"spar" poems
I see her there
A dark look in her eye
Smirking at me
Inviting "give it a try"..
My Shadow dares me
Into the ring
Smuggly she grins
Thinks I've nothin to bring..
"You know ur smoked!"
She gleefully taunts
"You wanna spar with me?
I'm fueled by your wants!"
I shuffle my feet
Timidly taking my stance
The first round, a blood bath
That b@tch kicked my A$$
Bruised and beat down
My trainer now pleads
Where is your fight girl?
Ya think I brought you to bleed?!
"But she's mean!" I sob..
As I spit out a tooth
"She breaks every rule!"
"So resentful and uncooth!"
Even still she is
A true part of you
Learn to dance in this ring
Or you, she will rule..
Now I stand with conviction
To face my brutal self
She may take her pound of flesh
But none will leave til its dealt..
We are not so separate
One good, and one bad
We move with congruence
Our conversation now had..
I dodge and I weave
As I feel her wear out
I take a few blows
But I leave her no doubt..
I am in this ring
Til our dealings be done
She may beat me down
But our pieces are one.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
201
Two swimmers wrestled on the spar—
Until the morning sun—
When One—turned smiling to the land—
Oh God! the Other One!
The stray ships—passing—
Spied a face—
Upon the waters borne—
With eyes in death—still begging raised—
And hands—beseeching—thrown!
3.5k
You're vivid in my head
Yet
I long to feel you here instead
Tangible
Between my *******
Lacing your lips with a high
You'll unleash under my dress
Tongue in cheek
As we spar
For **********
Of each other's heart.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 11:28 PM UTC
my daily regimen, focused, intense,
a pugilistic kata of the tongue,
in preparation for our oral fence,
run laps around ideas, expand lungs,
my visualization of that day--
we spar with strikes and parries, counterstrikes,
in reasonings' most ****** kumite,
my verbal knuckles down her oral pikes,
so armed with good reasons to reconcile,
arriving at the place where she should be,
she proves to be so much more versatile
absent, my wasted versatility,
i cannot win with passion or with rage,
a lover's heart which simply won't engage
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Silky cocoon of routine leaves
this metamorphosis stagnating
how the discomfort thieves
the fear of change isolating
The struggle lies in the escape
with no energy left to attempt
monotonous days left to drape
as if life holds me in contempt
Hanging on this lonely branch
sometimes I pray just to fall
monotonous routine's avalanche
creates days so banal
And then a child finds the lonely silk
plucks carefully into a glass jar
Oh how the curiosity of their ilk
creates this warm inner spar
A want to escape
a need to taste
freedom's luscious grapes
make haste happiness,
make haste.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
All that I know
Of a certain star,
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!
Then it stops like a bird,—like a flower, hangs furled,
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.
2.6k
510
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ’twas like Midnight, some -
When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—
But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Change, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.
2.6k
Don't forget me
Don't forget my mothers tears
Don't forget my blood that flowed on the grass
Don't forget my dream
Don't forgive those who made me suffer
Remember I did not spar my life
For you to waste it
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
The message is simple, the delivery hard,
even as his eyes cut holes for it to enter.
White rims that flash, like beasts that spar
Natural strobes flicker, to thicken the black center.
When intent is replied with padded knuckle intent
Ungraceful, his neck turns past comforts vector.
I turn away to close a window from the storm.
Thought pathways like drunken footprints stepped
but a spark in the cloud of numbness replies.
My clenched thumb releases his bicep
And the arthritic cogs inside us violently un-subside.
Those muscle strings in my handwriting
to the letter the red bull replies,
but rain breaks my gaze to the window.
Knuckles like bruised alps in formation;
the boy’s got blood lightning in his eyes,
And so have I. ***** in the sockets I’m pushing on,
to revel in colors of my ****** mind’s sky.
I hurt myself to try telling that one ****** idea.
Tasting the punch, spitting iron, my Boxer I despise.
The classic writer’s hand ache makes me relinquish my pen.
Those axons, which lead to nothing,
they have now reached it.
Flayed to the winds.
The eye’s blinds closed completely.
In darkness, rasping breath resounding
and the lungs like strained gluttons for life
are clearly mocking the hearts desperate beating.
I put the pen horizontal to the desk.
It possesses all the use of a dead man’s organs.
But the sway, rains sweat from hair down to skin,
Then to polish the padded domes of pain.
When flesh rolls like thunder, bones crack like lightning.
His legs, my pen and both our minds are jarred from this refrain.
And upon the strike,
I’ll polish words and pad their meaning,
Punch the reader,
And enjoy the force that they contain.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
The epitome of greatness, a mark in history
Of discipline remarkable, a stellar victory
Defeating the unbeaten, knock and break the mould
International heavyweight of Olympic Gold
Strike in quick succession, opponents retreat
Delivery duration, a knockout of defeat
Tactical ability, step into the range
Catalyst created, set for further change
Of the highest calibre, man who beat the man
Delivery on target, a humble champion
Of opponents outclassed, discontinued bout
Dominant performance, within and without
With athletic excellence, distance travelled far
Gym of daily training, cardio and spar
Professional perspective, stood to set the pace
Dedication, boldness, motivate, embrace
Influencing globally, rank of the elite
Rapid combinations, uppercuts repeat
Powerful formation, readiness of stance
Daily preparation, practice over chance
An honourable service, magnificence abound
Celebrating victory, crowding to surround
Continuing the greatness, strength and stamina
The world is truly grateful, Anthony Joshua
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Too much alone
Too much afraid
Too much unknown
Too much paid
To let us go
By the way
For no show
So they say
Could I tell you a story
Ole storyteller
Like bees buzzing flowers
With some honey on hive's mind
It's a modern tale
That has sat sail
All sewn up
At a rate of knots
That black book
Bought with blood money
Dares to say it holds a name
Spar - with these throat barnacles
(Alternately feeding and fighting With their feet)
bowsprit [bee block]
know your ropes, carried away deep six
It's a thieves cat o nine tales
Captain of chewing the fat
Or combing the cat
I've never seen (one) better
Dunnage topping a tonnage
From that trusty barrage
I'm everything on top and nothing handy
An eye splice on a short rope
Given and giving leeway
Haven't got a clew for true whence such hails from
...
So... She measures faces with her heart and hands
And a camera lens for a few
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Shoppin wiv Albert.
I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.
He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.
Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.
John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.
I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!
So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars
my mind implodes in Malimar
where Naiads bathe in caviar -
I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars.
The captive kiss of Princess Mars
(who talks in tongues at seminars)
burns red beyond Her blue boudoir -
I writhe within Her pale peignoir.
Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar,
bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar,
serve teas beside the reservoir -
I sip them from a samovar.
Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar
Her Genies gender gold dinars,
evoking flames in ginger jars -
I plea before the Commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
white shadows slip through doors ajar
to drape my dreams in ash and char -
I long await the Avatar.
Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars)
paint pretty scenes on VCR’s
while sailing ships to Zanzibar -
I strum the strings of warped sitars.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars
else while at each and every bar
to speak of space and time bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboires.
Her Necromancers trace in tar
tall tales of wisdom flung afar,
transported by the Registrars -
I hitchhike on their handlebars.
Her seers conjure repertoires
where She and I are on a par
in infinite surreal memoirs -
I sometimes sense the void is ours.
My Princess never sees the scars
cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
these Gods that sail the distant stars?’
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
we three kings are having a jar,
bearing gifts we stole from the spar,
money counting, profits mounting,...
selling em in the bar.
ooh, ooh, car of wonder,pile of *****
pinched it from a building site,
we proceeded, they don't need it,
taxi's dear this time of night.
we three kings are shy of a goal,
work for a living is selling your soul,
we got money, think it's funny,
tuesday we sign on the dole.
hoodie laughs at working fools,
mocking men that play to rules,
we pay taxes, he relaxes,
he's the king, and we the mules.
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
The Circus came to a South Wales Town
Big Top and all **** Even a clown.
Dew them folks were strange to see
couldn't say "Nos da i chi!"
One of the women was ever so hairy
almost as much as Bethan or Mary.
And the elephant that led the parade
broke into the Spar and stole lucozade.
But the thing that got every lass in a whirl
that foreign young lad with an eye for the girls.
They say that his furry body is funky
but I am convinced that they left us a monkey!
So quick up the trees, be it rowan or pine
and ever so handy down in the coal mine.
they'll be back at New Year, when our valley's a chiller
Perhaps when they go they'll leave us a gorilla!
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:59 AM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
cease awhile
and hold commune
with his fabrication
and admire
every cordant note
of a symphony yet unwritten.
t’was a nymph
saw i a-Maying
her comeliness
beggared the reach of art
outreached my arms
to touch her tidy traces
alack, gone she
in the mists of morn.
the moon-kissed bed
was light and life
with verdant dewy leaves
astride the speechless
mountain tops
a journey was begun
to rain again
his darts of gold
to every waiting one.
the blanket of
the skies was azure blue
on limpid waters seen
along her hurried way
she dropped those
gaudy flowrets beam.
saw i her locks
in every nodding palm
‘neath the tropic sun.
t’was birds do counterfeit
her melody the
rustling bamboo stole.
they utter now
sweet words of love
as winds doth
beat and blow
the roar and rush
of the swollen river asks:
what is it to you?
sprightly now
the winged ones
from bud to bud alight.
athirst, searching for that
self-same delight.
the crown of earth’s
flowing seas of grass
its mighty arms apart
attentive to the
incoherent whispers of
the breeze that chances by.
what now
messengers of the skies?
what saw you beyond
the floating clouds?
what find you at the
end of the rainbow?
what secrets lie hid
in yonder hills?
pray tell this
to the hurling spar
of the ever-running brook
for down and down and down
she goes to her anxious
ocean-brother.
could she have paced
the grotesque shore
to appease the bleating sea?
now she laps up
the sand-white beach
now she beats
the rock-bound shore with
shrill indignant murmur.
the shore and plain
nod assent
nay, my search is done.
twelve knotty hours
of day are gone and still
my find is none
to tease the gloomy
brow of night
aflame is all the west
in its expiring redolence
my happy nymph adieu.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Adobe skinned mimicry of light,
Piece of pebbly lunar surface fallen
To misty ******* reverse panoply,
Spiny spar of stellar tapestry
Nimbly navigating mortared limbs
In sultry sea-cellar ballet,
Rocky roofed conspirator of clams,
Swarthy pirate, silent smithy of shells.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
Youths, the sight of thy pants menacingly looming over the waistband of your ill fitting trousers doth not fill my heart with joy this fine afternoon.
Nor doth the stench of your rancid marijuana which oozes from your pores and combines with your ever present lynx masked body odour.
I see you stroll with all the grace of a strategically shaved ape,
as you migrate with your "Fam" to linger like wastrels outside the Spar in the hope of cheap cider, stolen smokes and easy girls...
And I wonder at the devoid nature of our future while it rests on your rounded, work shy, knuckle dragging shoulders.
I fear the brush thats tars us all.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
drinking heavy,
boxing partner of the liver
like it was always
a spar
with wladimir klitschko...
listening to
edwyn collins'
girl like you, one hit wonder...
drinking heavy...
but minding
the grammar,
and the spelling...
now what?
******** pinching,
castrato,
and what's his name?
mickey Tyson?
hum hum hummah
hum hum...
i sometimes wish
i could treat a girl like
i might treat a dog...
donning a leash...
crazy cat lady contra
crazy cat boy...
i just ignore the little *****
can't be bothered...
they do their own ****
i do mine...
anything else
consists of a woman's in between.
how can you learn from
the autism of cats, owning
counter felines?
it's either the ******* bonsai
tiger...
or it's the Hiroshima atomic
paranoia!
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:10 PM UTC
A tale of dawn where
my genius at play for her beads
if thunder hie will quicken quinine
why Doeville surely nigh and on route yon
that bare a drove her handkerchief spar
in field with hills to make her rich still clad in negligee
and between her steps arose Carthage in antiquity
a lore of ages to unfold Spain today
with a guitar strumming this spicy song of quest so inane
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC