"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.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
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"
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
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.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
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...."
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
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.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
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
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Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
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.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
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.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
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.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
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
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:14 AM UTC
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
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
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
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
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
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
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.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
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.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC
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.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
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?
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
The rooks
Waddling
Up the roof tiles
Like drunken men
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2017.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
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.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
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
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
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
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
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
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
\|/
@-@
( -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
/\
/ \
/ \
@ @
/ \
/ \
+++ +++
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
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.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC