Best Swimmer Poems
What thing seems to make men King Kong?
It lies under Michael Phelps’ thong
With each stroke of grace
See a free style freebase
That huge bulging spot is a bong
city swimmer yesterday
screamed a fish was in the way
lifeguards who had heard the shout
quickly tried to pull her out
and my goldfish from the bay.
thunder and lightning
as rain lashes the ocean - -
a swimmer turns back
for Heather’s Ocean-ku contest
I am super sour swimmer,
engaging erectile filler,
lithium under the spinner,
a dancing danger inside of your pinner,
a welcoming rager until it’s time for dinner,
a recreation of Imagination Island while you’re out on your blinker,
a smiling fin-
and a rank and file win,
a serious agitation to your rectal inflammation,
a younger man but not yours to sing flagrant,
a special stew that mom cooked just for you,
a blistering band of E-Heads and Speedy Dreds,
a clear cut forest growing back even more deformed...
Darkness.
Smothering me inside and out.
My soul gives voice to your name...
I choke it back; my pride does not allow
for such things but
Inside, I scream as I slip under the waves.
I'm going to drown if I don't let the tears fall,
but I don't care; I haven't since that night.
Apathetic, I'd rather be numb
than let this pain rob the breath from my lungs and soul.
I just wish I understood...
How could something that seemed so right go so terribly wrong?
They tell me, "Life is like that sometimes."
But what is life
if you're not there to hold my hand?
All unbearable, but here's the worst:
I forged the weights that drag me under.
I remember knotting the rope that wrapped around my legs.
I was the one who fought against the current
instead of trusting your quiet depth.
I remember you cried, "Why can't this just be easy?"
You were right.
Ahh, hindsight...but that won't help me now.
I know that only I can cut the ropes, claw myself to the surface.
But I just don't have the strength.
there once was a sly swimmer bloke
whose manners were sure to provoke
his form was unique
a brand new technique
he mastered the women’s breaststroke
There was a girly landlubber in pink
Who to a burly fisherman was linked --
Not a swimmer, she sank
In his great big fishtank --
Now in winter she's a frozen ice rink
I saw her swim out to where
distance and wave height
made her disappear from sight.
The water still carried
the last of summer's warmth.
She was where I would like
to be, loosened from what binds
this body to gravity,
to be free of weight
and feel nothing beneath
my feet but a plunging depth.
I would be tempted
to let myself sink slowly
into that mystery,
taking in wave
and water, to float
as a child would
within a womb, held on the end
of an umbilical cord
linking the now
to eternity.
I dreamt of Babe Ruth
in Howard Johnsons'
lighted pool doing
the backstroke so brilliantly.
No bats lying around
anywhere. warm water
reflected dorsal pecs,
beautiful biceps, round
spiral muscles fanning
along so softly.
Finally finding the nerve
to say: Babe! your a
ballplayer; Sultan of swat.
Smiling at me timidly:
I'm a ballplayer and a
a swimmer. He replied
calmly gliding away.
A swan in the moonlight.
little I discerned of pious words-
and idle twitter
scarcely had I known what I would find
among the dregs
it's a bitter pill to swallow
when a victory is hollow...
it's all downhill from here me thought
as I touched upon the egg!
Dark water swimmer
If I were a deep-sea diver, I would swim to the Azores
were the water is not so cold; meet up with dolphins
that remembered me from my time on ships when
waving to them from the deck
They would feed me sardines since I’m too slow to catch
anyone alone
When I meet a tiger shark, I will bow my head, show
respect and call him my lordship; messages will be sent
“Don’t touch this man, as he is not a seal.”
I will go ashore in Madeira, get drunk in a bar and when
they arrest and try to deport me, I will tell them the sea
is my home, and they will take me on a helicopter and
push me back to my forever home
This will be witnessed by all creatures of the ocean, who
will say: “Now look, there swims a hero.”
Rock beach of
chasms.
A man is pale dough
standing in sand.
Shimmer owns his
toes in a flurry of foam,
then withdraws.
He watches for a cue
in a sky of cotton ships
when a clam swallows
all his theories.
Running thunder into
frigid arcs, he is eyeless.
His arms extended,
a child to his mother
until his figure dispels
in the motion of curved glass.
Anonymous inside the
texture of a shadow,
deepening into aquatic blank.
Deeper, his nostrils drink arrows.
Deeper, his eyes open to films
of green bleeding blue.
He finds a secret madness
like forgetting at the bottom,
in granules of thick sand,
in nowness totally pressurized,
in the dislodging of a cornerless dream,
while bubbles volley from his lips.
Then he is up in the rise of brushing swirls,
the sun quivering through
the looking glass above.
Identity pounds his lungs.
Birth against the surface,
he becomes the heave of wind
from a glossy face.
But he keeps plummeting,
for a pearl that keeps changing,
a luster he can't keep,
a capture escaping.
Don’t you know why Ted is slimmer?
His eyes no more with hopes glimmer:
Had long swum in pools with shimmer,
As long in frustration swimmer;
Ted would not bear Todd’s New Tipper
Plus dreams of making ‘A Shipper!’…
But one’s knowledge of life deeper,
One no more, in spirit, Sleeper,
Entrance one blocks against Creeper
And proves Goodwill Lover Keeper…
Now, you know why Ted is slimmer
And walrus moustache not trimmer:
Chances of making it dimmer,
One gets slimmer and face grimmer!
Yesterday I found a worm in my apple.
Well, half a worm.
C’mon life, take the gloves off.
You’re better than that.
I like to think we’re still friends, though.
Well, at least there are no hard feelings on my part.
I don’t need blindness to open my eyes.
I never believed you need disadvantage or
disability to achieve enlightenment.
Stephen Hawkings got nuthin' on me.
Except, maybe a degree or two.
And some gills.
My feet still make that squishy, splashing sound,
at the beach, by the sea of poetry,
where I find myself.
So what if my fingers and toes are
without webbing,
So what if I still breathe air.
I will one day swim
with the Octopi and Mermaids.
I will one day rise to get my air.
This is the promise God made to me
the day I was born.
There’s a fin in the water
What’s its path?
Is it toward
Or has it passed
There’s a fin in the water
What’s its movement?
Is it curved
Or is it straight
There’s a fin in the water
Oh
It’s a shark
There’s a fast swimmer
In the water
He’s making a path
Straight to the edge
So he will last
Authors note
This poem has been Censored