"squinting" poems
Pretty little iris
****** white sclera
Despite those tempting lashes
Her lies are getting clearer
Come a little closer
Squeeze a little tighter
She's squinting a little thinner
But her pupils are getting wider
She wants your focus now
Don't trust those golden eyes
It only takes a little peek
To fall for those gorgeous lies
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
They drove me across the country,
from the busy city where we departed
to intimate villages where they recessed,
and spent a star filled, moonlit night
singing songs,
their bodies casting long, wavy shadows
from campfires they huddled around.
Just as I got too cold and my wheels
couldn't turn anymore
did they finally turn the spark plugs,
revving and igniting my despair and sensitivity
producing heat.
Sometimes they pushed
until I shoved
and scraped my rubber
on asphalt,
on rocks,
on sand,
on boulders big and small,
and I hit a flat-line;
the air I could hold in
no longer.
They rode me into a forest
whose undergrowth was as thick
as a bears' fur during the winter,
and redwood that spanned the horizon
you thought it could pat the constellations.
A forest teeming with life that
one would react like Wendy from Peter Pan--
never wanting to leave Neverland.
And I could see it in their
soft faces and squinting eyes,
bright and lit up with joy,
every detail apparent
as if I burst my headlights into high-beam,
directly on them.
It was there I ran out
of gas and my engines
parched for oil,
from the endless adventure
that was exhilarating and memorable.
One could, as a result,
easily forget responsibilities.
There was no service or refill station nearby,
so I was abandoned where I parked,
flat tires, rusty hood, broken chassis,
dilapidated suspension.
I've proved my worth
from when I was brought in
and over time
it wasn't enough.
Only repairing, never maintaining.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
There once was a man
Whose livelihood was rubber.
He worked long and hard; and wore a tan,
He was a plantation tapper.
One night he packed,
In haste after a long day of toil.
Quickly had his belongings all sacked
Under light from a lantern that reeked of kerosene oil.
He was ready, flame from the lantern he did ****
Overhead, the midnight moon brightly shone.
Bound his sack to the rack above the rear wheel,
Mounted his bicycle and soon he was gone.
The dirt trail leading back,
Undulating with gravel all strewn.
Almost treacherous this forgotten track
He only relied on light from the moon.
The air was cool just like any other,
But something was different about this night.
Squinting ahead he spotted a figure.
Flagging him down was a lady in white...
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
*while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor*
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)
they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
*repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!*
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!
conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)
what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes
are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in
there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
**squinting up the leaves of the bountiful tree
i espied a mango ripe and soft with goodness
as the sun came gently filtering through
aloft the wings of a little fellow with a long beak
and a brisk song to celebrate dinner found
my feathered visitor hovered above the vintage prize
and as his thirsty proboscis drilled the succulent mango
the warm enticing juice, natural and healthy as ever,
drip-settled in the base of my hungry open eye
i thought i heard a flourish in the triumphant bird-song
such as one at the fall of a big wicket; and
in that slow-motion moment, i knew: the mango was his,
and it'd now be eat and let eat, till the last delectable mango**
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
You'll notice him in the busy streets of Peru, dodging vendors and laughing like the sun.
You'll notice her at a small diner past 2 a.m, lost in thought, melancholy notes on their smile.
You'll notice him on a cobble corner wearing bold colours and singing about the lives he's lived and the fools he's loved.
You'll notice her on mountain peaks, soaking in the wind with twigs in her hair.
You'll notice him weaving flower crowns and writing in his journals, squinting into the hot sky with dew on his lips.
You'll notice her kneeled on the side of the road, comforting a small animal with the voice of sweet honey.
You'll notice them, dancing at sunset, colours streaking across their face.
You'll notice them running through meadow fields in the early hours of the morning.
You'll notice them laughing like the wind, smiling like velvet, with whispfill sparks in their eyes as they sit by the waves at dawn.
They are the sun and the moon
The sky and the sea
Fire and the ice
They're not likely to tell you who's who,
In fact they're not likely to tell you who they are at all.
But even without the spoken reveal
Even without the clarity of meaning,
When you see them.
You'll notice
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
Your collar bell jingles
And all the other felines
Look at you as though
You are a Queen
You smile and shake your head
The collar bell jingles louder
The sequins on the collar sparkle
The Lady Feline smiles deeply
I put a compact mirror in front
Of her face the other day
(Mind you, cats usually
Don't like looking at themselves in mirrors)
And the Lady Feline stared at herself
For long periods of time
Sometimes blinking
Sometimes squinting
Always smiling though
Such adorable vanity
And her collar bell jingles
As if she's trying to attract
All the male felines
And make them love her
~Marian~
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
writing songs sans artifice,
that grow better different,
different better,
the lyrics of a man growing older,
insides out, featuring his slips, all showing,
eyes squinting from hard lifestyle experience,
taking on wearied shades of beige yellowing,
a tanned blackness, time edits them, so now,
they sound the same but holier,
from the hazing of hazards
one builds for and by himself,
drilling & extracting the spit-shine of
all that all is fine,
but liquor & cat's paw black shoe polish
just can't quite cover 'em up (2),
the stabbing itch each of the every time
one quests and questions
his ego,
always another test…
why would I ever want that?
his fingers create tinkling at rapido pace,
tinkling an arrhythmia of rhymes
previously perviously (1) unseen,
self exploration, that we all realize
is an unforgiving, never ending,
source of melodic crying out loud;
and when the sensual, arrayed pleasures,
begin to bore
holes of no important consequence,
the querys~to~self get even harder
to explicate what they intimate,
who they implicate,
which parts of you,
failed to answer satisfactorily…
why would I want want that
forever?
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
This is my only and first ever poem
that I did scribe upon my phone.
A pal of mine does it, does it with ease.
She makes it look easy, just like a breeze.
But it's harder for me, with my thumbs of ham.
I prefer full-sized keyboards, as that's who I am.
Typing and retyping and then wrestling the spellchecker.
If I tried this while in my car, I would surely need a wrecker!
Squinting, so that I don't have to strain my eyes.
To say that I'm enjoying this, would be nothing less than lies.
Well there you have it, I'm finally done.
I'm gonna pass on this foolishness ... and let her have all the fun.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
there is hope
like a rising sun
on a distance horizon
lighting up the morning sky
pushing the darkness aside
melting the clouds away
the rays warm my face
coaxing a smile
squinting my eyes
i take a breath, savoring being alive
the sky is blueing deeper, clearer
morning haze is lifting, disappearing
life is awakening, stirring, moving
the beauty is overwhelming, awe inspiring
i see anew, with an indigo eye
things i’d sensed but never knew
i feel too deep, intuit too much
beheld as a curse, repressed, suppressed
i burned, screamed, fell into ashes
my soul lay fallow, quiet, healing, waiting
resurrecting from cold dark depths
heart beating, eyes opening, arms reaching
vindication from self doubt
forgive me Cassandra, Cairn, Mother
i weep, openly, proudly, for your grace
it is the 9th and final gift
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 2:26 PM UTC
When I opened my eyes I sat in this body.
The wind ran through thick black hair.
Grass surrendered under my heels.
I didn't hate myself then, or yet, or ever.
Even now, when I part the clouds and look down down,
squinting into the tops of trees that were in my yard.
In the last home I knew, gentle hands fed me food.
We joked and my eyes smoldered for their pictures.
Why did they always take so many pictures?
You probably think I'm angry I had to leave like this.
That with one terrified bullet from two firmly planted hands,
my might and power and God given beauty did not move.
I remember that moment. The air was swept from my lungs,
through my lips, and two angels descended on my animal form.
My soul wound around one of their slender gray fingers,
while the other angel folded up my skin into a cavernous pocket.
We ascended into lush tropical rich radiant paradise--who knew?
Animals are allowed here.
Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I could have morphed into human form in the right moment.
When I became human, they became animal.
You see, an animal is that which is unpredictable and wild;
terribly aggressive.
But people were scared. Now they have more reason to lock up
their kids behind bright little screens as they push them in secure strollers.
"Look at this game. Isn't it fun? Mommy's here. You're in a belt. You are
safe."
I just heard a sob from below. As I think these thoughts, I can sense
she is crying and missing me, missing a creature she never knew.
She sees God in me. She sees God in everything around her.
To shoot me was to shoot her spirit in the chest, to watch the blood
form in pools while people watched and put away their cell phones
and pushed their strollers to the next set of bars. On to more eyes that hide their secrets from the humans.
[in memory of Harambe the Gorilla]
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^
summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing
summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart
the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy
try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;
zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!
which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****
no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no *** no *****
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes
I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,
*zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!*
a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
I'm squinting into the light
I'm ripping the roots out of the ground
I'm ripping perfectly good roots out of the ground
I'm letting myself float away
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
what's the proper etiquette for falling in love?
is it hushing lips and tripping over lungs?
is it squinting eyes and falling falling falling in mud?
because here we go down and down again,
but everyone's doing it, My Lovely Flowery Friend.
if i dive in between your legs,
and find other bodies there,
does that mean i should run in toxic fear?
are we supposed to dry out from licking up all these tears?
if i fall into your arms,
while they were open for someone else,
does that mean we're in love?
are we supposed to spit on the floor and call it ***
you said you've done this before,
you said it would be fun,
but when you've got me trying to wring my head dry,
of all my pretty girl lies,
i become less and less sure if this is love.
tell me, please tell me,
is this proper etiquette?
should i be building mountains out of my bones so you can touch the moon?
should i constantly carry around these pillows in case someone else makes you swoon?
i don't know what i'm doing,
but you say you do,
so i guess i'll bury my heart so it doesn't get broken by you you you.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.
the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
*so the ***** has been caught*, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, *we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to*.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.
i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.
that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 4:56 PM UTC
The slit between the roof and the abandoned house gets me—the moon drowns in his own mystical clouds, wavering and so full of light.
I squint my eyes as the moon hides his presence from me. Almost knowing I had captured it with my own eyes and the grey clouds scattered like waves, consuming my breath and taking it away.
He knows it still haunts me from time to time and he gave his best to give me an embrace—even when my very own existence is running cold and dry and my breath thickens with the mist of unwavering thoughts coming from the night and the stars twinkle at the sight of people looking at them—like a mirrorball entertaining strangers from the club and they shine in their spot. Even when I close my eyes, the moon peaks in its stillness. All the poets used him as their muse, radiating this mellow one could think of when the sun sleeps in her slumber. The poets had perfectly described him in thousands of words and painted him over the mural where I can see him directly and the strangeness of him calms the raging waters in me.
Even when peace is quite chaotic and chaos is peaceful, a trap between the slit on the roof and the abandoned house, squinting my eyes as the moon hides his presence from me. And she haunts me as the sun begins to show herself in ways I am blinded by her light.
In some ways, she shines even when it is night.
In a way, she looks over the moon when he wakes up from his slumber.
In a way, the stars and clouds enveloped her with the warmness of their breath.
In some ways, I couldn’t look at her for too long.
In some ways, I am silenced by her beauty.
Dec 16, 2022
Dec 16, 2022 at 7:43 PM UTC
As the rain came down like an ocean of water falling from the heavens
the wind blew like a million fans blowing in the same direction
I was wet, I was cold and I was struggling to make it pushing against the wind
looking up was hard but squinting my eyes I could see a few stars in the night sky
ahead of me I heard shouting and screaming
a group of people were attacking an older Gentleman
I questioned should I get involved
I feared I might be targeted
but I did the right thing, I got involved
5 people all young men started to surround me
pushing me trying to force me on the ground
punching and kicking
one of the attackers pulled out a knife
I feared for my life.
As I lay their on the ground as the wind began to ease off
but the rain continuing to come down with so much speed and force
I remember thinking one thing, at least the older Gentleman was safe
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
The griffin outside my balcony
squinted and shook
flipping Kansas City
upside down and back.
Giant flakes descended
like softest down -
coating the plaza below
with a mantel of frosted white.
The griffin is squinting once more.
Watch out; hold on tight!
Here we go again
whirling about in a cyclonic flurry
of magic fairy crystals.
August, 2010
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
I am pretty sure I'm in love with you. I love the way your freckles fall perfectly in place like the ones the draw on American girl dolls. I love the way you smile, crinkling up your small little noes and squinting your eyes like the books you always read have damaged not only your adjustment to light, but the way you see earth so that now everything seems unfitting. Unfitting for a king like you. I love the way your hair looks like you just woke up. I love the way you smell. I love the way you walk like a character from the Incredibles, hopping around. I love the way you look when you read one of your novels. I love your eyes. Your eyes I could stare at forever. Reminding me of our first conversation, time I complemented your eyes . Your eyes. As if some one took the bluest lake out of your newest book and shrunk them. I love the way you talk. I love the way your voice sounds when you read aloud. It reminds me of being a kid, curled up in my pink cat pajamas, listening to my father read Good Night Moon. I love the way you dress. I love the way you laugh. I love you. But to you I'm just a friend. The person you get the homework from as you rush to study exactly 5.5 seconds before a test. I'm just the girl you smile at. But I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. I love the way you acknowledge me as just a friendly face. I love the way the way I love you is just a secret.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
As I remember how her lips felt as they plowed through the barriers of my insisted claims of heterosexuality I cannot help but think,
without falter...
wow
okay,
but this isn't why I'm a feminist.
My attachment to her,
my fellow female,
member of my legion,
has nothing to do with
my squinting eyes
at the
blinking neon signs of
inequality
that hangs about all of our heads every day
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
I heard a woman singing in the car,
about being reborn as a peacock for Krishna
so that she could sit in beautiful penance for him.
While watching whizzing morning work trucks,
and beat-up corollas and motion blur,
I thought of you in the stillness of sleep.
If I were to be reborn I'd like to be a bird as well
so that I could provide the down in your pillow,
and be cushion to your carousel crown
But then I would be lonely when you go to work.
If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your sunglasses,
so that I could protect your squinting eyes,
and live by your lushest lashes.
But then you'd lock me away in a case, and I won't be able to see you.
If I were to be reborn, I'd be a bracelet made of magic beads,
so that I could promise health around your often pained wrists,
and fix the freedom in your fiery fingers.
But then you'll probably lose me, or unstring me accidentally with time.
If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your favorite puppy,
so that I could pacify your inner turmoils.
and be held by your human hands.
But then you'll possibly outlive me, and I wish to watch you grow.
If I were to be reborn, I'd be lonely, locked away, left, lost, and outlived-
so I'd rather stay in this life with all of my privileges
of providing, protecting, promising and pacifying
as your lucky lover.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
on a sapphire lawn,
a glass vase of mushrooms
stands on its head.
a platter of crème custard naps,
while a bunch of grown
sunflowers tease us with their posture.
the moon is low, drunk, & stretching its borders,
over oval bushes, a little lorax hides behind them.
by the flower patch, a golden mushroom statue
is squinting. the black beam on his head sprouts tall,
arches, then dangles the celestial chandelier.
i am laying on the grass,
under the bubbled & weeping cerulean tree.
come and join me
for a dinner of daises.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
This Black African nun in cherished photo
she calls our right to vote
Her kindness in her laughing squinting eyes,
and her kind bow smile to match
The voice of liberty written and etched upon
her kind and brilliant face; all imprinted for years
to come
All hail her bus with her sisters all in one;
a beautiful chariot on busy wheels that run
across our nation to give a helping hand
And lift our thirsty spirits on a dry and desolute land
They hold that lamp of liberty on kind hands
and gentle voice, but strong in truth be known,
to hold our basic right, to close those drapes and
snap a switch, to a voice of our own
They cross our land in valor in gentleness and kind
these nuns of liberty and justice in an unjust time
Their hearts are made from goodness; their strength
so often done, in a land so heavily pillaged, they will
never never succumb. They see a new sun rising over
the distant hill
They know their work of justice never to be still...
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
Giggles escape between her fingers,
she breathes warm gold air,
and lets pink clouds melt on her tongue.
On a friday afternoon she paints her nails black
and they dry pink.
With her pretty pinky claw
she lines up her rainbow of skittles
and lives in each colour for a moment...
Red blooms on her favourite feather lenses
sweet Orange coats her tongue and teeth
warm gentle Yellow caresses her soft skin
fresh vibrant lively Green fills her lungs
dark seductive Blue vibrates in her ears
dangerous Violet spins her, her glasses fall
Black holds her tightly, she gives in.
On a saturday morning her black nails scratch
at the foreign bracelet on her wrist.
Squinting in the harsh light,
she gropes blindly for her
favourite sunglasses.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
Waiting in the winds.
Squinting in the sunlit hills a group of people wait for darkness to fall.
Against all the odds they have travelled land and sea to make it this far but not far enough for THAT better life.
What do they seek on the other side of that dark tunnel?
Health wealth happiness.
Could it be a dream too far?
Even the fittest fail to survive as night after night death grips the bravest to jump onto a moving train destined for Grand Bretagne.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC