"waggles" poems
Luis drives around the block once more;
his car zipping, ripping,
as his thoughts
are surely racing.
We don't know,
but Monica keeps his keys in her back pocket.
She waggles her peaches when he drives by.
"Juicy fruit", Luis murmurs, then
shifts it into high gear,
spins out,
comes again;
his gravel strikes her hard
between the knees. Monica spreads
her branches, two twigs waving.
She shouts,
"Hey old man, why don't you come perch on these?"
It's a dance of disaster, and no plaster cast protects
those alabaster bones she bares so well.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Wrapped in the warm
prison of the bedsheets
a cold foot sneaks past
and dangles in the air at the
end of the bed
I shiver like sailors of old
in this cold wind that blows
across my toes
I wrestle the blanket
for the sleep it maintains
all elbows and thumbs
****** this way and that
restless wanderers of designer sheets
I shiver like sailors of old
in this cold wind that blows
across my toes
As I grumble
look to the clock
Four AM glares back at me
a cold foot wiggles
a cold foot waggles
Ode to be a cold foot
sorrowful tale to be sure
I shiver like sailors of old
in this cold wind that blows
across my toes
Sep 21, 2022
Sep 21, 2022 at 11:06 AM UTC
Since we were toddlers
We've had the move;
Something like a siddle,
The sway of balance
On the right/left shift.
But a siddle's for a snake,
A wiggle's for a worm,
And my dog waggles
When I return.
We stop, we wait,
Frozen, and confused;
We're a bit ticked-off
We can't pull this off
In a dance of decisive moves.
We've seen our share
Of waddling sops
Leave sidedoors
On Sunday mornings.
That's not what we do.
I've stopped a tot
From toddling,
Yet now I can't help you.
It's not a reel, a jig or clog,
It's like a line-dance of two frogs.
Then I hear Yeats' fiddler,
And I commence to be a widdler.
When you meet your doppel-widdler,
Don't look,
Don't ask,
Don't take long,
Just widdle past
To the fiddler's song.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
4 stiffened, his joists are particularly long and gnarled lances
of pearly bleach. gradually skinless of bones lanky with hands
laid a scythe. he waggles and sheds surly mortal coils we waif
to dust in polite crumbs of rotting health
and his breath is specific. a lash of practical mort
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 2:12 PM UTC
In a world so full of muddled dichotomies and clumsy classifications,
Of spectrums and ranges and imprecise definitions,
Of moving targets and sliding scales,
What is a woman?
When your definition’s solid, sorted, and sold
Am I an archetype or anomaly in the sordid taxonomy?
Here are my chromosomes:
Two Xs to mark the swirling twirls of DNA
Properly paired to provide a guide for my curves.
Here is my body:
Ripe and rounded and ready for perusal
By those who find art in a classical form.
******* that are not perfect,
*** that waggles as I walk,
A waist that looks even better when I’m angry
(Hands on hips and arms akimbo).
Here is my ***
Excited by the touches that evolution would predict.
I respond when kissed by stubbled lips,
When stroked by calloused hands,
When rocked beneath a man that biology would call
“The fittest.”
Our coupling is a pledge to survive.
Here is my womb:
A wonder of chemistry and medicine,
It has been occupied for defense against bearing fruit.
I have declared my selfishness to doctors,
To family,
To strangers.
I will not house another life
Because my own heart is sufficient.
I will not nurse another’s hunger
Because my appetites are wild.
I will not be a mother,
And you will not change my mind.
Here is my hysteria:
I cry sometimes when books are sad,
Or when commercials are touching,
Or when I’m angry,
Or hungry.
Or confused.
Or happy.
Or whatever.
Here is my meek and mild nature:
In the hand that covers an ornery smile.
In the hesitation before I swear.
In the blush of a lover surprised.
In the warmth that you must lose, not earn.
Whether I am a winning or a wanting woman
I am finished with apologies.
When all is counted/sorted/labeled
My tastes and brightest talents are as tame as I can bear.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
the bird pecks the acorn,
fighting through the casing's steel,
the bird breaks his beak and falls to the floor,
the rainbow of his wings failing in spiel.
the floor becomes a deep red,
the acorn waggles and girds in its success,
not realising that his compatriot he had spent all the moons with was long dead,
and it falls with the passing winds of distress.
It hit's the floor in the same place,
bouncing off the stone statue corpse,
the acorn stares to the bird's face,
knowing that it won’t peck anymore marks in its force.
the acorns rolls next to the bird in solemn shifting agreement,
knowing that it's barrier and breakdown is imminent for its bereavement.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 6:16 PM UTC