on their rush
my soul is molten wax
and
verily
my
heart is tooarapidstutteringglobe
at the blushing crust
of her softest
pinkest
!
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:11 PM UTC
<for my friends>
<pre-bot-era>
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.
This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.
*Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.
This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.
Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.
Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.
Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.
Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.
Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.
And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.
Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.
This is nothing short of miraculous.
Just like friendship.
All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable*.
But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:
All humans are poems.
All poems are human.
Solve this poem for human.
(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 12:52 PM UTC
hey and a big straight
ungoded in my stocky amber chest
and caved open my super massive collapsing
singing vermilion crooked
vent
that busts suddenly gradual voices
of ancient fresh lungs that i know i only know i don't knowiknowiknowIdon't
and it's not that i won't
and surly
these manacles of flesh
and bones
and sinewed cords
they scarf my soul and giggle sharply rapid
imposing
stony breaking surf
a largest grunt
the universe said in me
and or i said back
YES
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 4:27 PM UTC
this whole self
1 thing: i
so richly
in language
sinewed
will to say
a flower
a fully
uncoupling
hot bud
and i am a
season
(like Spring is)
i am a spit of
verdant boiling
fire(and i open
my chest
and out
ruptures
petals,
.
,
,
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
next to the flat
the neighbourhood
tabby swatting at
the drain.
sinewed fur-lined,
feline; finding
some poor animal
in a cage
outside its making.
i can’t see
below the earth.
the poor thing,
fighting.
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 9:35 AM UTC
Lonely was anxious
Broken in her own dreams
Reaching out
Hoping for nothing more
Than companionship
Begging you to fall in
Grasped up your sinewed heart
Finding comfort in the walls of your chest
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
walk over jagged
unrocks of sidewalk
sinewed hand of
shattered being
in suited business
grasping
gaspingly
at precipice of curb
desperate
for purchase
leverage back
into living
slithering slowly
d o
w
n
into survival
noone sees
the agony
crawling upright
on both
patent leather
feet
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
I want to go
To an open road
-A road that knows no bounds;
To find a bar that's been long dead,
Where The Wind has its only sounds.
So that I may drink of the only wine,
That travellers dare not reach;
Where the taste is so fine
Upon death's decline,
That my lips, it cannot breach.
Where the cold air tongue
Whips through its walls,
With only History's cross to bear,
I take up the saddle
From the rail outside
And saddle up
To the Old-Bones, there.
I might graze for hunger,
I might stop for pain;
The wretched past
Of lives long-last,
Whistle through my sinewed veins.
As I journey forth unto
This great canyon-grave,
Where old howlers'
Ribs be shorn;
By torrential storms
Inside their own enclave.
As part of dust we settle,
And to dust we return;
From all of those times in Life (we hope),
Were times we would have learned.
Ne'er shall it be an easy time,
For anyone to traverse;
The greater strength upon this night,
Is the Love for the Universe.
And when that Love has gone and left
Down along this dusty road,
It's right back to The Skies I'll go...
And re-open That Old Fold.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC