"sinuously" poems
Dreaming is good.
But dreaming is bad, because it hurts.
Dreams die.
You grow up thinking you are invicible, forever amazing.
You grow up realizing it does not work that way.
You grow up to realize the people around you want you to be safe.
Life isn’t about being daring anymore.
Life is about having a safe future.
Pick a safe job.
Live your life.
Enjoy it when you can.
But the fireceness of life leaves you.
Adults burn the fire in you.
Cold water on your dreams, wash them all away.
Adults throw you in the wilderness to make you realize.
Realize life is not a game anymore.
Adults burn the fire in you.
They feed your insecurities.
Cultivate your fears.
Then feed them back to you.
They’re scared. They don’t want you to face a wall of disappointements.
But they won’t let your try, either.
Adults burn the fire in you.
Not consciously.
Slowly.
Mysteriously.
And suddenly you, with all your dreams in your heart, face doubt.
Doubt.
The worst feeling.
Worst than love. Worst than hate.
Doubt.
Sinuously cracking your hopes and dreams.
Doubt, creeping in your mind, burning bridges.
Doubt, expanding every time you hesistate.
Doubt, forever in your head.
Doubt burned my dreams to ashes.
Doubt washed them all away.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
looking from below,
my eyes fix,
on your pleasure contorted face,
in the acute urgency,
of a lush, leafy tree,
undulating sinuously,
in the hands of
the winds of sensuality,
**at the very moment of
efflorescence.**
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
After the milking's done,
Farmer gone to house and bed,
Rag-tag tabbies, half-breed furs,
Assemble by the milking stool
Yowl a bit, then settle down to purrs.
Rosined up, a straw-boned bow
Emits a violinic fiddle's skirl,
And one by one the mousers
Stand on twos to take a matted floor.
Come, let us see you pirouette,
You puissant pouncers.
Lightly spin those furry toes;
Sheath deep those claws to put
Perfection in your prances;
Balance on your tails, and spin;
Exercise or exorcise in cattish dances
The feline feelings you are in.
Dance happily and furiously...
Or sinuously and slow...
Whatever moods mouse-
Murderers can feel or know.
Enjoy the dance, ye half-breed cats.
Never mind the jealous schemes of mice,
Nor terroristic plots of leagues of rats.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
what is this unholy distress
that even words
seem unable to soothe?
instead it inflames them;
poisons them -
turns my ideas into a malicious brood
that commands
every ounce of my attention today
i would
if i could
pluck out this bitter vine
that encircles me sinuously
growing within me
as if born from a mystery seed.
unhindered it occupies every crevice in my brain
finding its way
into every sense, every act
every thought.
but then I think
a complete life
cannot be all sweet.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
30.01.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
1
He leant down
Quietly carving his name into the sand;
The pursuing waves,
Repeatedly rippling forward, with
The force of a motorized modern army
Gunning down civilians,
Dragged it clean.
Flies loquaciously buzzed around his head,
As, crushing down seaweed,
He carved his name again.
2.
The roots dug deep, pushing against
The soil. The particles spread apart
With sexless ardour. The man,
Of a tolerant disposition, wrenched
The roots free with drenched hands.
Nothing lasted forever.
3.
The yellow and green of the sunrise
Turned swiftly into unpretentious browns
The light changing shape as the
Morning matured and the sun
Rose further in the sky. Pumped up
Clouds rolled sinuously along, combining and separating
Like fantastic amoeba.
4.
And so it continued
Under the burning sun; more spiteful from year to year.
The man said nothing
As he climbed into the salt water,
Gulls circumnavigating above his head,
With nothing to say or remember
Except the lines in the sand.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
To face the fear of being liquid, I go under, float the drift. Leave the boat behind, no worries. I am in no hurry to school with the rest, colorful parrot fish, at home in the depths.
I am not afraid of sharks materializing from the inked abyss. The nothing in their soulless eyes is just black-bottomed assessing - not one of us.
In a lazuli sea, the barracuda cartel tails me, their silver barrels rule the reef, leering grins glinting diamonds, hungry pirates seeking gold hidden in my tender lobes.
Yellow-bellied sea snakes swarm, their sinuously wicked heads disappear and reappear on ebb and crest of every wave, see their split tongues read the chemistry of each exhaled breath.
A swollen catch unsought. Forsworn. What's lost will be reborn. From within, yolk still tethered, resting on the bottom. Net a dying heart, return it to the deep, watch it roll and flutter, remember how to beat.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
At the nexus where the planets collide
I find myself, whirling into a spiral galaxy of thoughts.
He is at his writing-desk on Mercury
I pull his hand away from the liquid-silver ink he writes with-
he has been making poetry again.
I dance with him on Venus, our toes
sinuously tracing a path through the clouds.
We visit Earth, home of
past lovers and sad memories, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
we fight on Mars, after I ask him,
"Why didn't you ever take me on adventures before?"
"Why didn't you ever ask?" but he doesn't see that
I did ask, only with my eyes, not my voice.
on Jupiter thunder applauds as gravity tugs us
closer
and closer together.
on Saturn we visit my father, who says to him:
a new era has begun. delight in her, and she will draw rings around you
she will encircle you with her affection
on Uranus we picnic through an eternal
vernal spring and the sky laughs with him.
the stars flicker with his shaking belly.
on Neptune I smother his soft cheek with kisses as he drifts to sleep
and floats awake, and I sink deeper in love because his kisses taste like pink seashells.
I reach Pluto and wake up from my ardent dreaming;
press my palms to the glass of my bedroom window.
My body is frigid- not from the ice of outer space- but
from the harsh October wind, and the realization
that this was only a dream.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
Our Lady visits places where no man has trod asunder
Places where the hand of time has kept them from the sun,
Places where the roiling earth hath ground to rend like thunder
Where history, as we know it now, had barely, then, begun.
With elegance she burrows forth, with elegance a seeking
Tended by her retinue of young, admirers’ lithe,
With elegance she sinuously writhes within containment,
To elegantly strive to shape her contour, uncontrived.
So femininely fabulous, admired by all and sundry
Her deadlines met assiduously, taken in her stride.
Secretly she smiles the smile of one who dwells thereunder
Who secretly entrances with her quiet performing pride.
Fare welled on her journey by adoring crowd and bunting,
Fare welled midst a sea of flags by rotund Prince and child
To coyly disappear from sight with retinue of admirers
To reappear with fanfare in a year, to drive men wild.
Sinuously spinning in her secret world beneath us,
Spinning and beguiling in uniquely female way,
Alice holds our promise in sweet dreams and aspirations
Our Subterranean Goddess…Our Lady of the Day.
Marshalg
Plant Co-ordinator
The Wellconnected Consortium
AUCKLAND.
27 January 2014
Alice is our giant tunnel boring machine. She is currently 40 m beneath parkland and housing in Owairaka, Auckland. In 12 months she will emerge at Waterview to be spun around to burrow the return tunnel back to the point of origin. These tunnels will form the completing stages of the modern motorway system in Auckland. The system, which will be completed in 2017, will revolutionise the existing transport network and benefit the people of Auckland and New Zealand for decades to come.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Precious chance for a lonely thought,
Loose, slip-fades sinuously free
A melodious stream of nostalgic mist
From a mug of Arabica sea.
Curiously exhaled from dissonance
In an amber lit café.
He imagines himself a sojourner,
A wayfarer without a way.
Long shore drift en echelon
Long minutes march by metronome
Long is the spellbound beachcomber
For an island all his own.
Long is the dream of an inland man
Lost to his seaside girl.
Diver down where the standard waves
Swimming dizzy for a polished pearl.
Light from her eyes plays on sea glass chips
Tumbled in the curling waves
That crest and break on a beach that waits
for a wish he once had made.
The surf is heard like a lingering kiss
breathing ripples on the smoothening sand
And just as the whisper and simmering fades,
Another promise swells, tumbles, and lands.
The ocean is love running breathless,
In a race between the moon and the sun,
Causing tides to surge across the poignant curve
Of an incandescent blue horizon.
A tranquil star contracts and bursts
In pulsing neon spires.
There’s forever a star expiring
While life glows from embers in a dying fire.
If this writer could paint, it would be a portrait
of the empty space beside him.
Awaiting the image of a seagoing girl,
He turns his canvas into a thirsting ocean.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
A carpet of grass deft underfoot,
like a huge grey blanket swathing the landscape,
cold and bleak, enticing a quickened pace,
Whistling wind wraps around me like a skeletons arms,
teasing and beguiling me onwards toward a destination unknown,
on its breath ride the whispers of forgotten lost souls.
The moon peers down through a silken scarf of blackened clouds,
Its knowing face smiling sinuously, as if luring ships to the rocks on a tempestuous sea,
from its mouth fall beams of light that illuminate the hills and troughs ahead, like a procession of flickering lanterns on a majestic parade,
Blackened gnarled trees seem to bow in respect as the coldness of the night permeates my core,
their dark shapes appearing on the horizon, like tomb stones in some ancient graveyard.
So among this swathing scene unfolding and with coat collar raised, I merge with the shapes and disappear into the folds of night.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Snatching at the words,
Mumbling incoherently,
Such things, such imagery,
Haunting me, taunting me,
Fighting on the cusp of sleep,
Denying me semblance of reason,
For these words I want, no, need,
Their beauty, strings of literary pearls,
Flow sinuously through my mind,
Then begin to dissipate, please no,
Cunningly vanishing at equal speed,
With which I try to recall them,
Smoke thinning, drifting on the wind,
Mocking me as I rouse, knowing,
Deep inside, how good the words felt,
What they would mean, such wonder,
Now gone, but perhaps, perhaps,
They were never as good as I thought,
Maybe such things never are, maybe,
Maybe the real beauty is hidden pleasure,
A delight in the process itself, hmm,
The imagining, I - no, we, for I mean, us poets -
Love that creative part; want to hold it forever,
That heady feeling, that Promethean power,
How we cherish this treasure, and share it,
Sharing is the best, hmm, and the keeping,
Yes, never neglect the keeping, coveting,
The unmatched sense of achievement,
Something known only to poets,
Alas, those forgotten words,
Edging the cusp of sleep, perhaps,
Well, they do not travel so well, still,
We console ourselves with knowing,
Knowing they were there, truly existing,
Trying to escape on a whimsical notion,
When in reality, if we are patient,
They do come home, words to roost,
Appearing, here, there, everywhere,
In various forms, so all is not lost, still,
On the edge of dreams, we fail to avoid,
Snatching at the words.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
Blessed are the poorly, for theirs is the kingdom of mudflats
The dispirited streak turgid waters
sinuously, through unsettled feelings
in the wake of boats shedding
filaments of fuel,
sheen on a turbid infusion
and the cordgrass nods a resilience
or an apathy as the silt settles
on their Piscean gleam
Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see a salted heaven
Angelic Menhaden of the Atlantic,
are silvery stretches of scale,
dulled in death under a festering sun
and the retreating tide of dying waters
brined in ocean, freshwater spirited
to secret spaces, some dammed crevasse,
now tumultuous fate in a salted heaven
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled
At the Tabgha of this intertidal palette
Cattails whisper beatitudes
latched onto the tails of wind gusts
and the plovers descended
in a litany of bird song
amassed like the manna
trailing tidal waters
as the sea swallows herself.
Blessed are the herons, the mallards,
the geese. Time is measured
in the passage of fish that
cycle themselves through the innards of birds
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the rocks
The meek Menhaden, leaped
onto the rocks that hemmed the inlet,
escaping the hungry habits of herons.
They inherited Earth in agony
pounding a rocky surface,
but the air I swim, had no water.
I prodded these Menhaden of the Rock
to the fringe of retreating tides,
and they leaped to die once more
to breathe water that had no air
Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted
Blessed is the discomfiture
of my brackish tears
that streak marsh faces
as fish struggle out of dead water.
I take comfort I don't inhabit
tainted places or do I take comfort,
all places are the tint of poison,
the gleam of a genesis of sorrow
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 3:36 PM UTC
When sleeping poets do dream
Do they dream at certain times
the same dreams as us, you, or I
Long love dreams without an end
Spiders winding and toads weaving
Tiny cockle shells or huge daffodils
Cold hearts melted or fried ones too
Loves not gone the other way again
Falling off, falling in, falling down
Purpled eyed women and wiggly men
Nightmares arriving never in time
Time speeding up to stand still again
Summer nights in dripping red clouds
Rain falling up or tasting sour winds
Chased once around the world twice
Losing anyway the long way back in
Winning big green coins for jumping
slow trains to nowhere, now there anywhere,
and everywhere not here,
running on tilted electrified blue time
Inhaling the soft touch of perfect love
including all the ugly ingrown warts
Coughing up butterflies into the pool
with the squishy muddy zombie eyes
Echoes heard louder with both eyes
Coloring skies without knowing why
Flights to there with wings of flame
Swallowing rainbows to taste the gold
Colors amongst us walking, talking
Phantasmal fast riding beasts
sinuously moaning oh white *******
drifting with silver temptation winds
Tripping over sounds under tall feet
blowing them in retort not too,
but three, five and one dime more
Fantastical things, ordinary for all
Then perhaps, they maybe dream
Mostly all the same as us, you or I
Of course, that may mean, we,
Could someday be real poets, three
Yet we know the biggest difference
Between a real poet or not, must be
not so much in sleeping dreams
but in those precious awakening dreams
© 2017 Jim Davis
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
Some are fearful of opening boxes
closed and sealed long ago,
scared of the stream which,
freed from its prison of oblivion,
may leave them wet of feelings.
Some are afraid of solstices and equinoxes,
of the time when the sun touches the
ground,
of the different shades of the nightsky
in cyclic and never-ending succession...
of the sound of sand against the glass.
Like a vessel weathering
the rising and falling mountains
of a tempestuous sea,
whose captain roars, wrathful,
though never yearns for blue skies,
do not ever shrink back at this metamorphic existence!
And you, my friend, oh be brave!
Do not cry the losses,
not in excess,
do not ever feel sorrow for that old past!
Live like water,
whom gravity forces to sinuously descend,
yet it beats all its enemies in the way
to the restful sea of joy.
But you, oh my friend, be brave!
Do not be fearful of change...
...because change is what we call life.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Her trembling hands hover above
The beast. Timidly, her fingers
Brush its hard scales. She presses
A gentle touch to black, then to
White, startled at the coldness and
The responsiveness. It is an animal
Eager to learn a new trick,
Friendly to a new master,
But more paralyzing than a tiger.
It cries to her touch, but does not
Move: it is a poised cobra faced
With a charmer's flute, following
The graceful press of fingertips.
Sounding softly, then louder - a
Cheerful creature is easily led
From its silent cage. Each lively
Cry is compounded now with a
Stronger press. With the force of
Two hands, she reveals its form completely.
Not one beast, but a hive of hundreds,
Each sinuously crawling around her
Wrist - sliding up her sleeves -
Into her ears. Her body rocks, pent
Up in a storm of acceptance.
Bobbing and rising, nearly sinking
She tames the beast. In her
Moment of victory, there is silence.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
fillme
fill my
fill my hands
fill my hands, light.
i'll climb You.
i'll reach each
finger over
each finger over.
i'll climb you up
(if even tinly i'll shall
by minute courage expand
into quickly dying night
the frailness of my body
and i'll clamor
i'll tip
sinuously
up
into thy strayingest brightness
my cup
and it will run over with you
it will burn
and, by a thousand strokes of brilliance,
it shall teeter briefly invincible
on awkward skinny youth
it shall stumble deeply radiant folding
each star folding
manifold upon
manifold upon
manifold upon
folding each star
into the hottest crimp:
a kiss foibl'd )
clumsily boyness hands
imparting with love most earnest
that spangle will
and climbing fingers
over each
into
that hurt
will sharply round
rib after rib
till reaches
(in burning Cupid's fiercest glow)
my destroying weakness
with the strength of your inimitable lips
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
Whispering silk unrolls in the wind
For its binding, now undoing
Pulling hard by unseen hands
Fingers tangled in spiders' threads
Tugs, less gentle, throw it higher
Over chimneys, tower ledges below
Ginst, bricklain work, chiseled stone
Brushed now by, dirtied and frought
Spied, by sly old grey crow
Mother brings a gift, sought low
Entwined, knotted and tangled
Holds a nest until the wind goes
Finely knitted, strong long cloth
Keeps sun from cool, inside from cold
Chirps and claws, new norms anew
Life long beyond crows ago
Trees, booked, feathers few
Nest has fallen, silk askew
A child tests it's cloth
Fingers rubbing, so soft
Now to moment's a toy for you
But mommy's nose, sees age and dirt
Not for use, maybe sickness and hurt
Thrown to the refuse, lost once again
Light along its journey
It's toes tip, trip, catch the wind
Pulled from piles, playing breeze
Along town streets and dusty paths
It finds its way, fate's touch wait
Sinuously long, a finger might point
The trail it makes for blue blue skies
A ballot's initiative, beauty and far
It wraps and rolls, billows and blows
Twists and frees, darting amongst trees
Not for thee, not for thee
Back and forth, bright leaves
Far out, closer to the sea
It tastes the salt, like the waves
Breathing, snaps up against shores
Invisibles tangibles unbreakables
Another gust and its a storm to us
Up, it's taken thrown in fuss
Out, its brought, a lack of trust
And deep, it'll dive, buried amust
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Rigid, unlike, softly, more like, she's coming a rough god riding the stocks of
bobbing withers robed in music. she's quick static spark sore tips of fingers
just meeting with my tips of fingers just with grooves barely braying over
one or the others me we sweetly are tumults of sparks raking ***** nails
over backs pinions extend fully kissing free air and up into shaking
clouds her minute jiggling abdomen i'm home there in between the beads
of startling clarity and rush of sudden acute blissful angles (more like
delightful swirling clutter, her hips are like) turning back and forward
back and forward writhing sails of pleasure billowed skin her
ultimate final tongue that staggers magnificently like a doe in the striped
coat of furious tigers she has fanged jaws gently stabbing young
blades my neck (a short column of stuttering electrons flickering
against her blazing article of so unpure purely purring muscles
slick and sinuously bound limbs an angelic fist's arm on my
teeth suddenly flush with blood.
she is many
she is one
she is a multitude
she is a slight twist
to the hairs on the
the back neck (of my) . A
neck meekly
scratched with
nails abruptly
slaughtering quiet
disheveled minutes
in her merry cavern
wails
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
softly carved
statue
shadowed
bas-relief on the
sheets
submerged
staring
sundered
stiff as stone
spasmed
soliloquy of
squeals and sighs
sublimation of
soul to steam
slinking
sinuously down my
sternum
seeking
.
.
.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
Lying so close to you... my love.... my life
I feel your warmth, see your smooth skin
in moonlights glow....cast over silken sheet,
defines in subtle shadows pale light,
partially veiled..... your sensuous form,
fractional to your captivating...wholeness.
So I..rapt within your especial fragrance,
the very essence of you, that my indulgence is, so drawn.
I regard your soft, gentle, calm breathing,
for me beautiful, nocturnal music, sweet,
written by you, for this, hedonistic night.
Such treasures are future memories, seeding.
I long to wake you, to hold, to love you... be complete.
So enthralled am I, watching you sleeping
your dark hair frames the face I cherish,
as you stir the motion slightly slides the sheet.
your thigh, back, shoulder, the silver moons gleam
exposes your appealing femininity
evoking your caring personality,
you are moving.. sinuously.... towards me,
midst soft murmuring...eventually,
bodies in coalescence curl serenely.
I softly rest my head against your shoulder,
kissing your neck, I caress your breast.. gently,
your warm smooth skin... tenderly moving downwards
slowly you turn facing me, our eyes meet... to betray
a tiny smile from the lips I will kiss... and kiss,
is the silent signal between us.... intimacy assured.
Pushing away the covers, we fondly embrace,
and so aroused, we, as lovers, experience a consensual excursion
towards effecting the ultimate... ecstasy,
fuelled not by - carnal impulse or lust - but along with grace,
an unconditional... true love and mutual desire.
In Love In Memories
Michael C Crowder January 19th 2019 @scorsby
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
Open lotuses of purple and indigo hues
casting spells beneath lawny skies of midnight blue
each brilliant star more sparkly then the next by heaven's roam;
Like shooting fireflies and minuets of silent reveries,
the neon fairies claim the quiet waters of the Thame,
as lilies glide inside slow gentle rain ....
Opuses of art in natures private Cul de sac
water vessel of grace, incumbent chalice of the night
undulating sinuously towards the evening light
none can duplicate the beauty of, your even flow;
Who knows who knows which way the gale winds blow
but this I know,... no never have I seen
such incandescent fiery light, cleaving at the cusp of night.
January 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022 at 1:12 AM UTC
i have loved.
the crust of life
the o how divine reeling
of its casual thrill. and
the stern parting of flowers to break
against each heap of striding leg
their sinuously lurching scent.
(i have
and oh god how i have
loved the demure ***
of stopping day
;and where it has splayed most lustfully
entered
have i
)the music of my
fist
and the chanson of lilies.
God, and sweat oh
how i have loved thee the
swiftly naked among unnaked things.
(as a juniper, caroused with poppies,
and my neat hand curled upon a glass perspired(
the driving through late nights
and the sudden stopping at the end i have gone miles into twilight and how many i do not know to find girls in sleeping bodies i have gone miles into twilight to find them and press apart their sleeping bulbs they might suddenly alight)
but does not my fingers' itching
to meet with some things tight,
or day begin,
or the last futile gasp of easily purring Summer
match by cruel luck
the urge of life to sin?
i do not know.
i only know that i have loved,
(let us see if that's enough).
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC