"sinewy" poems - Hello Poetry

"sinewy" poems

Once it was garbage, refuse, trash. A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb And removed by sinewy men Contributing a harder day's work Than anyone else in the city. Our energy now removes its entropy. Sorted and classified into coloured bins, We add order to our rejected matter. Specialized trucks arrive to collect The date-synchronized bins Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms. Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard. Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters. Annual reports and cereal boxes. Once these were enameled with crafted sentences, Painstakingly typed, edited and debated, On the monitors of copywriters. Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates, Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box, Entering into the recycling stream. The nouns and adjectives, Prepositions and gerunds, All jumble together. Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped. Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases Like those of a rejected stranger In an lonely, unknown country. Then words without context. Then just disparate letters Are all that remain. Their M ea N inG G r a Du all y is re mov e d .

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Aug 2, 2013

Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC

Once it was garbage, refuse, trash. A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb And removed by sinewy men Contributing a harder day's work Than anyone else in the city. Our energy now removes its entropy. Sorted and classified into coloured bins, We add order to our rejected matter. Specialized trucks arrive to collect The date-synchronized bins Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms. Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard. Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters. Annual reports and cereal boxes. Once these were enameled with crafted sentences, Painstakingly typed, edited and debated, On the monitors of copywriters. Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates, Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box, Entering into the recycling stream. The nouns and adjectives, Prepositions and gerunds, All jumble together. Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped. Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases Like those of a rejected stranger In an lonely, unknown country. Then words without context. Then just disparate letters Are all that remain. Their M ea N inG G r a Du all y is re mov e d .

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I am nature I am open and wild and free I am the wind rushing down canyons and the hollering in banyans I am a bird that sings I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am civilization. The trapped, fluorescent lighting in a library basement. The cake walks and small talks and forced conversation. I am the beeps and hums and dirt on bums. I’m the faraway cell phone that rings. I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things. I am exuberance A child giggling loud sounds of joy Puzzle completers and Christmas toys Smiles and laughs and leaves of grass The casino machine that dings I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am anger. Tears, scares, and not fighting fair. I am the red in your eyes as you cry. I am a ghoul that comes out in the night. I am the cut that won’t cease to sting. I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things. I am ideas Originality through and through Creations of my own evolve in my mind Great sinewy thoughts searching for actions to bind Mister Cleans and Daedalus wings I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am silence. Quiet. Tight. Composure. Open. Weary. Closure. I am the stillness of being. I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things.* I am alive I set Rube Goldberg machines into action I contemplate, gravitate, and try not to hate I breathe and I heave and I believe I use my eyes to see I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am dead. I’m a sideshow reflection of the man I could be. I am lazy cold and clammy. Hopefully I can get my heart beating again. Then I could be me, molecules upon cells upon bones against things

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Mar 20, 2012

Mar 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC

I am nature I am open and wild and free I am the wind rushing down canyons and the hollering in banyans I am a bird that sings I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am civilization. The trapped, fluorescent lighting in a library basement. The cake walks and small talks and forced conversation. I am the beeps and hums and dirt on bums. I’m the faraway cell phone that rings. I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things. I am exuberance A child giggling loud sounds of joy Puzzle completers and Christmas toys Smiles and laughs and leaves of grass The casino machine that dings I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am anger. Tears, scares, and not fighting fair. I am the red in your eyes as you cry. I am a ghoul that comes out in the night. I am the cut that won’t cease to sting. I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things. I am ideas Originality through and through Creations of my own evolve in my mind Great sinewy thoughts searching for actions to bind Mister Cleans and Daedalus wings I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am silence. Quiet. Tight. Composure. Open. Weary. Closure. I am the stillness of being. I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things.* I am alive I set Rube Goldberg machines into action I contemplate, gravitate, and try not to hate I breathe and I heave and I believe I use my eyes to see I am molecules upon cells upon bones against things I am dead. I’m a sideshow reflection of the man I could be. I am lazy cold and clammy. Hopefully I can get my heart beating again. Then I could be me, molecules upon cells upon bones against things

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TRIGGER WARNING They met at a dance recital. His eerie blue eyes watched her, stalked her, riveted by sinewy skin and the way her legs stretched and parted skillfully, seductively: she knew how to captivate her audience. They had mutual friends. Her curiosity thirsted for more, for she had been taken over by an empty lust, broken by another, but the way he spoke: she felt as pretty as his charms sounded. They went on a date. He kissed her, pinched her, and spread those legs that comprised his fantasies, not caring about the bruises he left when he took off her lacey coverings, pinning her to the floor. They learned more about each other. She saw the empty, carnal look in his eyes, but her pleas and shoves were not enough to lessen the weight of him, to push his hands or his hips away, as he broke her over and over again. They ended the night with a kiss. He grabbed her face like a starving man grabs his first meal, forcing an intimacy she could never get back, but he said, “You liked it, didn’t you.” They kept in touch. She tried blocking his calls, his messages, asking her if she’d come over to his place. Like the continuous force he prodded her with, the pounding in her head beat out a thumping heart-line of no’s.

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Feb 13, 2015

Feb 13, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC

Acquaintance ****

TRIGGER WARNING They met at a dance recital. His eerie blue eyes watched her, stalked her, riveted by sinewy skin and the way her legs stretched and parted skillfully, seductively: she knew how to captivate her audience. They had mutual friends. Her curiosity thirsted for more, for she had been taken over by an empty lust, broken by another, but the way he spoke: she felt as pretty as his charms sounded. They went on a date. He kissed her, pinched her, and spread those legs that comprised his fantasies, not caring about the bruises he left when he took off her lacey coverings, pinning her to the floor. They learned more about each other. She saw the empty, carnal look in his eyes, but her pleas and shoves were not enough to lessen the weight of him, to push his hands or his hips away, as he broke her over and over again. They ended the night with a kiss. He grabbed her face like a starving man grabs his first meal, forcing an intimacy she could never get back, but he said, “You liked it, didn’t you.” They kept in touch. She tried blocking his calls, his messages, asking her if she’d come over to his place. Like the continuous force he prodded her with, the pounding in her head beat out a thumping heart-line of no’s.

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Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter’s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

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5.6k

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter’s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

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ts no more than i deserve this pit of the blackest despair deep dark oubliette no bottom no end walls looming upward covered in thick dark slime no light from above grabbing clawing sinewy fingers dragging further downward no strength nor grip to endeavour the climb i fall to the depths once more copyright gothic mistress2012

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May 28, 2012

May 28, 2012 at 9:36 AM UTC

gothic-mistress

ts no more than i deserve this pit of the blackest despair deep dark oubliette no bottom no end walls looming upward covered in thick dark slime no light from above grabbing clawing sinewy fingers dragging further downward no strength nor grip to endeavour the climb i fall to the depths once more copyright gothic mistress2012

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ONCE, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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3.1k

William Butler Yeats

On Those That Hated "The ******* Of The Western World",

ONCE, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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sleepy eyes open glimpse high ceiling red wood beams house built in 1920s glance out window tree tops blue skies mountains in distance flock of birds flying east chirping sounds passing car engine accelerates inhale deep breath through nose stretch legs plantar dorsal flex feet raise arms over head stiffness in shoulder feel strange sensitivity in right pectoral above ****** cautiously examine with hands feel coarse lump growing more like nub smell moss glare down at growth protruding from chest panicky by soreness rise from bed to mirror on closet door tree stem jutting out from chest inspect dark bark like calloused growth little leafs budding this cannot be race in nervous tantrum run to bathroom suffer painful weight pulling me down clutching carrying foliated limb with arms see myself in mirror horrified stagger back to bed lie on right side branch resting on mattress breathe anxious breaths reexamine pectoral area feel sinewy roots spreading under skin across chest up neck down over stomach waist legs forget how to get home disorientated nauseous exhausted what is this flora invading me ******* kafka metamorphosis post-modern hyper-real narration without accountability jorge luis borges metaphor without mindfulness fairytale run wild jean baudrillard simulacrum psychosis room now filling with plant undergrowth stinking of earth dirt gooey slugs worms shells bugs festering climbing towards windows voracious for light warmth moisture blocking out morning sun entire body trapped in tangled twisted leafy twigs excruciating pain fright lungs gasping suffocating encroaching darkness fatigue loss surrender wake up 4 AM from nightmare scared to fall back to sleep

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Mar 6, 2010

Mar 6, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC

michael-reid-rubenstein

remember to water garden

sleepy eyes open glimpse high ceiling red wood beams house built in 1920s glance out window tree tops blue skies mountains in distance flock of birds flying east chirping sounds passing car engine accelerates inhale deep breath through nose stretch legs plantar dorsal flex feet raise arms over head stiffness in shoulder feel strange sensitivity in right pectoral above ****** cautiously examine with hands feel coarse lump growing more like nub smell moss glare down at growth protruding from chest panicky by soreness rise from bed to mirror on closet door tree stem jutting out from chest inspect dark bark like calloused growth little leafs budding this cannot be race in nervous tantrum run to bathroom suffer painful weight pulling me down clutching carrying foliated limb with arms see myself in mirror horrified stagger back to bed lie on right side branch resting on mattress breathe anxious breaths reexamine pectoral area feel sinewy roots spreading under skin across chest up neck down over stomach waist legs forget how to get home disorientated nauseous exhausted what is this flora invading me ******* kafka metamorphosis post-modern hyper-real narration without accountability jorge luis borges metaphor without mindfulness fairytale run wild jean baudrillard simulacrum psychosis room now filling with plant undergrowth stinking of earth dirt gooey slugs worms shells bugs festering climbing towards windows voracious for light warmth moisture blocking out morning sun entire body trapped in tangled twisted leafy twigs excruciating pain fright lungs gasping suffocating encroaching darkness fatigue loss surrender wake up 4 AM from nightmare scared to fall back to sleep

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Like a stroke of genius, of just plain blind luck rising from the jungle floor, the majestic rubble of the Maya calls, at once the founder and judge of all Time. First as the serpent whose plumes turn to wings, then as the eagle boldly eyeing its prey, and en fin! as the jaguar, sinewy and sleek, El Castillo looms against the hardened, sun-baked sky -- the shifting citadel of Kukulcan, its shadow splayed across my days. All of them numbered, all of them too short, *all of them fading in the cold*, hard light of distant failure... Perenially built and rebuilt, like the Church, El Castillo stands to meet the need of holy obligation, to meet my need for initiation, bounded only by the firmament and the underworld, final triumph of the dead. And so I stand, alone upon the sacred causeway -- enervated, unenlightened, the bitter taste of dust in my mouth. Until I, too, will be turned to stone -- the languid chac mool, sated in sweet repose. I will drift toward the sunken cenote, drink deeply from its oasis of evening cool, where the memory of man and grain and god is sung: An anthem of order, power and vision, the great Mayan hymn of meaning. I will hear, at last, from the porous depths of Yucatan, what it is to be called human.

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Sep 5, 2018

Sep 5, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC

Like a stroke of genius, of just plain blind luck rising from the jungle floor, the majestic rubble of the Maya calls, at once the founder and judge of all Time. First as the serpent whose plumes turn to wings, then as the eagle boldly eyeing its prey, and en fin! as the jaguar, sinewy and sleek, El Castillo looms against the hardened, sun-baked sky -- the shifting citadel of Kukulcan, its shadow splayed across my days. All of them numbered, all of them too short, *all of them fading in the cold*, hard light of distant failure... Perenially built and rebuilt, like the Church, El Castillo stands to meet the need of holy obligation, to meet my need for initiation, bounded only by the firmament and the underworld, final triumph of the dead. And so I stand, alone upon the sacred causeway -- enervated, unenlightened, the bitter taste of dust in my mouth. Until I, too, will be turned to stone -- the languid chac mool, sated in sweet repose. I will drift toward the sunken cenote, drink deeply from its oasis of evening cool, where the memory of man and grain and god is sung: An anthem of order, power and vision, the great Mayan hymn of meaning. I will hear, at last, from the porous depths of Yucatan, what it is to be called human.

Continue reading...

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare, While that great Juan galloped by; And like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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2.6k

William Butler Yeats

On Those that Hated the 'Playboy of the Western World', 1907

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met From thoroughfare to thoroughfare, While that great Juan galloped by; And like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

Continue reading...

In the barren bowl Of the local park There is more brown Than green And naked trees Rest like tired moths Upon grass That has been lacerated By studded shoes And knees and toes And elbows That have ploughed it Bare. The edges of the path Look like eyebrows Scant Poorly plucked And rats-tail Mongrels Scatter and shred Across the carpet Sodden Sinewy. Jarring teenage love Letters Sit upon February The fourteenth Like it is a mantelpiece of Glass Tip blue hair to grey sky Beiged fingers Intertwine Black fingernails Fumble They watch their childhood haunts Through the frosted panes Of spectacle windows And wonder why Nostalgia dies so bitter Today. *Kiss my empty skin Waiting.* I find myself a love affair In the sky Clouds form a coastline A single dribble of peach Taints the ash Like careless words And I tilt my chin towards it Already the spindle of my mind Turns And begins to weave Gold from straw.

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Feb 14, 2015

Feb 14, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC

Rumpelstiltskin

In the barren bowl Of the local park There is more brown Than green And naked trees Rest like tired moths Upon grass That has been lacerated By studded shoes And knees and toes And elbows That have ploughed it Bare. The edges of the path Look like eyebrows Scant Poorly plucked And rats-tail Mongrels Scatter and shred Across the carpet Sodden Sinewy. Jarring teenage love Letters Sit upon February The fourteenth Like it is a mantelpiece of Glass Tip blue hair to grey sky Beiged fingers Intertwine Black fingernails Fumble They watch their childhood haunts Through the frosted panes Of spectacle windows And wonder why Nostalgia dies so bitter Today. *Kiss my empty skin Waiting.* I find myself a love affair In the sky Clouds form a coastline A single dribble of peach Taints the ash Like careless words And I tilt my chin towards it Already the spindle of my mind Turns And begins to weave Gold from straw.

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viewing naked body in mirror as if, its not my own; at my age I sometimes wonder, am I still desirable in his eyes? breast are firm, buttocks tight, shapely legs; thigh to ankle toned to wrap around his sinewy waist. belly flat, waist trim, he sneaks up behind; warm lips to nape, his subtle bait to taste me, it's never to late. tongue between breast, I know now as I gaze into those baby browns, I've found my answer. *** appeal is still renown, it shows in his eyes; as I sigh from his touch, ummm!! his lovings never too much. ******* taut from his touch, tongue upon belly and navel; laying on the table, flickers my jewel; making me mewl. purring like a kitten, lapping up my milk; tongue feels like silk, in and out licking; love how he keeps me ticking...yes!!! parting lips; warmly I dip, lightly I sip upon blooming mushroom; pulsating in reddened abloom, spillage slowly from his plume...sweet finger tracing veins poppin', allowing throb to easily drop in; nice and slow watching manhood grow like a framed Van Gogh...he flows ****** self-confidence I'm convinced watching him grow long and dense; taking in every inch, winching in delicious pleasure; his desired measure...sexually self-confident soaped and lathered in wetness

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Jun 12, 2012

Jun 12, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC

Sexually Self-Confident

viewing naked body in mirror as if, its not my own; at my age I sometimes wonder, am I still desirable in his eyes? breast are firm, buttocks tight, shapely legs; thigh to ankle toned to wrap around his sinewy waist. belly flat, waist trim, he sneaks up behind; warm lips to nape, his subtle bait to taste me, it's never to late. tongue between breast, I know now as I gaze into those baby browns, I've found my answer. *** appeal is still renown, it shows in his eyes; as I sigh from his touch, ummm!! his lovings never too much. ******* taut from his touch, tongue upon belly and navel; laying on the table, flickers my jewel; making me mewl. purring like a kitten, lapping up my milk; tongue feels like silk, in and out licking; love how he keeps me ticking...yes!!! parting lips; warmly I dip, lightly I sip upon blooming mushroom; pulsating in reddened abloom, spillage slowly from his plume...sweet finger tracing veins poppin', allowing throb to easily drop in; nice and slow watching manhood grow like a framed Van Gogh...he flows ****** self-confidence I'm convinced watching him grow long and dense; taking in every inch, winching in delicious pleasure; his desired measure...sexually self-confident soaped and lathered in wetness

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The glaring orange and red vermillion rays stretched over the mountain top and city skyline in the humbling spectacle of nature’s dawn... Lifting away the frightful, cold and deathly nuances of the city by night... The dull glaze of the concrete motorways, Spun and circled around the growing organism of steel suburbia... Filled with a meandering stream of colourful cars Feats of engineering beauty The blaring noise of traffic drowned out the natural stillness of nature’s beauty... In the peak rush hour of a Cape Town mourning.... To the left of me... Stood the deathly profile of a street urchin... The little lady... Body thin and frail, hands out-stretched in a sinewy leather grasp... Warn and tattered rags for clothes... Burnt and ***** face.... Yet still able to muster a look of hope.... I lifted my fingers to my mouth And let out a shrill and deafening whistle Drowned away by hooting and the hum of the engines, spurting noxious fumes, Defiling the air.... She turned with a vigorous jolt Raised eyebrows and a head turning smile... I ushered her towards me with my outstretched hand, well manicured nails Not a wrinkle of hardship characterising the clean skin In the burning rays of yet another hopeful morning... At least for me. As her body was moving, all I could see were her eyes... They pierced me, danced for and contorted the world around me.... A hazelnut brown painting, embedded in a small circular hole in the skull... A gateway to the emotions Connecting everyone, regardless of age, race or even stature... As I gazed, captivated. I saw compassion, longing, loss, warmth and passion in her eyes – the whole spectrum of humanity In two small but infinitely deep pools Cascading into a never ending abyss of emotions Of pain, suffering, a little joy and infinite hurt.... Then I blinked... And all those emotions, those connections and our future... Were gone in the simple gesture of a fluttering eyelash As she looked the other way... The car lurched forward yet again... With the flash of a green light and safety of movement To the other side of the intersection My hand still outstretched holding the crumpled buffalo note My contribution to a severely needing hand Lost with the bustle of life continuing, and leaving behind all too weak to keep up.... She began to scurry away, back to her pavement I looked back... The little lady gone. Lost forever

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Sep 8, 2012

Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC

One Moment in the Eyes of a Street-child...

The glaring orange and red vermillion rays stretched over the mountain top and city skyline in the humbling spectacle of nature’s dawn... Lifting away the frightful, cold and deathly nuances of the city by night... The dull glaze of the concrete motorways, Spun and circled around the growing organism of steel suburbia... Filled with a meandering stream of colourful cars Feats of engineering beauty The blaring noise of traffic drowned out the natural stillness of nature’s beauty... In the peak rush hour of a Cape Town mourning.... To the left of me... Stood the deathly profile of a street urchin... The little lady... Body thin and frail, hands out-stretched in a sinewy leather grasp... Warn and tattered rags for clothes... Burnt and ***** face.... Yet still able to muster a look of hope.... I lifted my fingers to my mouth And let out a shrill and deafening whistle Drowned away by hooting and the hum of the engines, spurting noxious fumes, Defiling the air.... She turned with a vigorous jolt Raised eyebrows and a head turning smile... I ushered her towards me with my outstretched hand, well manicured nails Not a wrinkle of hardship characterising the clean skin In the burning rays of yet another hopeful morning... At least for me. As her body was moving, all I could see were her eyes... They pierced me, danced for and contorted the world around me.... A hazelnut brown painting, embedded in a small circular hole in the skull... A gateway to the emotions Connecting everyone, regardless of age, race or even stature... As I gazed, captivated. I saw compassion, longing, loss, warmth and passion in her eyes – the whole spectrum of humanity In two small but infinitely deep pools Cascading into a never ending abyss of emotions Of pain, suffering, a little joy and infinite hurt.... Then I blinked... And all those emotions, those connections and our future... Were gone in the simple gesture of a fluttering eyelash As she looked the other way... The car lurched forward yet again... With the flash of a green light and safety of movement To the other side of the intersection My hand still outstretched holding the crumpled buffalo note My contribution to a severely needing hand Lost with the bustle of life continuing, and leaving behind all too weak to keep up.... She began to scurry away, back to her pavement I looked back... The little lady gone. Lost forever

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There's an ineffable urge to sidle up against masculinity; to allow his mercurial fervor to unleash these lascivious outbursts of lust that dwell inside the depths of my soul, ravishing him with hungered passion; tasting each sinewy muscle pulsing with flickers of want, like a savored sweet chocolate truffle, indulging slowly in every part I can entwine as he shudders with each lick I inflict lingering in his aftertaste....

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Jun 29, 2012

Jun 29, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC

There's an ineffable urge to sidle up against masculinity; to allow his mercurial fervor to unleash these lascivious outbursts of lust that dwell inside the depths of my soul, ravishing him with hungered passion; tasting each sinewy muscle pulsing with flickers of want, like a savored sweet chocolate truffle, indulging slowly in every part I can entwine as he shudders with each lick I inflict lingering in his aftertaste....

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Some say your greatest enemy is yourself That lesser you inside, that little puppet, that elf Strings to your fingers, strings to your toes One to your spine and one to your nose You can tumble and crash and he’ll be unbroke Witty and gritty, as elusive as smoke Post tumble’s when he’s most likely to speak His strings are strung tightest, whenever you’re weak Not to wait then, until you are broken Give him the stage and he’ll have already spoken He feeds best on virtue, this gritty little elf So feed him his share, as you would your belly’s self Virtues is the sort, that means then not vices His tastes may seem bland so be weary of spices Heed not this advice, and we’ve a puppet… Left to his own devices Not worth getting clever, don’t saw at those strings You’ll soon find out they’re sinewy things Introduce yourselves; it could help if you’ve met The you inside you, that mischievous marionette

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Feb 25, 2013

Feb 25, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC

Pinocchio the Pompous

Some say your greatest enemy is yourself That lesser you inside, that little puppet, that elf Strings to your fingers, strings to your toes One to your spine and one to your nose You can tumble and crash and he’ll be unbroke Witty and gritty, as elusive as smoke Post tumble’s when he’s most likely to speak His strings are strung tightest, whenever you’re weak Not to wait then, until you are broken Give him the stage and he’ll have already spoken He feeds best on virtue, this gritty little elf So feed him his share, as you would your belly’s self Virtues is the sort, that means then not vices His tastes may seem bland so be weary of spices Heed not this advice, and we’ve a puppet… Left to his own devices Not worth getting clever, don’t saw at those strings You’ll soon find out they’re sinewy things Introduce yourselves; it could help if you’ve met The you inside you, that mischievous marionette

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A Golden Brown Mexican Royal Eagle proudly soaring and gliding on invisible æther: Human Eyes from the ground: dark, attentive, following the Raptor's deadly arc as it ascends: The Mexican Brown Royal Eagle spots A frightened Doe: The dark eyes from the leveled plain: a startled double-take, follow the rapid Eagle's spiraling descent: The vaporized cloudiness slashed; A cinematic flash of hide torn and shrieking delight are jumbled, and echoed through the void: The Raptor is Voluble butcher As it devours, Sinewy flesh, Peeled from broken bone leathery skin and curved horn; The Dark eyes moisten While the scene Fills His Eyes; What Beauty juxtaposed: Death And Life Are Just A House Inhabited by Swift Or Quick The Fortunes Named In The Game Called Life Or Death. J Eduardo Ramos©

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Aug 9, 2014

Aug 9, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC

j-eduardo-ramos

A Golden Brown Mexican Royal Eagle

A Golden Brown Mexican Royal Eagle proudly soaring and gliding on invisible æther: Human Eyes from the ground: dark, attentive, following the Raptor's deadly arc as it ascends: The Mexican Brown Royal Eagle spots A frightened Doe: The dark eyes from the leveled plain: a startled double-take, follow the rapid Eagle's spiraling descent: The vaporized cloudiness slashed; A cinematic flash of hide torn and shrieking delight are jumbled, and echoed through the void: The Raptor is Voluble butcher As it devours, Sinewy flesh, Peeled from broken bone leathery skin and curved horn; The Dark eyes moisten While the scene Fills His Eyes; What Beauty juxtaposed: Death And Life Are Just A House Inhabited by Swift Or Quick The Fortunes Named In The Game Called Life Or Death. J Eduardo Ramos©

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Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

0

2.2k

William Butler Yeats

On Those That Hated The 'Playboy Of The Western World,' 1907

Once, when midnight smote the air, Eunuchs ran through Hell and met On every crowded street to stare Upon great Juan riding by: Even like these to rail and sweat Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

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Bring your empty words I will re-charge them again And make them potent; The hollow words--- Bring them to me and I will make them sing, In the summer afternoon On the glistening lips of The workers in sweat Working on construction sites; Bring your faded words I will make them shine in the forge Of blacksmith whose sinewy hands Will form them into forms that appeal; Bring your sad words, I will make them smile On the faces of war-orphans Street children And cancer patients, Because when sterile words Of poetry come into contact With unsaid suffering of the Larger silent humanity, They become fiery, Gleam, Mesmerize and Truly become The sweat-soaked words and entire syntax Great transcendental poems! @Sunil Sharma

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May 8, 2017

May 8, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC

Bring your words

Bring your empty words I will re-charge them again And make them potent; The hollow words--- Bring them to me and I will make them sing, In the summer afternoon On the glistening lips of The workers in sweat Working on construction sites; Bring your faded words I will make them shine in the forge Of blacksmith whose sinewy hands Will form them into forms that appeal; Bring your sad words, I will make them smile On the faces of war-orphans Street children And cancer patients, Because when sterile words Of poetry come into contact With unsaid suffering of the Larger silent humanity, They become fiery, Gleam, Mesmerize and Truly become The sweat-soaked words and entire syntax Great transcendental poems! @Sunil Sharma

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*the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me*

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Sep 18, 2013

Sep 18, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC

the weary tale of a raindrop

*the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me*

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a lone something in the sky flies near, just by mischance dazed by the smog, bowing and diving downward into the parting, cracking, quaking bellowing of tar from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps of the earth diverging and converging into the debt of always running clean, running me always downward, as in the deep deep tessellations of rock I become. too still for my own good, I guess – another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of breath to fill the mosaic of sinewy stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone plating into the deep, deep, deeper caverns of the unseen sea slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention, as an echo caving downward into nothing, nothing, more nothing polluting the depths from the palisades, scripture rupturing lowshore into surrounding tissues like igneous stone dreams of clinks ringing, of noise a voice on the ash-flow tuffs in the always running-clean water the purity of which I intercept, the clear-ness of it; a sinners window. through what's left, I see the clam another mouth for and of the sea unseen, the pearl as unsoiled as ever

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Nov 4, 2021

Nov 4, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC

a lone something in the sky flies near, just by mischance dazed by the smog, bowing and diving downward into the parting, cracking, quaking bellowing of tar from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps of the earth diverging and converging into the debt of always running clean, running me always downward, as in the deep deep tessellations of rock I become. too still for my own good, I guess – another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of breath to fill the mosaic of sinewy stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone plating into the deep, deep, deeper caverns of the unseen sea slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention, as an echo caving downward into nothing, nothing, more nothing polluting the depths from the palisades, scripture rupturing lowshore into surrounding tissues like igneous stone dreams of clinks ringing, of noise a voice on the ash-flow tuffs in the always running-clean water the purity of which I intercept, the clear-ness of it; a sinners window. through what's left, I see the clam another mouth for and of the sea unseen, the pearl as unsoiled as ever

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come on darling take a chance with us our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh the thumbs shake as the fingers dance makes the rain pull its roots on for the showcase the generic plants will perform a feral routine every **** a command-stop forwarded the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon and if they shiver they will find their saw tailored to the head of that aurulent god a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms gold minarets in the distance serpents living under man-made rocks counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock a lion counts his livestock he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress in the shape of a flame just outside the shadows of an autumn day

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Oct 26, 2015

Oct 26, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC

come on darling take a chance with us our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh the thumbs shake as the fingers dance makes the rain pull its roots on for the showcase the generic plants will perform a feral routine every **** a command-stop forwarded the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon and if they shiver they will find their saw tailored to the head of that aurulent god a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms gold minarets in the distance serpents living under man-made rocks counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock a lion counts his livestock he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress in the shape of a flame just outside the shadows of an autumn day

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He had been robbed of all character and individuality. Once eyes had shone outwards, now white dwarf orbs shimmering from porcelain remained. There was no excess whatsoever, nothing frivolous; his sinewy frame carried not an ounce of surplus fat, nor did his attire serve any social function other than to cover his hijacked carcass. He walked the streets anonymously, blending in like an instinctive chameleon, single mindedly rehearsing the acts of the play that cycled through him. Score. Cook. Nod. Kick. Relapse. That was when I promised myself I'd never chase again.

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Jan 24, 2012

Jan 24, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC

He had been robbed of all character and individuality. Once eyes had shone outwards, now white dwarf orbs shimmering from porcelain remained. There was no excess whatsoever, nothing frivolous; his sinewy frame carried not an ounce of surplus fat, nor did his attire serve any social function other than to cover his hijacked carcass. He walked the streets anonymously, blending in like an instinctive chameleon, single mindedly rehearsing the acts of the play that cycled through him. Score. Cook. Nod. Kick. Relapse. That was when I promised myself I'd never chase again.

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this time something feels different this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace because this time i need someone whose lips can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks before they turn cold & calloused i need someone to sink their teeth into my shoulders & collarbone to wake me from this superfluous daydream i need someone who beds naturally into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt i need someone who will dance with me across an empty landscape into something bigger & deeper than just the starless sky above us i need someone who wants to learn the overlapping language of my eyes & hands someone who will lounge with me like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy someone who can blur the lines between my cerebrum & theirs so that we become a stitched together quilt of soft memories in our imagination someone who has been in a trainwreck before & knows precisely where to kiss to make it all better

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Oct 11, 2015

Oct 11, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC

something feels different

this time something feels different this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace because this time i need someone whose lips can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks before they turn cold & calloused i need someone to sink their teeth into my shoulders & collarbone to wake me from this superfluous daydream i need someone who beds naturally into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt i need someone who will dance with me across an empty landscape into something bigger & deeper than just the starless sky above us i need someone who wants to learn the overlapping language of my eyes & hands someone who will lounge with me like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy someone who can blur the lines between my cerebrum & theirs so that we become a stitched together quilt of soft memories in our imagination someone who has been in a trainwreck before & knows precisely where to kiss to make it all better

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With slink-and-slide, they wink and glide, But offer not a growl or purr. The shift and sift of stripes alight, As sinewy grace takes to the night, And all the forest dares not stir. All that's left to do is hide. It's a matter of pride that carries the stride; There's more to the fury than just the fur. It's not just of claw or of jaw that leaves us in awe, It's the grace and the pace that they carry their paw. That, while there's power enough to be but a blur, It's with a stoic grace that these creatures betide. You can call me a dreamer--that I pine for their life-- But I'm not the only one who seeks freedom from strife. And while they're out there, burning bright, There's no shame shared in the forests of the night. So call me crazy for wanting to be free, But I'll say with pride, "A tiger's life for me!"

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Jun 8, 2014

Jun 8, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC

A Tiger's Life for Me

With slink-and-slide, they wink and glide, But offer not a growl or purr. The shift and sift of stripes alight, As sinewy grace takes to the night, And all the forest dares not stir. All that's left to do is hide. It's a matter of pride that carries the stride; There's more to the fury than just the fur. It's not just of claw or of jaw that leaves us in awe, It's the grace and the pace that they carry their paw. That, while there's power enough to be but a blur, It's with a stoic grace that these creatures betide. You can call me a dreamer--that I pine for their life-- But I'm not the only one who seeks freedom from strife. And while they're out there, burning bright, There's no shame shared in the forests of the night. So call me crazy for wanting to be free, But I'll say with pride, "A tiger's life for me!"

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weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too. harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew and tantamount to its feral cavities thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter infiltrates the **** cavernous walls This inner ear and greater sound knew to find sanctuary here. Lends its awesome craft to the next And next, and next, and next; beautiful unboxed melodies new unused sweet single-reeds threading that 20s centrifuge. Saxophone. Incantations unfolding Aloof in its ***** it unwraps The veil of green, a costume of black coffees Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke At the heap of its glorious song Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate Bliss. Intrinsic and purple An irrational knot of Portuguese drum Met over by African toms and rattles A glue imbued into those unmistakable Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves These are the weapons of our new key strokes. And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew Where death greeted me to intervene a place Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next, And the next.

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Nov 6, 2015

Nov 6, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC

Carlos & The Stride of Horses

weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too. harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew and tantamount to its feral cavities thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter infiltrates the **** cavernous walls This inner ear and greater sound knew to find sanctuary here. Lends its awesome craft to the next And next, and next, and next; beautiful unboxed melodies new unused sweet single-reeds threading that 20s centrifuge. Saxophone. Incantations unfolding Aloof in its ***** it unwraps The veil of green, a costume of black coffees Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke At the heap of its glorious song Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate Bliss. Intrinsic and purple An irrational knot of Portuguese drum Met over by African toms and rattles A glue imbued into those unmistakable Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves These are the weapons of our new key strokes. And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew Where death greeted me to intervene a place Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next, And the next.

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