"sprinter" poems
good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen
and when it does
it doesn't
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he's bad
there's more chance
he'll stay that way,
or if he's good
he might hang
on,
but a woman
is changed
by
children
age
diet
conversation
***
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
stronger
by being hated.
I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar
and I remember the cows
I once painted in Art class
and they looked good
they looked better than anything
in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar
wondering which to love and which
to hate, but the rules are gone:
I love and hate only
myself-
they stand outside me
like an orange dropped from the table
and rolling away; it's what I've got to
decide:
**** myself or
love myself?
which is the treason?
where's the information
coming from?
books...like broken glass:
I wouldn't wipe my *** with 'em
yet, it's getting
darker, see?
(we drink here and speak to
each other and
seem knowing.)
buy the cow with the biggest
****
buy the cow with the biggest
****
present arms.
the bartender slides me a beer
it runs down the bar
like an Olympic sprinter
and the pair of pliers that is my hand
stops it, lifts it,
golden **** of dull temptation,
I drink and
stand there
the weather bad for cows
but my brush is ready
to stroke up
the green grass straw eye
sadness takes me all over
and I drink the beer straight down
order a shot
fast
to give me the guts and the love to
go
on.
from "poems written before jumping out of an 8 story window" - 1966
126.7k
I Love The Feeling Of Dirt Frosting My Skin,
And My White Pants Staining From Muck,
I Pulled Out My Old Friends Today,
My Cleats, My Glove, And My Luck,
I Slipped On My Sliding Pants,
Ones I Haven't Worn For A Season,
The Hole On My Knee Matched It's Scar,
The One I Am Most Proud Of For Many Reasons,
I Just Had To Trace The Stitches Of My Ball,
The One I Missed All Winter,
I Am So Excited To Plow Myself Between Bases,
And Re-Awaken My Inner Sprinter
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
I fell in love with you
More accurately
I fell in love with the feelings you transferred into me
But those mutinous emotions betrayed me
The moment you did
The withdrawal from your love was too intense
I desperately needed something to replace those feelings
I always said I could run from anything
as long as it didn't involve running
But after walking with you for so long
It's hard to change my pace
The path too tough to face
Your memories fueled the chase
Until I found my escape
The kneading needles turned me fetal
Shocked my veins like eels
Fetuses aren't the most ambulatory
The race became a marathon story
Your effervescent ghost pursued me
Breaking the sound barrier to reach me
I floated vacantly in the stew of your noise
The needles touched me
The way you wouldn't
The needles bled me
The way you would
Then the race ended as abruptly as it started
Only to begin another race
...But things were different this time
Slugs waved as they passed a sprinter
Tormented by a lane filled with needles
The hostile crowd watched with pity
As a once great athlete
Was forced to acknowledge his janitorial duties
The fickle mob cheered with triumph
Upon his valiant return
He was quicker than ever before
And the masses exalted him
He ran faster than everybody
And waited for nobody
Anxious they might reveal his secret
That his speed was derived from his feather weight
After the needles hollowed out his insides
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
Lest the gamers forget the petals doused with blood,
Slayers bequeath their chine.
The guidance of wisdom is deemed for crud,
The sparkle of existence lay bare on the line.
Mockingbirds lost their techniques,
Before dipping their feathers in grizzling red.
Their sentiments shut along their broken beaks,
Symphonies out of tune,
Recorded grünes are that of the dead.
Long lasted the gloom of winter,
As if protected by a permanent warrant.
The only bids are that of a sprinter,
Losing his soul for a bribe, or the steams of the first torrent
How loathsome becometh the living, in a world rotten and vile,
Even I don't guarantee forgiving
For that, I'll set my sail and be gone for a while
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
Am made of black
Am a true symbol of a black
Strong
Powerful
Black is independent
Black is determined
Black is original never fades
Black remains consistent forever
Am made of black
Black is an attitude
Black is beautiful
Black is love
Black don't discriminate
Black accepts you for who you are
Irrespective of your race,color and religion
Am made of black
Black is patient
Black is caring
Black is accommodating
Black is brilliant
Black is intelligent
Am made of black
Black lives with you
Black inspires you
Black motivates you
Black is a leader not a ruler (Nelson mandela)
Black is an activist(martin luther king Jr)
Black is a rapper(2pac)
Black is a sprinter(Usan Bolt)
Black is a footballer(George Weah
Black is a singer(Akon)
Black is a poet(Me and myself)
Black is a friend(Akanbi Olawale)
We are blacks we are more
Black is made of more
I am made of more
I am original
I am beautiful
I am powerful
I am attractive
I am charming -----do you know why?
Because am made of black...
Am made of more ...
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
The burning
that runs its course through my veins
is not there
because I asked for it -
it is there because you put it there.
All I wanted to do was run,
but you tripped me
and beat me down
until I was glued to the ground
like the Titanic is glued to the ocean floor.
And when there was no energy left
for me to fight back,
you slipped the needle in my vein
and pushed
every last bit of lonely darkness
into my body.
Suddenly,
there's energy to scream -
there's energy to worry and cry.
I feel my own heart
beat faster than the rhythm
of an olympic sprinter's feet.
I feel my hands shake
like those of an ****** addict.
I can feel the caffeinated insanity
latch onto my thoughts
and pulse through me.
I didn't ask for this,
but I sit here
and feel it.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
You don't stay up late with me anymore,
While everyone else goes snore, snore,snore
Infatuated with a furball, and I can't blame you,
And there's no way In hell anyone can ever tame you
Oh you ******* flame you
Ill strain you, like white tea
Delicate an easy to burn
And honestly I think he,not I should get the first turn,
He did call shotgun, after all
Control myself, patrol the shelf full of air tight and light free leaves, what are you pet peeves ?
I pray to not leave like a band of theives, unnoticed and unwanted
And for the last few weeks my dreams,
Your god **** freckled fAce you have played the muse, I mean there different every night
But there's still a reoccurring theme,
You follow me every time I dream
Infatuated with a furball,
There's enough black and live from them for all y'all
They have arrived,
And a mother deprived
But they've taken the best to your scent, and they are alone like me,
Such small creatures in a grand scary world,
And again they are like me, stripped from comfortability and perhaps forced into conformity
And for the last time I am like them, black, and half of myself in the dark
I guess a couple people know the darkness inside
But I try and keep myself in stride
Except I am no sprinter and I trip upon my own feet more times then not
I wish dreams of you,
We're nothing more then a dream that became a true real life thought
**** everything I've bought
Since I've been here, especially that hellish hillsy dress that was an awful surprise
I can tell you are some type of grand witch
Despite a minor fear of your wiccanism
You have,
Unfortunately transformed into a completely complex unique,
Unknown organism,
Even Einstein could not Websterize the Shannonball
Because I, myself made It up
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
There's freedom to-
and freedom from,
Freedom to run from anyone.
Free from the darkness; a schorching sun till
Freedom's light warms everyone.
Freedom from judgment, how endlessly unfair-
Free from the consciousness,
Blissfully unaware.
Freedom from judgment's unblinking glare & Free,
without expectation's care.
Free to do
And freely undone
Free to run from
Aug 8, 2024
Aug 8, 2024 at 5:07 AM UTC
july 24, 2018, 12:37 am
my mind is constantly fixated on you
the idea of you
the idea of us, repeating over and over
spinning like a broken record, the same melody on repeat but the scratches make it sound different each time
i don’t know why you’re still on my mind, or why you have been for the last six months..
i can’t escape it
even when you weren’t here I still couldn’t escape you, you are everywhere, you are everything
i can’t live without something retracing my steps back to you, the never ending cycle
i wish i could outrun the patterns, but the marathon sprinter in me has been bolted down to the concrete, never to escape
i don’t know what it is that i cannot escape
is it you? is it my fleeting hope to ever move on?
i think my heart isn’t letting me escape the love i have for you
i can’t escape it
i can’t escape you
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:41 AM UTC
The strive in life is forever a race
We line to hear the sound of barking guns
We in sprinting blocks, the sweat in face
Because we know we have to be number one
We feel that spark, arise to sprinter’s stance
The hands to box the air, to grab that inch.
We fall behind, and think we lost that chance.
And then we see the one in front of us flinch
This chance is close and so illustrious
The finish line is coming up too fast to stop.
As we approach, a burst of legs beats us.
And we receive medals, but not the top.
To have the grace in loss is important
Because winning is great, but its better to be a sportsman.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
A new car.
A new necklace.
A new belt buckle.
All begin to rust.
When using them,
touching them,
the grime rubs off,
leaving spots on once
only lightly scarred skin.
What if the rust and grime
Soaks in?
running through one's
blood stream,
like an Olympic sprinter.
Flowing, casually,
Through limbs,
To the brain.
What if that
makes a difference?
I think it makes
my writing pointless.
Leaves me with no inspiration.
Maybe, Maybe, Maybe.
That's what it means to be...
RUSTY
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
Uninvited visitor
Black-eyed burglar
Shadow dweller
Nimble sprinter
Able contortionist.
Cheap, common yet
Generous
disease giver
Innocent troublemaker
Thief and scrounger
Bin searcher
Test subject.
Extreme sport enthusiast of my kitchen, bedroom and balcony
Sleep depriver
Olympic diver
Racecar driver with claws for wheels.
I'm not your pit crew, so please find your meals elsewhere,
Silent sniffler.
Constant nibbler
Unwelcome visitor
Gatecrasher!
And he brought a plus one, cheeky sod.
Wherever he goes,
He's pursued always by that faithful worm.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
*The trail has led me
To the end of the world,
A place short called - - - i
Where I thought my heart would be safe and furled.
I was over there,
You were not there
Of course, stupid me, how would you have known?
By the way, when you read it, did you frown?
Did it make your heart beat faster?
Well, if you could hear mine, runs like the Sprinter...
One next time, as you propose, I will hold your hand
We both know it won't be easy, it will be steep,
But together, we'll reach the top of that dune of sand.
Our sun burnt necks turning deep,
Into the mountain view.
And then, there will be only
Me and You.*
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Abandoned like an unloved pet
just outside the outskirts of Rio
underneath some of the white
washed slums
you told me to wait there
while you went for help,
But of course you never returned
discarding all responsibility
glistening in the moonlight
returning to your car
and driving off like a panic led sprinter
before I realised,
Flying through the night
across Copacabana beach
pressing your hands
on the wheels like Excalibur
rising from the ground
before freezing halfway,
Cut and pasting your fear
with each mile
unsure which way next
across the sea front
towards the edge of the
Sugarloaf Mountain,
Then hiding in the shadows
of the Art Museum
in Sao Paulo,
before then running
to the booths of
the Se Church in Sao Luis,
Among the Market sellers of
the Porto Allegra Public Market
in Rio Grande do Sol
trading monies for
blankets and hats,
in a vein attempt to disguise yourself
To smaller, less known places
Like all the way down
To Boa Vista
Where your car finally died,
And the Wreck of the Santa Maria
Where you was tempted to hide in
Or hide in the now
dis-used lighthouse
on Morro *****
and watch the sunrise go up and down
each morning
until you went stir crazy,
Full well knowing
I would caught up with you
sooner or later
no matter
which way you ran
Eventually.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
The hunter’s bullet lodges in my side
like the pin bones of salmon wedged
in the back of my throat.
My life balances on the border
between my favorite comfort foods,
and the blade of the taxidermist.
You would make me into a trophy,
gutted and cured to become an ornament,
in your seasonal hunting cabin.
Raw honeycomb, Caribou marrow,
salmon roe stuck to my tongue,
psalms of my home made flesh,
call me back into my survival
instincts for my sleeping children.
She who outruns deer & devours
strong bucks with antlers the size of sequoias
could not outrun the champion sprinter,
American made bullets.
But when you realize your rumpus
disturbed wild things, there is no time to reload.
You brought a potluck into the den
of a slumbering mother with cubs.
My teeth are agonizingly real
And my jaws are in your belly,
rooting for the lost rib of Adam.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
In your eyes I can see the fury of the sun
Never ever do they fail to stun
In your eyes I can see the beauty of the moon
When I look at them I just swoon
In your eyes I can see the magic of the stars
Tonight it feels like I’m on mars!!!
In your eyes I can see the magic of spring
Your eyes they have that spark..that special thing
In your eyes I have seen the cool shade in summer
A day without you is a total ******
In your eyes I have felt the festive spirit of winter
Baby you make my heart run like a sprinter
In your eyes I have seen the dreams of a lifetime
In your eyes I have seen that love sublime
Your eyes….what do I say more?
That depth
That passion
That magic
That sensuality
They command attention
And deserve adulation
Your eyes are the kind which sometimes scares me
‘Coz they are the kind I can never lie to
And should I ever falter in my steps
I’d never be able to look you in the eye
I hope that I die before that day arrives
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
When you breathe in you can feel the sharp spikes of winter
There goes another one, preparing for the winter Olympics, a dedicated sprinter
You can feel the quiet crunch of snow under your boots
You can see on the trees, the fresh winter fruits
Hear the branches swaying in the gentle breeze
The leaves brushing against each other slightly
You pull your scarf around your neck, giving it a small squeeze
Looking at the sky, you smile brightly
Another beautiful day, it might be
~ 10/2/21
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 2:36 AM UTC
The wind blows
Like the breath of life that awakens out soul
Or a bubble floating on the breeze
The wind blows.
The grass sways
Like a flag in the wind
Or a mast out at sea
The grass sways.
The trees dance
Like a ballerina moving across a stage
Of the waltz of a couple gliding round a room
The trees dance.
The river runs
Like a sprinter towards the finish line
Or a rabbit into its hole
The river runs.
The sun heats
Like the warmth of a hug from a much missed friend
Or the crackling of a fire burning up the wood
The sun heats.
The birds sing
Like a child learning their first song
Singing with joy for the gift of life
The birds sing.
And nature is one
Like the body working to keep us alive
Or a families love, the strongest of ties
Nature is one.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
Swift winds run through the park, at dusk
Carried on legs of leaves
Temporary, as they blow from the path
Onto the verdant sheet of blades
Laid beside the pavement.
The contestants occasionally collide,
And tiny whirlwinds
Untether their foliage feet from the terrain
As they fall onto the track
Whistling merrily as they bounce upon the ground
And rebounce into their lane
To commence the runnings again.
No pace is kept
And each man is one moment a sprinter
And the next a marathon chaser
The disciplines remain inexorably tangled
In their fleeting eyes.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
me and my grandfather, buying candles to place on graves of family members, discussing topics hushed for the public, two hyenas of the graveyard... my grandmother frequenting the grave of her mother and father and nanny like frequenting an armchair... i've heard her cry... like a joy division song: an egyptian will tear us apart! but me and my grandfather the two hyenas of the graveyard - a friendly ghost of resurrected israel, suddenly everyone in western europe starts wearing an arabian scarf in the "cool" and "educated" sector of society of a bachelor's degree... vocal terrorists who only experienced the Blitz but not the holocaust; yes, domesticated cats returned into the hands of the wild by nesting in the graveyard... oh the scent of smoked wood of early winter of Poland in the air, winter in siberia, an air of such cold as if climbing Mt. Everest, walking on the frozen tundra plateau.
why do old men suddenly
get a monopoly on guidance?
why can't youth guide youth?
the old are guided by an automaton
of death, no one guides them
but suddenly everyone younger than
them frightens them!
why take advice from the old
who's sole concern is to die in
their sleep?
if we try transcendental passing
of knowledge we'll be left
with a 100m sprinter in a zimmer-frame
running faster than the the most
agile athlete... why take advice
from the old farts? are we in this
together or not?
are we a wave born in the 1980s
or just cripples of splintered appreciations
of past and future generations?
well, i can't appreciate the culture of youth,
younger than me... but i also can't
appreciate the wisdom of the elderly...
and that's because the culture of youth
is without experience worth a maxim...
while old age has too many maxims...
while we're craving a narration to serve
like a duty to prayer, although lessened
in terms of necessitated gesticulation
for dumb-struck rather than lighting-struck
realisation...
while old men start being avatars of death
and actors of past life,
the youth start to become competitive
and rude and un-guiding...
clench my teeth at the matter...
the young become passports of sight into lives
you sometimes wished you led
but eventually realise by their example
you haven't; and then clap... clap... clap...
you begin clapping... as a cursor to ensure they
do not conjure up an encore.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
I wait for your kiss.
A soldier standing on duty.
A touch putting me at ease.
Silently I guard what is left
of my heart.
And I wait
For a sign.
A small child at the crosswalk,
watching for the red hand
to fade away,
So I can go.
I wait for a sound.
A sprinter on the track,
the snap of a bullet,
a race for the ages.
I wait for the thing
that I want the most.
And I wait for the day,
when I know what I want.
I wait,
For you.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
It's been ages since i've kissed you
Oh!..how badly i've missed you
Your taste still lingers on my tongue
To each and every memory of ours even till now i've clung
You were my shade in the summer
Life without you was a total ******
You were my sun in the winter
When you'd kiss me..my heart would run faster than a sprinter
We had the world at our feet
There wasn't a day when we wouldn't meet
Together we went to so many destinations
You and me...we were like the constellations
Lighting up the night sky
Giving each other hope
So where did we wrong?
I loved you like a love song
Why did you go away?
I so wanted you to stay
We were two bodies..one heart
So why did we fall apart?
Well...doesn't matter..you're back now
So lets forget the past
And give ourselves a fresh start
Let's not waste what we have
Let's give ourselves a chance
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
The Doped Olympics
Why don’t they simply create a new branch
And call it the Doped Olympics?
By the laws of semantics
It soon would come into language, legitimized:
Youth forgets past.
Soon the word would have lost its original shame,
While the name of the game
Would be guilt-free and blame-free,
And those who would qualify
Could have drug deliverance, muscles defined, bodies divine.
If they dropped dead at forty
At least they’d have entertained millions,
Fulfilled their ambitions,
Made lots of folk rich
And set records untold.
Let those few or many spend hours in training;
Let chemists develop concoctions so new
That the pole-vaulter flies,
The sprinter’s a jaguar,
The shot put is sent into orbits of space,
The long jumper jumps twenty meters
While men become fierce
And the women grow beards,
Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.
A yes to the ***** Doped Games.
The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016re-revised 7.25.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
Cometh the hour cometh the man
in a white mercedes sprinter van.
cometh the van cometh the power
and all at twenty quid (an hour).
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
The Doped Olympics
Why don’t they simply create a new branch
And call it the Doped Olympics?
By the laws of semantics
It soon would come into the language, legitimized:
Youth forgets past.
Soon the word would have lost its original shame,
While the name of the game
Would be guilt-free and blame-free
Free, and those who would qualify
Could have drug freedom, build muscles defined,
And have bodies divine.
If they dropped dead at forty
At least they’d have entertained millions,
Fulfilled their ambitions,
Made lots of folk rich
And set records untold.
Let those few or those many spend hours in training;
Let chemists develop concoctions so new
That the pole-vaulter flies,
And the sprinter’s a jaguar,
The shot put is sent into orbits of space,
The long jumper jumps twenty meters
While men become fierce
And the women grow beards,
Which gives all of the chemists new projects to work on.
A yes to the ***** Doped Games.
The Doped Olympics12.2. 2004 revised 1.27.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC