"sprinters" poems
People pass by me,
from all every direction
even in winter snow.
From exhausted firemen,
expectant mothers,
forgotten children,
marathon sprinters.
Even grumbling men carrying heavy, ancient computer printers.
Each have their share and take their turn on me, the local sheltered, secluded
seat.
Even if only for a deep breath and a break or a little body
heat.
Bags and books, all sorts of things have been dropped or left on me, proposals have even happened here, you
name it.
If you don't believe it, come see for yourself and
frame it.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
Gray eyes
Sometimes blue
Sometimes green
Mostly slate, no phyllite
Sometimes schist
And sometimes, when all other hope is gone
Shale
Crooked nose
Broken, bloodied
Put a band-aid on it
It's still proud
Proof of heritage and blood
High cheekbones
Finely sculpted
Match the proud nose
Thin lips
Pink, not red
Set in a straight line
Seldom smiling
Sometimes laughing
Broad shoulders
Strong arms
A chest that contains a heavy heart
Pianists fingers
Long and slender
Nimble
Quick
Bound by a ring on the left hand
Scars
Powerful legs
Sprinters feet
Bad knees
Scars
Things in between
Head and feet
Don't quite belong
But over time
Are no longer noticed
See the soul
Not the body
Live happily
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
this year the imported ponies
are the ones to beat
as they've got more staying power
in their feet
long distance racing
suits their genetic makeup
over a mile they'll
keep firing up
our horses are sprinters
who can dash
but that style of racing
shall ne'er win the cash
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, schizo-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
She was as elegant as winds shadow.
In other words invisible
Her otter skin eyes pool in oak trees
Every ripple of leaves a whim.
A tear.
She cries the dripping watercolors of fall
Her boughs dances the florescence of spring
Busy sprinters lick over her presented nuances
Passed by every moment
No one notices the silent hover of self made lush
Anymore.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
i don't have a low self-esteem,
or precursors to justify
usage of internet paraphernalia;
i don't have a phone,
i don't use dating applications;
if anything i'm looking
at the hurts of globalisation
from a village perspective;
and to me, it all just looks like:
cow took a **** cow didn't take a ****
cow bowed on all fours to sleeps
to keep a patchwork of grass
dry from the rain... cow slept standing...
back then you just had to walk to
the next village to ***** in the gene pool...
now you're expected to travel to paris
for genetic diversity and a love story
worthy of the boredom of writing
hunting the digression of dating:
is monday the 12th of July good for you
and the imaginary caveman? no?
i thought so... watching rain in England
in sunglasses kinda precursors
naturalised use of sarcasm, given
the Great Wall of China and Hadrian's:
an army of Scots just jumped the wall
like 110m hurdle sprinters! what we to do?!
what we to do?! wait for the Mongols...
ah ha.. all in all.. good luck
and *cheerio(h)! ol' chap! bowler hats ahoy!
bop bop... like bloated frogs bopping along
to Sherlock looking at an aquatic snail trail
deciphering Cluedo.*
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
He smelled like a fall evening –
the distinct mix of dusty leaves, hay, and candy apples
combined with pumpkins and acorns.
So I let him take my hand, his fingers weaving in between mine,
the way the October stars gently twisted through the sky.
And we stood and looked up.
For the longest time, there was silence save for the sound of
a seventy-year old’s clapping shoes as she strolled across the
dance floor, on her way to do-si-do with her husband.
Appalachian hills gleamed under the harvest moon, as he smiled,
asked if I would like to run through the corn maze with him.
I said yes, of course I would, and would he be able to keep up with
the six-year old sprinters who would beat us to the finish?
He laughed, and the clouds overhead dispersed, revealing only velvet atmosphere.
We ran for minutes, tripping over our
shoelaces, occasionally being startled by the tractor toting happy families
who were on hayrides together. But we made it
To the finish, where we collapsed on the cool dirt, grasping our sides and
laughing as loud as we could.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
drip
drip
drip
the rain
falls
streaming into the
gutters that led below
falls
running down the rivets of
dancing umbrellas like
sprinters in a
race, each drop competing to be
the first to hit the ground
droplets fall and
hang
from leaves and
fall
onto the wet earth
slowly the
next drop falls and the
next
small creatures hide in
their cozy hollows of
trees they call
home
watching the tears of the sky
fall
umbrellas that were just
weaving through crowds of
others just
moments ago
are set to dry on porches
and the umbrellas are
soaked
and their tears start to
hit
the
ground
drip
drip
drip
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
You know that I like you a lot,
But this is just the thickening of the plot,
You love elephants, just like you they never forget, wise beyond your young years, golden hair pushed behind delicate ears
You can walk as slow as a Turtle, but in your face lies a sprinters hurdle,
And there were freckles asking to play connect the dots upon your shell, With one look upon your precious face i could clearly see that you had just walked through hell, and your feet were tired and had begun to swell, but you still greatly longed for your home in the sea
I asked if you wanted to stay , and have a conversation with me, you said you weren't quite sure, for calling your name was the ocean floor, but You wanted to look upon my face for a little while more
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
This one was written in 1996 for the then Olympics when fashions seem to have gotten that bit more exposed. Embarrassingly brazen. Not always a welcome sight.
Olympic Games Nineteen Ninety ***
(a reminder for 2016 Olympics too)
Forgive me God, forgive me folk,
I’ve got to make this little joke.
I’m not a girl who’s often ******
After all, I practice Yoga,
Keeping mind and body pure:
Mostly mind. But I have eyes,
And one Olympic year the sure-
Fire fashion for the thighs
And ***** were shorts exposing all.
When I say all, I mean the ball,
The bell, the ****
God, how they knocked!
And while the race was being clocked
The racers showed what Adam hid;
And while I tried to watch the race
My eyes kept dropping to that place.
I couldn’t help myself. They slid
To dingling, dangling, banging things –
Some small, some large, and all these kings
Of sport diminished in my eyes.
I didn’t wish to see their size,
For I was there to see the sprinters
And the long jump and the discus,
Knowing that they’d spent long winters
Practicing like titans. Now the viscous
Summer days, all damp and sweaty,
While the world with its confetti
Waited to exalt its heroes,
It was long, short ***** that hit my eyes.
May athletes, trainers, sponsors wise,
Fashion moguls on the rise
Remember, modesty is also prize.
Olympic Games Nineteen Ninety *** 8.16.1996/ revised 8.6.2003/revised 8.5.2016)
Our Times, Our Culture;
arlenecorwinpoetry.com/duanespoetree.com/youtube
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
A swarm of blue and white
Shot-putters hurdlers sprinters javelins long and high jumpers
Congregate before esteemed guests whom the PTA did invite
To secretly scoff at losers and worship winners.
Not quick or strong,
All I could do was jump high.
Alwyn came in stone last in the cross country after long.
Poor chap – their sneering and booing made him cry.
Soon after, it was my turn,.
Third jump – down went the pole.
Alas! – one corner poked me in the back. The pain, the burn!
Need something sweet for the shock, like a Swiss roll.
Into the common room I went,
Where smoky, limp athletes unwound with a movie.
There I encountered three foes infernally-sent.
Alwyn was among them – out to get me.
“Why are you crying?” one goon prodded.
“I got hurt by a pole,” was all I could muster.
At this, Alwyn’s raucous laughter erupted and exploded.
One day I’ll get you, buster.
Didn’t you cry moments ago when they sneered at you?
So, your solution is to do as the Romans do?
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
When you are here
The quiet feels so soothing
Peaceful
The sounds of a long day filled with laughter, love and storytelling are finally coming to an end
Where we lay our heads down on a bed that feels like the finish line from the race
Of the best day of my life
Tranquil
And when you are gone
The quiet feels so heavy
Overwhelming with thoughts that race through my mind like Olympic sprinters
Chasing down the next conversation I get with you
Filling the silent air with all the things I wish I could tell you now, in this moment
The bed feels different now, each night I lay down in this marathon of missing you
Wishing I could sit with you in silence
Smiling in the darkness as the conversation holds us
The only words we say, I love you, I love you, I love you
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
you want me to put out a cigarette out
inside your eye?
let's face it: tears don't come cheap...
sometimes you need more
than a rom-com to turn your eye into a
niagara falls... which way's the
hmm hum umm?
this sort of time-frame
is really confiscating my
anti-claustrophobic philia
worth of shaking
hands or knee-jerking
really quick;
get my drift? no? no matter...
i can do with a "thought"
basis for summary...
ah **** me...
can you imagine feeling
magnetism when shaking
your hand really ******
apart from watching
paint dry,
i suggest the "movie"
of watching ice freeze,
or mercury freeze...
the latter?
gone with the wind standard
of 3 hours +...
nice though...
to imagine, better still:
imitate...
what a sin to bed driving
a car, and listening to
classical music,
citing john brunning after five
p.m., who the **** listens to
classical music when driving
a car?
leprechauns?!
he-be-he-be-hoom-ha?!
modesty just ****** off,
all we're left with is
a welcome "bargain" of profanity;
i always enjoyed the idea
of running 100m while dribbling
a football, like the time
when marc overmars could outrun
most sprinters dribbling a football
while playing the left-wing for arsenal...
every time i see these men of sprint
getting all cocky... i tend to ask
them: hold an egg on a tbl. spoon...
and run the same time of the worth
of distance...
marc overmars would still
out-run you...
mind the fact that he was also dribbling
a football...
evidently humanity will not
remember a marc overmars: simply because
he wasn't in a ****** advert...
too bad... that dutch "prince" could
out-run that jamaican rod while
juggling three oranges with his hands,
balancing a watermelon on his head,
and dribbling a football;
basic!
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC