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"waddling" poems
Manila, Manila, Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys and the hollers of the drivers as they say, “Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!) Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights that surround every tree around the Meralco building when September begins; Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive twenty-four by seven where traffic enforcers dodge cars and vans trucks and tricycles and jeepneys and bicycles while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears with a smile and a salute to all the drivers from dawn to dusk; The noise awakens the outskirts of your city filled with people who never fails to smile even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina, where children watch the roads transform into this ocean of black water and small wooden boats become the means of transportation; paddling in between houses as the adults try to go to work; where chickens waddling upon roofs and cats chasing rats become the best forms of entertainment but Manila, your lingering smell of cancer comes with the dark blue starless sky telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies. Manila, say good night while they hold it tight protecting it from the dark humid air where thieves come out to thumb down unscrutinised objects from shallow pockets by the flickering lamps across the blazing red and emerald green lights you see less and less and less faces as the Sun sinks and says good bye. Stop and try to tranquilise yourself. Your city is now lead by a blood-thirsty leader. Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people. Manila, ignore them and sleep well. Let the truth decay while lives burn and vanish. Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy. Halcyon days are over but Manila, you are still a beautiful city. Your resilient people overflows with hospitable hearts. Their faces plastered with big smiles as they welcome us for you and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!) proud and mighty. Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits, Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves, The Pearl of the Orient Seas was my hood. Manila, despite your lack of snow and intense weather swings, You are and will always be my home.
0
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Pearl of the Orient
Manila, Manila, Your bustling streets vibrate with the rumbling of the jeepneys and the hollers of the drivers as they say, “Pasahero diyan, kasya pa, kasya pa!”; (Any passenger there, some seats are still free!) Your nights twinkle with the Christmas lights that surround every tree around the Meralco building when September begins; Your endless traffic jams keep McDonald’s and KFC alive twenty-four by seven where traffic enforcers dodge cars and vans trucks and tricycles and jeepneys and bicycles while dancing to the rhythm beating in their own ears with a smile and a salute to all the drivers from dawn to dusk; The noise awakens the outskirts of your city filled with people who never fails to smile even when the storm pirouettes like a tempestuous ballerina, where children watch the roads transform into this ocean of black water and small wooden boats become the means of transportation; paddling in between houses as the adults try to go to work; where chickens waddling upon roofs and cats chasing rats become the best forms of entertainment but Manila, your lingering smell of cancer comes with the dark blue starless sky telling people to grip their bags until it merges with their bodies. Manila, say good night while they hold it tight protecting it from the dark humid air where thieves come out to thumb down unscrutinised objects from shallow pockets by the flickering lamps across the blazing red and emerald green lights you see less and less and less faces as the Sun sinks and says good bye. Stop and try to tranquilise yourself. Your city is now lead by a blood-thirsty leader. Apologies from gunshots overpower the cries of help from your people. Manila, ignore them and sleep well. Let the truth decay while lives burn and vanish. Prayers cannot save your mutinous ignominy. Halcyon days are over but Manila, you are still a beautiful city. Your resilient people overflows with hospitable hearts. Their faces plastered with big smiles as they welcome us for you and say, “Mabuhay!” (Long live!) proud and mighty. Offering their minds on banana leaf plates to everyone who visits, Giving away their hearts in small loot bags to everyone who leaves, The Pearl of the Orient Seas was my hood. Manila, despite your lack of snow and intense weather swings, You are and will always be my home.
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76
Ripe Mourning, so Crisp and Crackling with Life Waking or Life preparing to sleep. A shift change taking place at dawn, both sleepers and wakers will share a Yawn, for worlds of dream or worlds awake, it's like Consciousness balances itself in this way. I see a Blue Herron standing on one leg near the pond, ducklings waddling in a line behind their Mom. I see children running and playing on the jungle gym, how appropriately named. Training ground for the perils of the Jungle ahead, the Jungle of Life. " Welcome to the Jungle" Everything in Life is a Test Every Choice Molds your Future Self Prepare Yourself, Prepare Your Children, Train them on the Jungle Gym. "Welcome to the Jungle"
0
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
Jungle Gym
At Ellis Lake, an overcast Sunday afternoon. A lake divided into two, oddly shaped bowls in the middle of the city, surrounded by a constant stream of birds, wind, and traffic. A spotless white swan cleaning herself on a grassy knoll, ferretting out whatever filth lurked deep within her feathers, then smoothly sweeping her sideways bent head across her back, as if to remember the long forgotten affectionate touch of an absent lover. A gaggle of four grey geese combing the lawn for food, waddling in unison side-by-side. A line of five mallards barreling down the hill into the water. A multilateral crescent of black and white pigeons receiving harsh dictation from a trio of angry snow geese strutting before them. A red-faced duck slowly approaching in the quiet expectation of food, then the arrogant acceptance of the lack thereof.
0
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
At Ellis Lake
Happy-hearted but not all there His awkward smile lingers through my mind              Peaceful,              Yet Unforunate That staggering physique & that waddling             walk & that dauntful dance & that             unstable eye: a precise entailment             of his persona,                          though never ******                                    never vacant                                    never violent                       ...UNTIL NOW when the demon of his soul prevails        no mercy                      no mercy                                     no mercy Not even for a loving mother; a loving      mother who provided a comforting      home & the essential care & three      daily dishes of food & the one thing      a loving mother provides best:               Unconditional Love        He is now ripped of a warm heart; will he ever find salvation? I hope so. His possessed actions are ample punishment and will eventually tear the boy to shreds: Those memories of an unreasonable death;             a death that spilt blood into every             crevice of his character Those memories of innocent bloodshed;              the blood of his own race...the           same blood that stirs in his viens Those memories of pure insanity;     an insanity that taught anger     the ways of mutilation Those memories of his murdered mother;          a "horrendous" scene that plays on          constant repeat in his head ...and those future memories of remorse;                     remorse for his ***** deeds                      of spontaneous psychosis Yet, his awkward smile still lingers through my mind https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=349987311783508&set;=a.298260023622904.72189.100003167250519&type;=1&theater; "There is without a doubt that this kid has something possessing him... I believe it wasn't him who killed the mother he loved with all his heart, how can such a kindhearted loving teenager change in less than two months and ****** the woman who loved him the most and who he loved. This teenager has a demon inside him.... look at the pictures ya'll.... on the right is him less than six months ago. He doesn't even look the same...."
0
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
David Kellen Grow
Happy-hearted but not all there His awkward smile lingers through my mind              Peaceful,              Yet Unforunate That staggering physique & that waddling             walk & that dauntful dance & that             unstable eye: a precise entailment             of his persona,                          though never ******                                    never vacant                                    never violent                       ...UNTIL NOW when the demon of his soul prevails        no mercy                      no mercy                                     no mercy Not even for a loving mother; a loving      mother who provided a comforting      home & the essential care & three      daily dishes of food & the one thing      a loving mother provides best:               Unconditional Love        He is now ripped of a warm heart; will he ever find salvation? I hope so. His possessed actions are ample punishment and will eventually tear the boy to shreds: Those memories of an unreasonable death;             a death that spilt blood into every             crevice of his character Those memories of innocent bloodshed;              the blood of his own race...the           same blood that stirs in his viens Those memories of pure insanity;     an insanity that taught anger     the ways of mutilation Those memories of his murdered mother;          a "horrendous" scene that plays on          constant repeat in his head ...and those future memories of remorse;                     remorse for his ***** deeds                      of spontaneous psychosis Yet, his awkward smile still lingers through my mind https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=349987311783508&set;=a.298260023622904.72189.100003167250519&type;=1&theater; "There is without a doubt that this kid has something possessing him... I believe it wasn't him who killed the mother he loved with all his heart, how can such a kindhearted loving teenager change in less than two months and ****** the woman who loved him the most and who he loved. This teenager has a demon inside him.... look at the pictures ya'll.... on the right is him less than six months ago. He doesn't even look the same...."
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49
Zombies are waddling toward their door. Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching, And the ghouls want brains and more. But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet, They’re waiting inside, Gobbling strange snacks while they hide. It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw; And they love to eat their spiders raw, Not fried with onions, like Granda; Or served with broccoli, like Nana. Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers. Ciaran eats those, Not these crazed daughters. Ophelia and Brig Eat them raw, Alive, not dead, With wiggly legs and sharp jaws; And wrapped up with mosquito heads In white sticky spider webs. They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood And wicked witch’s poo; Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools, That witches eat to soften  stools. They eat fat spiders Floating in soup, That slide and wiggle Down their throat. They eat them with their mouldy cheese, Melted over wasps and bees. The girls fork down spider stew, They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.” The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit, And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit. They like their spiders spread on bread, A feast to feed the risen dead. When their snack is finally done, They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat. The long legs caught between their teeth. They'll use those legs to weave a wreath, To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders Into their hungry House of Horrors.
0
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
Brig and Ophelia's House of Horrors
Forty days and Forty nights Kachina dolls danced pounding deer skin drums rattling snake gourds whistling circles of flustered chicken feathers and totem poles around the drooping firmament here and there wisps of sunken chested, shrunken breasted castrated clouds dragging their empty rain barrels could be seen straggling across heat infested waves at times I swear I could hear the wind cussing through dry crackling branches Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats squabbling with over bleached blond Palms How we languished and thirsted for the dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our upturned faces, slicked back hair, engulfing our flowering ***** drenching us to the bone then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops excited I ran outside crowing the Gayatri mantra flapping prema pink wings waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles Yes, Dear God a grateful, thankful swan, gossamer reflection glistening fervently up at You from diaphanous depths inexhaustible wellspring diamond spa of Your Love Hari Om Visit my author's page: https://www.facebook.com/sairapture amazon.com/author/sonyatomlinson and my website: sairapture.com
0
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Raindance
Marching, hopping, running, waddling down the street, people with working feet oblivious to the stares of the woman in a chair. Why would they see her? She's not even their height! They are just people plodding and plotting, lives rotting slowly away. But, back to the woman in the chair Snooping on the crowd Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins. Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot! She's mocking the crowd in her own way She has become them, just invisible. She likes it like that, knowing of you Yet them not knowing of her. Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman in his suit. The homeless man in his home called box, the elderly matrons moaning about bingo. The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight as the baby clutches her bear. The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief The security guard, guarding the pretty Little things, no, not the jewellery the teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping! His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch! Along with the sights are the sounds, shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing Smell,also plays a part in people watching fast food, sweat, the great unwashed. All plodding along, flocking like birds clogging the street, swapping gossip, unaware as always of the young woman in a wheelchair.
0
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
People watching
If she sang the way she looked, you might expect Kate Smith singing "God Save The Queen." That *** Pistol's hit did not come out, more voice pixieish, a song unknown. Words were bleary but delish were notes. Complete meaning lost, her elfin aria enchanted us. Indeed there were whispers, "What is it she's singing?" Then shushes from those already spun in her spell. We drifted into her Mother Goose downy lullaby. Fattened by unexpected mellow mouthwatering coos, her taken audience drank it in and from beginning to end were somehow morphed into fuzzy waddling fans.
0
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Baby Geese
Oldest thing I ever did see, Skin a mountain range of Crumpled/crinkled crepe paper Peaking in altitudinous pouches Under his eyes, dragging with Their weight dewlapp jowls Down to a waddling, Flabby neck, eyes camouflaged Under light, fuzzy swatches of cotton, Mouth slack and vacant, dribbling. Hobbling with a stoop, knees bowed, Back arched at an angle, a Tilted arrow. He tottered over to me, Inches, feet, miles, years too young, Smiled brightly to reveal an empty, Gummy mouth rimmed with Birthday cake, pallid arms Outstretched, head splotched with A thin, wispy cloud of hair, Half-full and forgotten baby’s bottle On the carpet behind him. How quickly they do grow.
0
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
Elderly Youngster
Hershey, black satin, as long as my torso Diamond green comforting eyes Velveteen curious nose Tongue like a pumice stone Her elegant but waddling stride Powerful, confident and territorial Sitting like a queen on her throne Cat of mine, mother to be Tuxedo, black and white, bow tie and all White sock covered feet like satin gloves Long white elderly whiskers He reminds me of Fred Astaire Quick calculated light on his feet Shy yet debonair Patient, watchful and full of pride Father to be Oreo, friend and foe White as snow, black face and tail Large circular patches of black Fearless fence and roof climber Youngster full of mischievousness Paws in the air, tummy exposed to the sun Purring so loud she vibrates Kitty of mine
0
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
Paws
As we wander through the dunes rhythm, The blistering sun jaunts across, Exhibiting the elegance of the sanguine sands, A ravishing roots of colours, Whirling on the Sahara, The beautiful blue skies, Their true reflection, With delight we trail from audaghust to the inlands, In a waddling gait, The heavy luggages on humps, Are the loads of luxury bade by kumbi saleh, The camels and jockeys pride themselves in it flamboyant environs, And our thobes and keffiyeh makes merry, In the breeze of sacred grove trees, Mesmerizing the aesthetics of Arab architecture, Treking through the routes of Tjilmasa to Tehrent, In the comfort of the oases, Replenishing our thirst and fatigue, With benevolent breeze from palms and peaches, Glancing at the magnificent mirages pearls, We sight the atlas mountains, And its Maghreb, Caravan A Poem Written By, Historian E.Lexano ©March 8,2015
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Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
Caravan
I wanna be bigger than the Hulk Louder than Shatner yelling "Kaaaaahn!” Gorshin cackling as the Riddler With Meredith waddling behind Faster than the Flash Stronger than Superman Richer than Bruce Wayne More wonderful than lasso woman I need an origin story Radioactive tick bite Radiodactive side kick Radio waves from fingertips I need drama that’s not mellow ***** show in a shitstorm Facing the hounds of hell In my Deus ex Machina
0
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
COMICAL
Glowing Windows embedded into mouldy brick walls Ivy climbing the gutters of neighbourhood roofs Skies becoming burnt out like charred blackened fields Tall spiny trees project shadows onto the road below Leaves curl up to receive some weakening light from above A formation of sputtering cars cling to each turn they decide to make Cloudy milky light bounces off faulty windows that exhale the aroma of somebodies impending supper A heavy truck manoeuvres itself into the blistered bitumen horizon Dry deflated branches make obscene gestures towards passers-by Gardeners rummage through their bags as they near the end of their working day Their faces filled with an expired enthusiasm for breathing Parked hunks of metal pelted with dead itchy leaves Windscreen wipers hold fragile twigs down against grotty neglected glass Chain-link fences link disparate housing and the sleeping people within Some dispirited unsatisfied psychos gaze up as they catch a moving bus Smoky Incense billows down from some apartment balcony The air becomes cold and sharply fills these ordinary streets Engine sounds try to supress the divine quietness They only merge into it Now the stars are out and about Bright specks waddling in an aerial pool of dark blue You turn the key and walk through the front door
0
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
The Corner Near a Bus Stop
follow the yellow brick road... The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters. Condition of complexity judged without criteria. Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent. Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom. Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows. A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ****** Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche. An infinite conversation without resolution as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever. A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity. Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it. An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers. Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant. Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines. Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition. Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord. Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste. The poem as its own universe, complete and whole, fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
0
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
A Road Map To Modern Poesy
Cheering for the man walking slowly, deliberately, with his bag of goodies, as the light blinks in accordance to his step. Blinking a warning of the cars to come. Cheering for him to cross. His waddling steps, his mismatched limbs, he HAS a place to get to. Cheering for him to get there. Cheering for the car you can hear before you see. The ailment of technology. Stumbling sputtering, dragging tooth and nail, over the paved street towards salvation of the station. Grab a little air and the wheel will keep spinning. Driving off now, they have a place to go now. Cheering for their wheeling off in peace. Cheering for the nurse, still dressed in arms. Who sees hope and fail all day long, at days end she finds herself, a lottery ticket, or two, or three, with a little extra hope that she will be one in a trillion. Grabbing all the hope she can muster, just her, clenching those tickets hoping. Maybe even praying, or chant.a.lanting that this will be the one. Cheering that the woman will find hope wherever she can. Cheer for the family, bus tickets in hand, mother to the baby and the four in between, pressing their pass into the machine, one after another, for a ride. Cheering for the man upstairs, rattling away in his chair. He has had loves and companions once, more mail in his mailbox once. Cheering that a letter will suppress the downward facing etchings of his mouth. Cheering for the girl who, sits alone on her perch, while true, thinking of falling or flying or both, from the suspended atmosphere of her perch. Cheer for the **** cheer for the ****** cheer for the best of lucked, cheer for the cracked, cheer for the fallen, cheer for the ones that beam, cheer for the home team.
0
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC
Cheer for the Home Team
Cheering for the man walking slowly, deliberately, with his bag of goodies, as the light blinks in accordance to his step. Blinking a warning of the cars to come. Cheering for him to cross. His waddling steps, his mismatched limbs, he HAS a place to get to. Cheering for him to get there. Cheering for the car you can hear before you see. The ailment of technology. Stumbling sputtering, dragging tooth and nail, over the paved street towards salvation of the station. Grab a little air and the wheel will keep spinning. Driving off now, they have a place to go now. Cheering for their wheeling off in peace. Cheering for the nurse, still dressed in arms. Who sees hope and fail all day long, at days end she finds herself, a lottery ticket, or two, or three, with a little extra hope that she will be one in a trillion. Grabbing all the hope she can muster, just her, clenching those tickets hoping. Maybe even praying, or chant.a.lanting that this will be the one. Cheering that the woman will find hope wherever she can. Cheer for the family, bus tickets in hand, mother to the baby and the four in between, pressing their pass into the machine, one after another, for a ride. Cheering for the man upstairs, rattling away in his chair. He has had loves and companions once, more mail in his mailbox once. Cheering that a letter will suppress the downward facing etchings of his mouth. Cheering for the girl who, sits alone on her perch, while true, thinking of falling or flying or both, from the suspended atmosphere of her perch. Cheer for the **** cheer for the ****** cheer for the best of lucked, cheer for the cracked, cheer for the fallen, cheer for the ones that beam, cheer for the home team.
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17
I sat on a rock And starred at a duck If feathers ruffling in the breeze It's webbed feet keeping it still As it paddled in my view That duck starred right back at me It's beautiful gaze meeting mine A pleading look covering its face Yet it didn't fly away It stared at me, another creature In its world, a harmless organism We love them and paint them Capture them in a pretty picture And little do they know Those toxic ponds and broke homes Are all our mans doing It stared at me unknowingly Incapable of understanding Or if it did it didn't show it In its tiny duckling face We tear their home To make room for us The most brutal race And yet this duck Came waddling up Not knowing us for what we are We are human We are predators We are destruction In its finest hour.
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Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Beautiful Destruction. ( a response to Ena Alysopriono)
i guess you don't own the world china owns a big lump of the world and a good slice of the us too bill gates and warren buffett got a lot of coins in the pocket but not enough to own the world the insurance companies the banks the russian mafia fannie mae or freddie mac bono acts like he owns the world berlusconi i guess, surely would like to what about the pope or the big news mcdonald or the duck donald duck's uncle would be a disaster if they owned the world big waddling gluttons goes quack, quack, quack and father disney behind it all is dead so who is left to suppose to own the world the prince of dubai or me?
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Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
who owns the world
The rooks Waddling Up the roof tiles Like drunken men Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2017.
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Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
Birds
Obese There once was a man, who lived in the city, he thought his life was pretty ****** Had no family, friends or a job, this mother ****** was a six hundred pound slob. Sat home eating food all day, collecting welfare, so he didn't have to pay. Couldn't bend over to tie his shoes, if not eating, he'd be taking a snooze. Waddling himself to the local store, buying food and nothing more. Can't fit in any car or truck, **** his life must really **** Too fat to wipe his own *** gets rid of ****** berries, by rolling in the grass. Five years later he was eight hundred pounds, hired a nurse who made her daily rounds. Too fat now, can't even leave his bed, she would feed him and wash him toes to head. Better her doing all that than me, I like standing when I have to *** Two years later he finally died, no one cared, no one cried. He was forklifted to an over sized casket, his heart finally blew a gasket. Well I am here to say, I cared for this fat **** even though everywhere he went, he got stuck. He was human, just like the rest of us, not his fault, he was heavier than a tour bus. If not for him, there would be no rhyme, and I wouldn't be wasting your precious time.
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Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Obese
I forgot  you were there, hiding under winter's slow, grisly grip only ten days into spring you made your return, myriad mounds pocking my pastures dead center, in one of your proudest heaps, I teased you with sweet pear, just to see your ranting red industry though a tiny roach occupied half your tugging army, its only crimes being live birth and waddling through your masses I forgot you were there hunkered in the wet, wormed soil patient, until ninety and one degrees brought you to the desiccating ground you had not forgotten me, had you? for you sent a  special sentry from your brigades to find my foot, and welt it with a welcome back kiss in tomorrow‘s heat, after the soldier’s scratching, martyred memory fades, I will  forget again, though winter never does
0
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
April's ants
The wild current flows, stopping for no one, As I reach out to grasp what was left: A hint, a memory waving by like deja vu, Random access memories; Perhaps I've imagined it all. Here I am grappling again, With that titanium door bolted shut, Safeguarding anything that tries to trespass it; One word, a grunt, a slight nod, casual shrug        Indifferent smiles As you flow over rough and rocky terrains, Boulders sharpening your edges, A gaze here and a whimper there, Your mind jostled, warranting rhymes, As my heart gets trampled by the one you love. Lucid dreams morphs into lucid visions, I try to see what you see through the eyes you possess in the islands of your heartbeats and the crimson nerves coursing through your veins, Alas the curtains come billowing down shut, "Nothing to see here, go on back home folks" and the circus ends for the night---            Not till a stubborn tug in the depth of my soul says it deserves            A slight hope that one day you would weave me unconditionally in your reflections,            To navigate the mountains together--- But for now, the ringmaster declares the show's over. My weary heart has seen it all, heard it all, always sleeping with one eye pry open, The other eye shut in prayer this wouldn't be the norm, As I hold on tightly to the current, wildly rushing through the fabric of time, Leaving no traces of faces behind but a faint tapestry of a memory By the lake, held tight, Supported by wiry artistry, Calm on the surface but paddling nervously underneath like those waddling ducks, Your lips and eyes melting into mine, Asking me to be yours. 19.2.15 Shalini Nayar (C) 2015
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Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Random Access Memories
The wild current flows, stopping for no one, As I reach out to grasp what was left: A hint, a memory waving by like deja vu, Random access memories; Perhaps I've imagined it all. Here I am grappling again, With that titanium door bolted shut, Safeguarding anything that tries to trespass it; One word, a grunt, a slight nod, casual shrug        Indifferent smiles As you flow over rough and rocky terrains, Boulders sharpening your edges, A gaze here and a whimper there, Your mind jostled, warranting rhymes, As my heart gets trampled by the one you love. Lucid dreams morphs into lucid visions, I try to see what you see through the eyes you possess in the islands of your heartbeats and the crimson nerves coursing through your veins, Alas the curtains come billowing down shut, "Nothing to see here, go on back home folks" and the circus ends for the night---            Not till a stubborn tug in the depth of my soul says it deserves            A slight hope that one day you would weave me unconditionally in your reflections,            To navigate the mountains together--- But for now, the ringmaster declares the show's over. My weary heart has seen it all, heard it all, always sleeping with one eye pry open, The other eye shut in prayer this wouldn't be the norm, As I hold on tightly to the current, wildly rushing through the fabric of time, Leaving no traces of faces behind but a faint tapestry of a memory By the lake, held tight, Supported by wiry artistry, Calm on the surface but paddling nervously underneath like those waddling ducks, Your lips and eyes melting into mine, Asking me to be yours. 19.2.15 Shalini Nayar (C) 2015
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34
Stole what they could, destroyed the best encrypted the remains, ransomed the rest They found a way in, probably electronic mail sneaking like a weasel, and all that, that entails Shrieking in glee, streaming the Internet reveling with cronies, they've never seen, or met Socially awkward children, living in the liquid crystal glow holding their virginity, fan boys, wallowing a hero show Black hats worn, in darkened caves darknet files, and tools that they've saved Fat fingers fly, on gaming boards over twinky crumbs, and hot pocket hoards Hacker hacker, not found everywhere hacking machines, on whim, and a dare When dinner is served, Mommy will call waddling from the basement, and slinking the hall
0
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
Socially challenged
\|/ @-@ (  -Q-  ) <=> how I drool over obese girls with huge great cheeks of wobbly dimpled fat >========o======== no skinny birds for me!=======o========< absolutely no way yeeha i love to see wobbly fat girls waddling along with their tyres of white flab quivering in their size 88 jeans like a pack of rabid rabbits fighting in a rubber sack, and what do they need yessir, they are barking for a friendly ***** from moi, edna the chubby-chaser and lover of gorgeous female flesh body mass index forty (at an absolute total minimum i must emphasise) and preferable fifty so they look like a giant dumpling i know you know the sort of image i crave: dimpled, dappled acreages of heaving ********** wowee-yowee i am so excited please god lead me to the land where the extra supersize fatties live and let me exhaust my ***** gaze on their incredible buxom enormities let me get my paws on them let me wallow in their glories dear god oh yes indeedy when you come to think of it there's nothing like a huge billowing fatso to get my blood afire with testosterone and bottom-of-the-barrel-scraping loving lust so why not jump off a pier all you skinny minnies per-lease /\ /   \ /      \ @        @ /            \ /               \ +++                         +++
0
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
A Fat Girl for Me!
Reviewing has been the perpetual answer. To the unclear inquisition that befalls the people I have not seen or spoken to for some time. But there’s a progress to the studies which have accompanied my mind to see beyond even me. Thorough repetition of factual information in a mundane fashion. The passion for acquiring the necessary knowledge has found it’s self incorporated in the daily conversation. In the morning a discrete young woman fashioned with a “salmon” bandana, leaving the cafe with green tea in hand. Followed by the waddling footing of a child holding a mother’s hand. In passing, an adult repetitively cursing on the undertones of their words. The following day a man in a tailored suit talking to himself with an ear-piece unseen to some. A young man holding his father’s hand hauling an oxygen tank behind him. A young lady with white complexion, studying. As she faces my way her cheeks appear with patching tones of black. Reminded daily, I return to these books, the flow charts of pathologies and treatments. Humbled, that the view and discourse of our conditions are not all the same.
0
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
living practice