Best Anatomy Poems
The Anatomy of a Horse (written for children)
Horse's feet have a hoof, the hard part which he can pound,
back of this is his frog, bottom part that stays off the ground.
Between his hoof and his leg is a coronet, not like a crown
it blends into the pastern the start of his leg, now don’t frown.
Next is his fetlock, sort of an ankle, not a real lock.
Horse's rear ankle turns backwards and that it is called his hock.
His fetlock has a callous called an ergot, can you see?
Then comes his harmless cannon, just below his hock or knee.
On the front leg, it's a knee between forearm and cannon
His hind leg has a hock which joins gaskin to his cannon.
His elbow in the front and his stifle in the back, no fibs,
connect his upper legs to his barrel which is our horse's ribs.
Topside of the barrel, where a rider sits, twixt tail and head,
highest part of horse's rump is called a croup instead.
The dock is the soft part from which grows his tail, what the heck;
above his high shoulders are withers, right beneath his neck.
Behind his ears is a part called his poll, close to his brain?
From his poll, hair makes a forelock, back down his neck, a mane.
We’ve finally reached his head and the last part, called his muzzle,
his jaw, his nose and mouth. A horse can be quite a puzzle.
written October 28, 2016 for Shadow's contest, Horses
In dizzy terrors, the ominous, relentless pull
of the numb night; sneers, shortcuts
clumsily trod; meandering the easy paths
where sins and lies are perfected and
nourished into pseudo truths that are
delightfully embraced. A credible potpourri
of slippery stones in a quagmire of guilt.
A quicksand of snickering gravity where
nothing escapes except the last one who cared.
Suffocating in our insignificance, too late for
sincere tears, too late to reach for
no one.
High as a child
On second-hand helium,
All for the sake of
Her cervical epithelium.
* All in fun, folks! *
Sometimes we slice through the past
in our thoughts, as though we are surgeons.
We carefully cut through its blubber,
avoiding hurts and pain spilling all over.
Sometimes we're so obsessed with the slicing,
that we forget there are other important
things in life;
things that we cannot buy,
if they get lodged into the past.
We also forget that the blubber keeps on thickening
every second, in our every heartbeat.
Often we focus on our eye's journey into the past,
that we find ourselves slowly being swallowed by it's blubber.
If there's no one to hold us back,
we become part of the past.......
with the touch
of God
this fountain
of mercy
a thing of great beauty
portraits in stone
in relief & in
round reality
marvels in marbled
layered planes
of dextrous
turbulence
expressive ecstasy
of emotional empathy
made tactile
insights in allegory
embodied & engineered
imagination
into
monumental
magnificence
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it is only air~
a slight disturbance in the ordinary,
the way a moth’s wing bends the dark
without meaning to.
Then, the ear catches it~
not as sound, but as the ghost of sound,
a rumor passed between shadows
too thin to hold it.
It travels through the ribs,
settles where the pulse is weakest,
where the body keeps its quietest fears,
its oldest hungers.
By the time it reaches the mouth,
it has changed~
no longer just a breath,
but a blade, a key,
a confession wrapped in smoke.
And when it leaves you,
it takes something with it~
a name, a promise,
the last unbroken thing.
Disaster is imminent
shout the popular press
and the anointed
from lofty pulpits. Wars,
pestilence, earthquakes,
divine wrath are about
to be visited
upon a wayward world.
Meanwhile, a lovely still
has settled on the surface
of the river and has become
a canvas for a pair
of swans on which to trace
their brief passage across
a mirrored morning.
Beauty seems so fragile,
tethered to a moment
when the sublime manifests
itself through a tear in time
and gives pause
to the march of armies,
the self caused calamities
that rush towards
our little, insignificant lives
and illuminates
the sad distances we have
opened up between ourselves
and what burns brightly
at the centre of things -
these lovely mirrored mornings
to which our stiffened backs
are turned.
"The Anatomy of God"
Who shall say there is one God?
if there are many, as it seems
in all the world’s sects and religions -
Who is their God? Is the source
some universal, bright, big, ultra simple,
ultra clean - Halogen Light Beam?
Or just an empty space beyond Beyond,
drawing us all slowly into it’s Black Hole vacuum
and this has been the true story all along?
The question poses images of
many different things
a snake eating it’s own tail,
a never-ending eternity ring;
Who shall say there is no God
there are many, it seems;
there are those who are certain
dead is dead, there are no dreams
no curtain, nor a veil that’s thin,
there is no such thing as Heaven -
but could it be, God is hidden,
in Rene Magritte’s Son of Man’s vision
and what rapture direction Magritte's Golconda -
will men rain up or down? I wonder.
Go peel back the pages of your books
and the layers of your glass onions
maybe there, maybe not
the answers to be found -
A.I. weaves it's membrane tentacles
seeing, hearing every thought, face and sound.
To each his own and to own their sins
The Anatomy of God
like peeling layers, of an onion,
the questions burn, then they sting
honey dripping, bitter almonds
holy waters rising
what happens if it’s sink or swim?
Revelations of all Armies
fighting wars without, not within -
Are aliens demons? Or distant family, some say friends?
Dream on dear open minded legions
with or without dominion;
Questions forever oceans rising,
like Meteors, Cock Robin
Sky is Falling
Who is God?
What is God?
Something’s coming,
Something’s calling.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
very simple musings, of a very simple mind
1. Debate: Sam Harris & Jordan Peterson
https://www.patreon.com/posts/sam-harris-1-20821646
2. The Story of God - Morgan Freeman - S1 Ep 2 - Apocalypse
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFP1UQnixlU
3. The Story of God - Morgan Freeman - S2 Ep 2 - Heaven & Hell
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HeZqCHUCsMg
4. Common Themes in Rapture Dreams
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HV7QgU2htJc
5. Electromagnetic Plasma Event 2019 / The Watchman Review
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gro5Bknjdkw
6. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7xWffB2nH0
Anatomy of human structure
Poetry of nerves and impulses enrapture
Temple of parietal bone that beats
Carpal bone pleats
Integumentary system perspires
Nervous system inspires
Circulatory system pumps
Digestive system lumps
All other systems function
When poetry is not in sanction
waves of chills within
achoo achoo cough cough cough
keep tissues handy
There is a body stronger than the flesh alone
it is the body of your love, that temple built of desire's stone
quarried from the chaos of your erotic emotions, shaped by destiny's moan,
where neurotic nerves, psychotic passions, fanatical faith and romantic rose chrome
are imported from the four corners of your heart, brought to the mount of your soul zone
upon here, obedience and freedom, submission and domination chalk and chisel to the bone,
the flame of Shekinah seduces spirit within and without your psychic cyclone
as age becomes an aggregate of obsession's ascensions and avalanches in cycles for you to atone,
Egyptian magicians and Phoenician mariners could only dream of your pulsing fortune,
what do magic rites and the mines of Ophir have to entice with compared to your throne
Hiram, the builder of holy royal bastions would seek the secrets of your star storm home -
J.A.B.
The philosopher has blades;
He wants to dissect
the body of life.
Date: 4/1/2014
A stoma and a scar
like the Grand Canyon
form a conspiracy
against my body.
The stoma--raw and
fleshy--looks like a red
and beefy barnacle on
my side that constantly
oozes and drains feces
and waste like an
overflowing, backyard
cesspool. It sickens me.
Near the red and moist
stoma lies a huge,
crooked scar on my
stomach and abdomen.
It is like the Grand
Canyon of Arizona--an
immense displacement
of the local landscape,
only instead of earth
and rock and soil it is
my skin and muscle
and tissue that has been
gouged away. Like my
stoma, it sickens me as
well. Because of them
both, my body now
seems to me like the
raw anatomy of
disgust.
I choose elective surgery.
Yes, that will do the trick.
Make my inside match my outside
so I'm no longer sick.
First, I'll take my heart out,
remove it from my chest,
scrub away the pain of you,
but choose to leave the rest.
Then I'll pluck my eyeballs,
right out of my skull
filter them with shades of rose
so life won't be so dull.
Then I'll saw my head off
so I can see my brain.
I'll sanitize it thoroughly,
so no sad thought remains.
I'll sandpaper my lips down
until they've lost your kiss.
With no sense memory remaining
there'll be nothing left to miss.
But then I must peel off
every single fingertip,
if I'm to lose the feeling
of touching your soft lips.
I will plug my ears with tar,
so I can't hear your song.
And as my head grows heavy,
it's destined to grow strong.
Now I must plug my nose
so I can't be deceived
into thinking you are near
when at long last I am freed.
And I elect to cut
my tongue out of my head
so I'll no longer crave
the taste of things unsaid.
And once I've cleared my senses
of their memories of you,
I'll look into the mirror
and see my work is through.
But wait, something has happened!
I don't know what that is.
It appears something is missing,
for it needs a soul to live.
There was a man from Gloat
He snuck behind a goat
He had a bit of pot
Flanked the animals blind spot
Roger rammed it up to it’s throat