"swaggering" poems
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Never said anyone simple was attractive
Complexity walking away with the cheers
Wearing the gorgeous nothingness
And swaggering away to oblivion
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Slapdash into the ****** pan
Is thrown the longed-for son of man.
Between the gossiping cups of tea
God attains mortality.
In the cathedral calm and cold
Kneel the erroneous-memoried old.
But in the womb's cathedral calm
The walls collapse in a birth psalm.
The blood sings from the soiled hand
The apprentice cleans at the washstand.
Undismayed by omission,
For everything, everything is won.
The proof blazes in impudence
Above the miopics of science,
Swaggering in love inviolate,
Over the uninitiate.
And over all the angels dart
Like squadrons in a war apart.
Dropping parachutes of bliss
On everything that is.
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When great aunt Maggie passed away years ago, the one thing I really missed was her angelic voice.
The swaggering, sing-song lilt of the mid-Derry accent was as sweet as the confections she used to pass out to us as kids:
The inflection, the intonation, and the slight lisp she brought to it was so gloriously unique but was never heard again.
I often wish I could go back with a tape recorder to capture it in all its glory and relive how wonderful she was.
Now all I have is a untranslatable memory that can't be brought back to even vaguely approximate what it meant to me.
And now here I am again with the same obstacle.
The same tones, the same inflections albeit through a different light have just been extinguished before me.
This time there was no digital device rushing in to capture our time before it ran out.
No instinct for preservation was forthcoming - we were too busy having fun & 'being here now'.
No, once again I am bereft:
All I I have is here (in my heart) and and here (in my head)
The loved sounds I miss will always resound there albeit without backup
Voices lost but not forgotten.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
The flowers fall like sweeties
in the packet of my mind.
The answer flows completely
from the hand that stops the time.
The questions that were seeking
could potentially leave us blind
to the poetry that's creeping
to the rhythm of the times.
The finders fees of finding gold
are deeply grained in laws.
The crawling finger grasping
for the love of ***** ******
The sailor tongues are swaggering
with anticipating throws,
of innocent and eloquent
shows of pretty hoes.
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
Through Love’s decree, with coy invite
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
How soon ye forget your sins laid bare
The Sangrail truth, the Heavenly light
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
With comely looks, a swaggering air
The greatest of all earthly knights
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
How easy to shun this dolorous affair
If ye honed instead your spiritual might
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
With glory from lands far and near
Ye took her heart and forthright
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
Le Morte Darthur, the kingdom’s despair
Was sealed upon the doleful night
Lancelot ye golden knight fair
Enthralled the fey Queen Guinevere
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
FLANDERS, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked one time,
Flanders known only to those who lived there
And milked cows and made cheese and spoke the home language.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked.
And the slang adepts shot the reply: Search me.
A few thousand people milking cows, raising radishes,
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Out in the dawn to the sea-breath.
Flanders sat slow-spoken amid slow-swung windmills,
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
Washing wooden bowls in the winter sun by a window.
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Your gaze, as brightest stars in Milky Way
Your touch, warmest than sun rays
Your Voice, conch shell rhythm
Afar, yet nearest than ones heart
Your Being, ones shelter in stumble and fall
Cuddled asleep in your womb from worldly bawls
Your helpful hands stretched miles to foes or friends
Subsiding desires, what say of your kindness lent
O' son of Adam! worthy of such swaggering pride in this mud vessel
For as warm as fire for cold friends
Pure as water for their thirst to quench
But then, arrogate; how they call you, agreeing
None but the One revealed this highest being
O' naif son of Adam!
Rewarding oneself with noble note?
As a pharaoh who bestows
Remember the pledge and know the burden bore upon
Think you can repay with what makes you whole?
With all owned fortune, spirit or perhaps your very soul
Behold;
For what you claim yours, is not even owned
To Him it belongs,
To Him it returns
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
She walked alone.
As the world droned.
With the fog swirling round.
Along the wet grassy mound.
Among the dead trees of autumn.
That flapped in the cold breeze as they hummed.
Distant lights of morning twinkled round her.
Slightly, unsteady, getting brighter.
She hastened away into the gloom of the dawn.
Upon God she wished to fawn.
To instill her hopes into the earth.
To regain her place of birth.
Thither, under a shading sycamore.
Lied a gloomy tomb of yore.
Staring back at her silently.
As if wishing to embrace her ardently.
Thither lied her silent love...
Corrupted through seasons that roved.
Left untouched in the dark.
Like a fading mark.
He used to be a handsome man.
Swaggering along his Father's land.
Smiling at the promise of the day.
Dancing his nights away.
She wist where she had seen him for the very first time.
When the church bell chimed.
When sons of God filled the cold emptiness.
To calm the world's restlessness.
She touched her love affectionately.
For the last time before she left reluctantly.
With tears her eyes dimmed.
She would always come back for him.
She and the tomb shared an old story only they wist.
Of feelings she could never resist.
Her longing for his presence.
Though only exsisted in silence.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 4:44 AM UTC
life is untidy fragile *****
escaping gradually
in instant beginning
life stings curiously small
timid vastly
open flutters
life
newold
life abruptly coiled
in the precisely fragrant mess
of each young thing
nice, tall beautifully muscles
deft unclean
that struck by sunlight shake
loose shimmering deeply
(
like serious approachable foil)
and though for straightening endlessly
still curls
(half small languorous )
'gainst the mortal stuff
in
toomuchclothing
swaggering with tight comely
L I F e
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
Who is he, Who is he
The broad shouldered
Stubbly chinned
Tired eyed
He is a young man
Who is she, Who is she
The sloping shouldered
Sparsely peach fuzzed
Bright eyed
She is a young woman
Why is he, Why is he
Squishing inside her small frame
Scraping his beard against her shaven face
Marring her youthful eyes with his tiredness
He is a young man
Why is she, Why is she
Crippling her stroll with his swaggering stomps
Darkening her skin with his brunette stubble
Masking his age with her dazzling irises
She is a young woman
Who is he
Who is she
Why is he
Why is she
Trapped
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
You were the only man i had always wanted to see
Walking down the road to the sea Swaggering in your new jacket
Looking for fellas to bracket
In Carrickfergus they called you a robber To me you were a handsome rover Beautiful green eyes as the rolling hills Your happy thoughts into me you had instilled
In Belfast you smuggled your hopes and fears
Slainté! You danced pints of beer away Alas! They did not see your tears
You were on your own finding your way
My old friend, my sad handsome friend Patrick...
Alone you sang your weary songs and turned sick
I cried bitterly, nobody to lay you down Summer,and you had no wheat to sow
Ah! You were so handsome and young During summer days you smiled and cheered me up in my den
Calling out your name,i screamt at the top of my lungs.
You were gone....gone...you would never answer again
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
Let me feel your nakedness,my Lady...
Let me undress you with one single look.
The world out there promises you nothing but bitterness of life.
Behold.....
In my arms i'm holding a dagger of certainty and a rose as red as your sweet blood.
Your lips remind me of those rosebuds that bloomed eternally
Your breasts,sacred and pure,i touch with such a lonely desire.
Your fear arouses my manhood charm
This night has no end.
Let us dance with the rhythm of my passion.
The smoothness of your skin i feel with my lips like a heavenly tune.
Your shivering body,my heart beating...
My hands around your waist...
Tighter,closer....bring and bind yourself to me.
My breath runs around your neck,with every kiss you walk closer to the path i'm giving you...
How smooth.... How passionate...
The sweetness of your tongue ,swaggering on my manhood like a golden glass of wine.
This night has no end,my love
Let me see....let me feel your blood drip down my body...
Let me bathe in your exposed nakedness.
I will kiss the wounds i cut on your heart...
Kiss the pain away as this feeling i bear i can't help it
Your death would be so beautiful as the night grows darker...
Your stream of unconsciousness redeems my lonely soul...
Here on this path,i will lay your sweet dead body....beneath the stars you can not see
Unto heaven and earth....
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
You were the only man i had always wanted to see
Walking down the road to the sea
Swaggering in your new jacket
Looking for fellas to bracket
In Carrickfergus they called you a robber
To me you were a handsome rover
Beautiful green eyes as the rolling hills
Your happy thoughts into me you had instilled
In Belfast you smuggled your hopes and fears
Slainté! You danced pints of beer away
Alas! They did not see your tears
You were on your own finding your way
My old friend, my sad handsome friend Patrick...
Alone you sang your weary songs and turned sick
I cried bitterly, nobody to lay you down
Summer,and you had no wheat to sow
Ah! You were so handsome and young
During summer days you smiled and cheered me up in my den
Calling out your name,i screamt at the top of my lungs.
You were gone....gone...you would never answer again
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
Rattle Snake Bob came swaggering in
with a gun in his boots n' smell'n like gin
He had one green eye, and a wandering blue
make'n ya wonder which one was look'n at you
With burry vision, and a sloppy slur
the swanky restaurant went silent in a minute, or two --
cause he was standing bear *** naked wear'n just a single shoe
waving his gun up in the air --
with last nights Chili n' gum mixed in his hair
My- oh -my how everyone stared
everyone knew to hit the deck
when the bullets went fly'n and bouncing like heck
See --
Rattle Snake Bob had a twin named Rob
who'd gone to Princeton and was a total snob
he'd majored in golf n' minored in Law
with a penchant for ladies...
that were dating ...Bob
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
I want to dance in Ireland
in crowded pubs with rose-faced men
drinking my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.
I’d listen to angelic brogues spin
cherished tales, which they’ll profess yet again
oh, how I want to dance in Ireland,
amidst such folks I call my kin
whose natural pride is celebrated then
I will drink back my sanity with whisky, wine or gin.
my euphoric state of ecstasy will win
my senses from my limbs like a nervous linemen
yet, I want to dance in Ireland.
like the rest of my swaggering friends
I hope to be three sheets to the wind.
for I will drink my sanity with whiskey, wine or gin.
and in good company my lips will curl to grin
certain of such happiness when
life has brought me Irishmen
thankful to finally dance in my sweet Ireland.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 4:26 PM UTC
Meticulously dressed
in an
expensive, modish suit,
Swaggering opulence & lacerated talk,
Small-hearted, sagacious,
evil-minded and
having sinister design,
I am
pretty sure
He is
a zippy,
Zombie,
Educated and
Diplomatic URBANITE.
BETTER
to be a rustic, uneducated fool,
in whose heart always
Simplicity, naivety and magnanimity rule.
Mukesh Kataria
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
the copious girls of summer are fair skinned laminate
withs blonds all ********* about their heads the air
or syllables of autumn in distinctly American voices
a swaggering insomniac who is springs ugly sister
but myfingers find her soft decimals and make her make verbs
of quiet ***** a distinct growl of decadent hair marching
from between her hips and about who is circling the
vultures of my hands. resting on her thronging paint
the goldenarch of luscious flesh and she tastes like
apples
and cinnamon
and dead
my little fAll
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
There's a serenity in all of the chaos.
A calm within the roar of the waves.
A frozen heart beating inside an inferno.
A shadow beneath the illuminance of rays.
There's a thundering silence in all the noise.
A dulcet tranquil in the eye of the storm.
A faint scrawl on the blank of a page.
A feeling of home in the strangeness of a dorm.
There's a hint of truth in every artistic lie.
A foreshadowing of the future hidden in the past.
A glimmer of a tear in every moment of joy.
A sense of triumph even in finishing last.
There's a bitter tinge in the heavenly delish of sweet.
A lasting perfume of life on the stone of a grave.
A trace of youth in the smile of the old.
A sparkle of freedom in the eyes of a slave.
There's a ripple of bravery in the tremble of fear.
A fuzzy warmth in the embrace of the rain.
A hope of luxury in the dreams of the penniless.
A shade of humility in the swaggering of the vain.
There's a subtlety of violence in the acts of the kind.
An implicit sacrifice behind every advance.
A whisper of melody in the harmony of a human soul.
A flickering doubt in the faith of a religious stance.
There are butterflies fluttering in the orchard.
Dear narcissus in full bloom.
Take a moment to glimpse the beauty.
For its fleeting, they will be gone too soon.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 3:23 AM UTC
*You were the only man i had always wanted to see
Walking down the road to the sea
Swaggering in your new jacket
Looking for fellas to bracket*
*In Carrickfergus they called you a robber
To me you were a handsome rover
Beautiful green eyes as the rolling hills
Your happy thoughts into me you had instilled*
*In Belfast you smuggled your hopes and fears
Slainté! You danced pints of beer away
Alas! They did not see your tears
You were on your own finding your way*
*My old friend, my sad handsome friend Patrick...
Alone you sang your weary songs and turned sick
I cried bitterly, nobody to lay you down
Summer,and you had no wheat to sow*
*Ah! You were so handsome and young
During summer days you smiled and cheered me up in my den
Calling out your name,i screamt at the top of my lungs.
You were gone....gone...you would never answer again*
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 9:45 AM UTC
He say it is his right
To take what he wants
Respect by a bullet
Money by the bank full
And property from the poor
Drunk on false history
Abusing society
God complex in shadows
This swaggering drunk
Takes what he wants
With a little pill in the drink
He puts the world to sleep
***** in hand to demand
What he thinks
He is owed as a man
Robbing and murdering
****** and lying
The courts let him off
The cops call him boss
While I fluster in rage
Watching that *****
Get his way
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Of course human blood is sweet!
How else could they get us to eat meat?
We are carnivorous by design, &
Any feeble gesture of Vegan defiance,
Is seen as a threat to the species.
Vegetarians are mocked, marginalized,
Or made vestigial.
Of course human blood is salty!
Oozing red, warm and syrupy.
I am lion-hearted Mufasa,
Swaggering ‘cross the savannah,
Licking savory hemoglobin off my jowls,
My ***** swinging in the breeze.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day,
and his hands were tougher than sole leather.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children
and the woman died and the children grew up and
went away and wrote the old man every two years.
He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun
telling reminiscences to other old men whose women
were dead and children scattered.
There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy
on his face when he lived--he was a swarthy, swaggering
son-of-a-gun.
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Who am I to know that
the existence of heaven lives
in the pause between breaths
or that the story of creation is
a searing scar in the side of Jesus?
I have collected my pleasures,
like monsoons collect the dead,
have collected my memories,
the raw force of vitality,
the swift silk of a spider’s web,
the emptiness of being, all of this:
a country of vibrant emotions.
I have touched the sea with my hands,
bringing them together, feeling the abrupt salt
between my fingers, torrid like
the stinging whip of a lover:
Her tongue burns me alive with
its naked wine; her eyes dig
into the depths of mine.
Who am I to know that the Kingdom of God
lives in the stones, the fire, the water, the mud,
or that twilight is a sudden sadness
like gray blood clots caused by black thorns?
Still, my excitement is like a tower
of energy or a vigorous burst of *****
or the moonlight’s mysteries fitting its key
into my soul where a secret stillness
wallows in its swaggering bliss.
I have tasted the meat of the universe,
its heart, its lungs, its liver, tasting it
with my gentleness, a gentleness like
soft lips, or a feather, or a lover’s whisper:
Her mouth burns me alive with its raw juice;
her heart feeds from mine.
Who am I to know that the Supreme Spirit
lives in the flies, the lice, the grub, or that
death’s bitter sorrow lives in the dust, the bones,
the ash, or in the agony of a broken heart?
—once, Jesus summoned me.
He undid his wounds with the jagged blades
of my tears. I held him, embracing him, saying:
My brother, my brother, my peaceful brother ...
who am I ... to know ...
who I am?
________________________________________________
From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010
all rights reserved
Search Amazon: "in forbidden language/dah"
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
Here in waterford shall i linger.
Swaggering, touching the ancient walls with my fingers.
Listening to the sound of the marching folks.
Daydreaming as they walk.
These walls are old as time.
Aging and forgotten to the churches' bells that chime.
Passages i walk through, among the lines of years.
While my burdens i bear.
Waterford, your trees have so much to tell.
They stare at me where they dwell.
Your river flows ancient stories that evaporate through time.
Soothing me everytime.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 2:38 AM UTC