Best Rigidity Poems
And now as I hold her near
I turn and draw the bedroom curtain
She made what she wants so clear
She's going to get it tonight for certain
I'm to be a raging bull
and ravish her not in a shy way
I'm to drive her into the erotic abyss
By doing it my way
Regrets, There have been so few
but the chocolate sauce I'd better mention
You were supposed to lick not chew
That's why I'm full of apprehension
but what a night on the golf course
and the hard shoulder of the highway
After just one romantic kiss
We did it my way .
Yes there were times I'm sure you knew
When I needed a minute or two
but you didn't have to pout
Like a sour faced old trout
because I was soon standing straight and tall
and did it my way .
We've loved , we've laughed and cried
My rigidity I was losing
With passing years stamina subsides
and you find that so amusing
Is that it ? I hear you say
In your own demanding way
Oh no , Oh no ''cos after a cup of tea''
We'll do it my way .
For what is a man , What has he got
If he can't do it twice on the trot
Wear your dress whenever he feels
Practice wearing your high heels
The record shows I love sucking toes
and I did it my way .
Dredged from the depths of a shaken Sennen seashell
she hears once more his voice, low, sonorous tones, sees the bones
of her past laid out, splayed out, another story
playing out, can feel it in her bones,
his voice burrowing in, deep beneath skin,
a cold blade digging in, the tide coming in,
shrouds of sea mist closing in, the veil blowing thin,
membranes of memory breaking...She sees anew the drowning seas,
sees for the first time his strangling hands,
pebbly skulls, seaweed ropes, skeletal fingers of coral
forcing bone-white wrecking lights into her cove...
Bone-bleached semen strands, Sennen's strand stretching
soiled sand before her like life or fate, grains like pulverised bones.
His dark-dune lurking, water-window watching,
waiting for riptides; a ripping of fabric, ripping of hymen,
sea-hymns now silent on salt-sheened lips
plump-pouty with youth. It's sordid, uncouth,
the salt sprinkle of sea-sweat sheening his skin,
the breath and the fingers quickening,
the coral's rough rigidity piercing, ejaculation of sea foam...
Buried deeper than bones, the sudden rush of memory waves
rattling bones of the past, shaking Sennen seashells.
Gulls screaming into the guilty hush.
Secrets hidden by sea-silenced sand.
Our grandson who has Huntington's Disease has been going to physical therapy for a couple of months now at our local hospital. Huntington's Disease is an inherited brain disease that came from his father's side of the family but it can crop up in families where it has never been before. The disease is an abnormality on the DNA with too many repeats on the CAG which causes a problem with the protein gluten. It causes a condition called chorea which is only a small part of the illness.
worker repairs glass
second floor hospital room....
falling, falling tool
The illness causes many personality/cognitive/emotional problems as brain cells are no longer able to function normally. The person gets in trouble with the law sometimes because they try to self-medicate their illness. They have trouble sleeping, handling their emotions, and that is only to name a few things.
daredevil chances life
each minute upon the rungs....
pink crepe myrtle blooms
He is somewhat like the worker upon the ladder's rungs each second of the day his life is in danger. We never know what reaction he will have to anything. His chorea is gradually, slowly getting worse plus he has some rigidity which is uncomfortable for him.
second ladder up
eighteen inches higher....
blue skies reflected
The reflective glass of the hospital displays a beautiful scene. Verdant leaves of the great thicket of oaks is reflected in the glass. It seems they are high up in the puffy cottony clouds which are seen in the glass. Such a placid scene which helps me to relax a little.
will the worker fall
from higher orange ladder....
a swift prayer said
Will there be a treatment or cure in time to help our grandson?
Open my eyes on a bloodshot morning
The champion strains his leash
He's howling in pain, but he's howling in vain
The lights on Love Street are red
Tension mounts in my flesh
The rigidity of perplexed anguish
Turgid in my purple soldier's head
Veins popping, striated muscle pink and warm
I whip him, three times a day
Offer him a hand out of spite
I'll be frank: I spank and I spank
This thing's bigger than the both of us
Lifelong companion why do you cling to me
ever so stubbornly like an old scar
Shadow of ignorance, oh how you loom
making me feel threadbare and alone.
Deaf leopard of my existence,
why do you not hear my cries ?
Your rigidity has me searching
for answers that do not exist,
Feeling forlorn and un-accompanied
by joy, I only have recourse to you
Loneliness, why do you pursue me ?
In this vast inner Universe of mine
I'm seeking togetherness
from anyone by you,
Loneliness, please leave me alone
help me,
tear down these Jericho walls.
Alas when specificity is masked in its duplicity
to temper its intensity it may have a propensity
to touch the edges gently to stimulate us mentally
to hide within the lilting verse a subliminally errant curse
with subtle lines a bit too terse - then again it could be worse
they could insert an asterisk - induce headshaking “tsk tsk tsks”
So when asked to specify, I try, I try, I truly try
to force my words into “the norm”, confine my ink, make it conform
and yet it flows – a violent storm, from deep within a whirlwind born
a spinning, loud and raucous horn wailing from a pen pricks thorn
howling in both joy and pain, ranting at both sun and rain
sitting ‘tween tracks rusted stain waving to life’s passing train.
The trick - to call a word a word - not split it with poetic sword
claim it left us empty, bored or thrilled, awakened, reassured
the trick – to let the words find us to chip away our readers rust
outwit our “learned” poets crust, open our hearts and slowly trust
that in its harsh simplicity it stabs with cold specificity
at the edges of rigidity and the barriers ‘’tween you and me.
John G. Lawless
©3/29/2019
Written: November 28, 2023
_________________________________________
In my last prayer, words and dreams merge,
My concepts have changed as a brittle verge.
Such a rainbow of hues in this growing vision,
My head swirls in whispered tasks and decisions.
Strong in my beliefs, I now question all things,
As if a veil is lifted, I sweated even the little things,
My soul is seeking knowledge and rearrange,
Now awkward by set ideals, I relish the strange.
No beyond blindness or rigidity to act as a slave,
Having altered, I am now freed from any cave,
In my recent musings, I have explored curiosity,
Getting raw insight and seeing awe in diversity.
My comprehension grows as I explore my mind,
Laying buried muse that shines akin to orbs aligned,
Placing the ideas in words is an ideal symphony,
Written words depict my impending destiny.
My route is wider, and I explore the universe,
Seeking wisdom all over, valuing what's diverse,
We ought to value this superb mental shift,
In our recent beliefs, raw prospects are adrift.
It is the unsettling feeling of uneasiness, the unseen
Presence that quickens your pulse rate, are you being
Watched, what lies in the darkened hallows of the
Black shadows?
Why does the whispering wind scream beware, into
My inner ears consciousness, making the blood
Within mine veins run icy cold, light to the touch
Invisible finger tips brush against my bare exposed
Neck, yet no one is there, just the chill in the night’s air.
Then in the hushed silence every sound stops dead,
There is absolutely no breeze, nature seems frozen in
A complete quite stasis freeze of stillness, a rigidity
I’ve never experienced before.
I’m a human statue paralyzed in place, motionless
Just waiting for something to happen, should I
Flee or stay, my mind races with a stood cold’s
Adrenaline's rush, but for God’s sake I’m completely
Unable to move!
What is the definition of reality, as the lights
Flickering, and my four walls of living shelter
Shudder, I’m forced to question sanity vs.
Insanity, thin grows the line of realism!
Dualities cabinet doors swing wide open,
As the plates of life’s routine smash, against
The walls of ethereal existence.
A trickster’s spirit is this wild raw force, of angers
Power unleashed, this poltergeist whom lashes
Out me, from his deadly zones terrorizing abyss.
In fears screaming, I yell what do you want
From me, and It responds in a terrifying
Voice, Get out this is my house!
In a flashes rude awaking, the spell of motionlessness,
Is broken, the captive hostage is released, I’m free
At last to run, and I do so without questioning’s
Reasoning, never to look back, never to challenge
My decision, for it is his house, this poltergeist,
May he dwell in his own living hell forever?
Do you not believe my story, for I care not?
For I’m sound in both mind and of body,
Once a none believer now a born again
Spiritual being, who realizes the other side
Does exist, and it has touched my life
With voracitie's true evil.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Two hearts in an awesome communication
but covered by bodies which are worshipers of denial.
She adores him, he cherishes her
but such feelings are molded into the formality of colleagues.
Excitement, no matter how little, is suppressed,
appreciation rendered from a falling heart but by casual lips;
attraction, pressures the borders of the mind through its swell
but yet restricted by the protective bunkers of pretense.
When the time for absence to ease the saga comes,
anticipation drafts out a time table
for expectation to put every event on alarm
in both souls which cling to the thoughts of the next reunion.
Ego strips to perform a show on affectionate longing;
he becomes the gold standard to her new lifestyle
while she becomes the detergent to which his actions are washed.
Time once again takes a shift from itself,
internal body signals responding to a meeting, soon to occur.
Face to face, the physical acquaintance is once more blessed
but the corresponding fever has now began to snore,
weakening the whiskers of attraction to stay down.
Executive in the outside, voracious in the inside
with longing spirits towards each other
but confined by dramatized strictness.
Static and fixed concentration but away from her from the guy
with concrete rigidity lasting for long-long minutes.
Expert carefulness and planned accuracy in body movements from the lady
with continuous episodes of deep exhales
coming out of tension’s internal burning sticks.
Avoiding each other’s gazes with admiration’s lips tightly sealed
epitomizing an atmosphere of two minds in one likeness,
yet standing as agents of discomfort to each other.
Heat has unnecessarily been added to a delicacy so spicy
and nothing can blow it out unless someone says something.
Self knowledge equated to the encyclopedia
and perceived facts, products of personal reasoning
the efficacy of thoughts should not be questioned
and assumptions simply made real and absolute
Typical of such a thought stamps on convictions that
the banana and plantain are the same
a superior race surely exist
leg size has a great correlation with the male’s genital
the measure of one’s success is solely factored
in his accumulation of wealth
and money is the root of all evil.
This mindset can walk on hot coal just to prove these points
Columbus was the first European to visit the Americas
bulls are colour blind and bats are completely blind
women are subordinates to men
and a pure heart is one which covers its body from head to toe
This mind can even tear its clothes to rags
in displeasure to your opposition to issues such as
Sydney is Australia’s capital
the earth’s evolution is the cause of day and night
Africa is a country and its inhabitants exchange
morning greetings with the Lion and the Chimpanzee
and Neil Armstrong is the first human to journey into out space
Despite carrying the internet even to the dreams
and having global captions mixed with daily breath
assumptions such as these are nurtured
religiously, with rigidity and military acceptance
the biggest illiterate of the 21st century is one
who cannot learn, unlearn and relearn
so said Alvin Toffler, the Australian Educationist.
Oh sorry! The American futurist
I wanted to write something different
Perhaps a little unorthodox
See from a new perspective
Something outside the box
This box is the king of all cliches
Cure for unimaginative thoughts
I'm trying to be more creative
By getting inside the box
What's wrong with thinking inside it?
It's not let me down so far
I happen to thrive in its squareness
It's where my innovation starts
This proverbial box that I think in
With its reliable rigidity
I think that thinking the obvious
Is now vintage creativity.
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
The nest of wires
so loosely tethered
at the base of control
suffers from rigidity
while hard-linked
to each portal of
infinity
until cracks snake
the foundation
like menacing grins,
all mirthlessly mouthing
infallible truth
behind certain
fallibility:
every age rises
before diminishing
to bury discovery
as treasure precious
within the driving
will of all forms
sentient.
As I watched some bread fruits fall,
I thought of friends answering heaven's call:
Like flowering plants were the youth and rigidity-
Of these gems full with virility.
But in the sudden wake of a season
Appeared the ghoul to lead one into death's prison.
I bemoan the day of such sad news
That sealed the mouth and tied the tongue of my muse,
Blinding all senses without no reason
With percolated thoughts of the past and near seasons
Stirring the head with the winds of memorable years
Most, I will forever remember with falling tears.
Forlorn dreams, faded with the dark clouds
Before the thundering grew so loud
A cold easterly already spreads her wings
Whistling sober tunes as she flies and sings
A valedictory song to all
Within gaze, as bread fruits fall.
The Living God has moved on
Jesus in his memory, cherry taillights
Receding down a long desert highway
Jesus’ words were, and still are,
The only true gold
The ones that were actually his
All else is ruse
There is still divine wholeness
The two basic polarities remain
Light/darkness, atonement/isolation,
Order/dissolution, love/hate
That other pole remains a
Polished, tantalizing, well-advertised
Abyss of suffering and decay
As it always was
Echoes of the Word can still be heard
Through the cavernous edifice that bears His name
But two millennia of editing, revising
Using the Word for purposes less than divine
Has reduced it to echoes only
God can be found through His words
Or forever lost through their subversion
Walk like this, talk like this, do it right
Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight
If you read him, he was anything but
A conformist tyrant
Don’t believe me?
Just ask a Pharisee
They’re not hard to find
So now riddle me
Why you think dogma and rigidity
Are the pathway to the divine?
To some this will be blasphemy
But not to the Living God
6/16/16
©Thomas W. Quigley