Best Torsos Poems
blank-faced the page calls
each pounded pore of rice waits
brush tips dance on pointed toe
or fall like curtains
stark poser of questioned light
much more is left than finished
softer surface calls
needle prick the skin of white
adorning torsos and limbs
shaded dragon roil
as biceps flex and uncurl
much more is left unfinished
sea green stones of jade
shade and shadowed by chisel
leaves and limbs of trees precise
form rows dark and light
frozen forests unmoving
much more is left unfinished
First Published in Eunoia Fall of 2014
On a grassy bank beside a trickling stream
I view her ebony locks of which I've dreamed
Naked she is bathing in translucent crystal clear
As I long for her shapes to shadow me near
This short distance between us in natures surround
For soon we will be in clinch on her sacred ground
Whilst all around there are sounds of wildlife lush
It leaves you in marvel as it quietens to a hush
I turn my head in this most dreamy of place
As I capture her beauty that nature has graced
The cooling waters from the pure running stream
Cascades down her body this fluid supreme
Her ebony locks down her body caress
Naked to bare we have no need to undress
On a blanket of tartan we kneel down as I dry
My love, my lady as we look into our eyes
Shaped undulations awaken thoughts in my mind
As I lightly touch my dreams start to unwind
Our adventurous hands now in wandering roam
Amidst the greens and colours in this harvest home
Beneath the blue, two torsos in mix
Feelings of desire have us joined in transfix
Pleasurable movements like soft rolling waves
Cresting in the breeze as we internally crave
Our love heightens in joyous serenade
By the stream beside the meadow, our love displayed
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-13.php
Now,
as the rain falls in tiny droplets on the ground
and the breeze is wafting scents of petrichor,
a soothing oil released by dried decaying plants
that longed in thirst for reprieve from the burning heat;
only
the rush of wind hustled high in the tree tops sings
brushing gently the leaves upon each branch
pining in oaken roasted acorns and chestnuts,
pinging and popping on the sun drenched fires of autumn.
Teasing and tantalized
the senses breathe in deeply
the musk of the forest
where leafy residue, pine needles and fronds pale
in the rise of autumn cascading arrivals.
Coated foliage colored rainbows
lilt hues of yellows, orange and reds,
disfigured curls browning in the last of summer heat
to welcome and bare the mighty sheaths and torsos
that the forest leaves behind in memory of spring.
An equinoctial sundial
marking the trajectory of earth and sun
the rise and fall of time and space
upon the earthen realm of seasons change
greeting autumn, goodbyeing summer, fireside winter hibernation.
Is dance a metaphor for sex?
You’d think so if you knew my ex
(at least the barflies all believe
she’s hoarding something up her sleeve).
But what makes people want to dance?
An aural frenzy? True romance?
Would Hamlet, Shylock or Macbeth
ever dance themselves to death?
Strasbourg is the kind of town
that’s unassuming, buttoned down.
These people don’t let down their hair:
rarely reckless, somewhat square.
The year before a reign began
(that’s Charles the Fifth – the Habsburg man):
to celebrate Saint Vitus’ Day
a Strasbourg woman’s new ballet
was launched in Rue des Hallebardes
(a strange event in all regards).
Right outside her Strasbourg home,
a stone’s throw from Strassburgerdom,
one Frau Follea hit the street
(and man, that chick could move her feet!)
We don’t know what her motive was:
perhaps she did it ‘just because’.
Did she deserve the looney bin?
No - other folks were joining in!
With twisting torsos, poor and posh,
the city streets were soon awash.
Without the need for record player,
the followers of Frau Follea
bopped and boogied through the night,
as hot as Rhineland anthracite.
Did scruples sting at morning mist?
Did conscience prick them to desist?
Did people halt their hellish dance?
Not one mosher! Not a chance!
On they conga’d, rocked and rolled,
oblivious to heat or cold.
More Alsace dusks, forever amber,
reverberated to their samba.
The local grapes are full and juicy:
the people step a mean watusi.
There’s such a thing as civic pride,
but this lot cha-cha’d till they died!
Housewife, beggar, baker, barber
were parties to the danse macabre.
Was their motive pleasure? Fear?
Penance? Sydenham’s Chorea?
The reason for the quick-quick-slow
I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
In that meteoric moment
she exhibited eternal qualities of wonderfully wrought womanhood,
calm,disciplined and candid,
adorned with few distinctions from the rest behind her
the loving leadership was projected in painstaking posture,
brutal perfection,a suffering of diligence amounting to total serenity,
she being a gem amongst stones,
for inexperience a cure,
synchronicity simple & symetrical like ripples in a river,
the troupe twirls & turns as leaves whirl gingerly in pools of water livid,
their torsos taut like trunks of young & vital trees,faces flowers,
brilliant when in cold morning view,
hands impossibly curved on extended arms,hearts placid,
without looking the dancers drape their faith
upon the integrity of her warm luminosity,
the lead lioness quietly commands their orbiting obeisance,
in her hushing eyes the sparkle of a rich race communicates confection
to the contemplative congregation,
she is a Godess in the midst of nymphs,
something dangerous,calamitous,manifested mutely in the expression
of a posterior dancer
whom strangely stares at the back & soul of the leading lady in stance,
this suggestive & supportive figure embodying dispassionate envy,
strategically laying seige
to the gloriously innocent leader of this cultural romance,
a reminder reminiscent of Eve's two children
in the forgotten fields of antiquity
where success was hunted savagely by the weakness
inherent amid imps -
This poem is premised upon a photograph of a traditional Cambodian dance troupe -
J.A.B.
When a rough day is behind me
And all the tension is still there
When rage is flowing through my veins
And I'm tearing out my hair
When the evening sky is as red as blood
And my anger as full as the moon
You can feel my fury burning
Tell an explosion is coming soon
I really cannot help it
There's murder on my mind
And once I get that feeling
There's just one way to unwind
There's no slow-burn to this temper
It's a full-on raging storm
I'm all too keen to vent my spleen
I'll make them wish they were never born
The result is always chaos
My victims don't have a chance
But oh, it gets really messy
As through my mission I advance
And there's no doubt about it
I'm efficient and I'm mean
I don't care about the fall out
When I'm that wound up and keen
I confess the sight of body parts
Is a relief from my daily grind
Heads and legs and torsos tumble
When I've murder on my mind
I bet you're keen to judge me
Denounce my actions as a sin
But there is no mercy for gingerbread men
As I reach for my biscuit tin
Knock knock as she opens her front door
It's her beau whom now stands before
With a bouquet of flowers
All different colors
For his girl whom he loves and adores
After some chatting about this and that
What a scoff I'm gonna get fat
With a glass of white wine
I know I'll be fine
I think I've also eaten the place mat
Now recovered from our earlier meal
The music starts this songs our appeal
Well boy can she dance
Her beauties my trance
So delightful in glide genteel
It's now close to the end of our night
Knowing something is beautifully right
With a kiss on her lips
Her dress gracefully slips
Like a flash our engines ignite
Now sprawled out on her King sized bed
You can guess so much has been said
Two torsos have shared
So naked birth bared
Unification continues when wed
.
Need a fender? A replacement hood?
J.D. Body Parts won't do you any good.
See, here you'll find ankles and feet in aisle 3.
Torsos on aisle end-caps, for all to see.
Heads and genitals in the refrigerated section
in the rear. This week we have a special sale
if you need an ear.
Legs in the toy aisle, aisle 6, stacked neatly
next to the Legos and the pick up sticks.
If it's merely a scalp for which you do shop,
you can check out the backroom, where we
there chop. Fingers in the snack aisle, aisle
number five. And they're so fresh, you'd swear
they're still live.
If you need some help to find a part, just ask
the manager, he'll fill your cart.
And you'll find he's quite a charmer.
Our store manager, Jefferey Dahmer!
No one asked her to dance at their Prom that night
It beggars belief in me, what's wrong with these guys
Her beauty is all I see, personified within my sight
To not even to approach, I'm in total amazed surprise
Moving now to the present, although pasts have lived
Paths of life have drawn us to be amidst of each other
Recent discussions daily, our template to never sieve
It beggars belief to me that others they would rather
Now you have to be me to see to what my eyes declare
Breathe with me to see, within politeness my eyes grace
It beggars belief in me what's wrong with these guys stare
To never to ask her to dance, their Prom, invited place
The night has finally arrived for my ask to come to light
To see her standing there for my eyes to behold
Draped against her tanned a dress that so delights
My heart in pumping joy as our evening starts to unfold
At the edge of our bed she stands, her beauty immaculate
I offer my girl my hand as she smiles we begin to dance
Hands to shoulder to waist, two in movement calculate
Engrossed, absorbed, I'm caught, her scented fragrance
Slowly our hands in roam, listening to 'The Flame' by 'Dare
Eyes in glancing look, anticipating minds in thinking wish
Lobe to necks now met, disheveled clothes reveal bare
Our song now nears it's end, our hands in touching bliss
Buttons open straps in slide, shoulders where fingers walk
Gravity about to be tested, soft cotton just can't resist
Tongues like fencing epee's, when earlier they just talked
Unison hand in hand, engrossed in naked to bare assist
Covers turned lie silken sheets, rose petals sporadic adorn
Two souls in facing look, kisses aplenty caressing touches
Entwined in loving join, hips grinding torsos bourne
Rhythmic writhing palms in palms, lovingly in clutches
morning breaks like a crack shot through bone
the needs are frightening that i must possess
this hunger in my womb
head out to trenches
crawling on concrete blood
tanks and diesel
mortars and pestle
clouds of promise
blind my way
the kings in control
but the ghosts
are there
and their
and they’re
in hoods of faith
to cut the cord
steal down the path of deaths holy trail
hide from satin's cape in tombs with idols they set ablaze
craters of remains hold pieces of flesh and baby’s breath
wretched with veil wrapped tight to skirmish no eyes
reaching sanctuary for my supply
around and around
to face it again
and again
and
again
past bloody sheets
car parts for limbs
sparkplug fingers
transmission torsos
naked in hells kitchen
i die for
daily bread
today life goes
and goes
not
within me
and
without me
down a
baghdad
death
row
While lying there ‘neath summer stars on blanket in the yard;
just you and I, the Moon and Mars, with Cygnus keeping guard.
I gaze into your eyes of green reflecting in the night
our destiny was not foreseen, this love of ours so right.
Your alabaster skin so fresh with honeysuckle scent;
the southern breeze caresses flesh as darkness gives consent.
Our tangled torsos in the dark, beneath the midnight sky,
and whispered nothings giving spark that leads to moans and sigh.
Your breath so soft upon my cheek, your touch upon my face;
makes certain my desires to seek, my heart begins to race.
With soft full breast pressed to my chest, the nighttime comes alive,
and in the dark desires expressed, our passions start to thrive.
Within our souls the fires awake, and seeking carnal thrill;
our hearts eclipse and bodies quake, as all of time stands still.
And in the afterglow of love, we lay there tired and spent;
while gazing at the sky above, we ponder love’s assent.
This summer sizzle that is ours and never to be barred
while lying there ‘neath summer stars on blanket in the yard.
The road to my backyard is long and straight
Evergreen trees abound and provide welcome shade
Home to myriad birds, butterflies and the bees
Last summer their branches were sawn off, without notice
The orgy with power-saws lasted barely a day
The trees shorn of foliage, the limbless torsos remained
To secure the safety of a VIP on a state visit
To a smog-laden metropolis, labouring hard to breathe
A few years back, we moved house to an oasis of green
But now, the storm of development is relentlessly closing in
Razing and levelling with electric saws and bull dozers
And a host of equipment used by modern day builders
Pile drivers mounted on rigs clump through the day
Unrelenting even at night, when the elusive foxes bay
Grieving in the darkness with plaintive howls
For a vanishing habitat where his endangered kin prowls
They have acquired fish farms and farmland
And even encroached on the protected wetlands
Which naturally dispose tons of city waste
In danger of destruction due to greed and haste
Truckloads of rubble are dumped every day
The pace is frenetic, even in sweltering May
Toiling hard for masters, who’ve deadlines to meet
And citizens to house, from whom votes they’ll seek
A haze of dust now covers construction sites
The pace doesn’t slacken here, even at nights
Construction materials arrive here daily by the truckloads
And given shape by workmen, as planned on drawing boards
What was once green cover and blue sky
Will be concrete monoliths, stretching up very high
With parking lots and asphalt streets
And billboards and neon signs, ready to be leased
No longer will fields of mustard flowers sway sinuously in spring
Nor ripe ears of golden corn bob gently in the wind
The sounds of frogs and crickets are a memory of the past
Songbirds have fled, deprived of their natural habitat
Slowly the memory of winter’s migratory birds will fade
Never again, the razed canopy of green, provide cooling shade
As I walk through my ravaged neighbourhood, I wonder why
Impotent rage pervades through me and I silently cry
Our naughty crafts in sex workshop
are all placed under a constant rewind.
Your accurate curves and warm planes
covered in moisture like a soul’s Vaseline
is an awesome park for the leisure of my lust.
Hormones from both ends,
acting like the descendants of the same goddess
grind the coal to heat up sweet but deadly flames.
Anytime absent, you drastically take away
the wagons of my manhood.
Each day when far away,
your heart leaves a text message
for my eager mind to print and bind.
Each time I open my mouth,
I feel the sweetness of your flavoured saliva,
and my thighs when lying together
measure the degrees of your flesh’s heat.
Each morning, our torsos are on a one on one meeting
within locked hips for a proper discussion,
soft, slow, tender, wet, round, warm-all sensual adjectives
to scenes of tropical temperatures so mild and kind.
Our sweats mix to start chemistry’s experiment
in twos, desires battle fiercely
like opposite royal landlords of the battle field;
dancing tongues, greasing bellies, clamping hands;
breath sharing, fidgeting limbs and flexible pelvises
all combine to make summer and spring wonderful sisters.
Just a little serenity I’ve been searching
but a large green field of little palms I find.
Every damsel has her glow,
but you ripen so sharp to beat the coat of many colours
so that my appetite stay blind
to the city’s rainbows and the town’s street lights.
Everlasting is such a nature’s blessing
b’cos the warehouse of our passion is never in a full stock.
Navigating the immense void of night
The right ascension to a winter’s sky;
Coincides with the height from which I stood
Stars, interlinking crescendo’s so freely,
Imitate the centuries, as I presumed as much.
At least with one tuned in, to so many stars
The magnitude existence found, far large;
Appearing close to one another as a variable
Heralded each, a legend the Greeks had made.
(The Constellations)
Snoozing with the intention of inanimate usage
The head long bolster pillow, namely, ‘Hydra’,
Chose an encounter with Hercules as foe
Prolong impetuous, to each gradual hemisphere,
As one could sideways look, exclaim its’ breath
Pursuing each as on-lookers, chose that group!
Individually did it taper each ceaseless path.
Warily, with twisting motion, a scathing attack
Searching menageries from whence it came;
To the labyrinths where pulsars engage sense
Trails to adjoining torsos, and ten thousand heads,
Though be them stars or for the sheer hell of it
Combine as one, each with a will of its own;
As per chance, with the combined effort, sway
Euripides, a watercourse, with banks on each.
There, Centaurus takes grip of its south west tip
Uninspiring Sextans, via Alphard’s luminary
The heart to all there is, and everlasting life,
Immortality may be a reality or mere illusion.
Secondments trail to endearments out of view,
To Southern scopes from omnipotent fathers;
Godly endeavours that imaginations flame
Find these dreams for us, the Hydra dead,
To remain in searing portals to then regroup
Bestowed as thoughts to future centuries.
This modern social scene has overhung-
Encompassed by a twirl, one single snake
That twisted and turned where each was caught
By something that as groups could never see,
We as the stars ourselves imposing on each
Imposing one another, avoiding calm.
This meandering replacement deals with hope,
Extremely drawn out as the Hydra is;
To engulf every membrane of tale told so far,
Where mass of spatial existence seems blood
From which taking blame its life’s loss came,
And every impending story told so far,
Was simply a daydream to a night time sky.
In the season of the ballot
He came on his knees
Like a servant and saint
He sought to be crowned leader
He reminded us of his humble breeding
In the creeks of our land
He was our very own
And so, we chanted slogans
In the hinterland and on the highways
We had found our servant leader
The true Man of the citizens had come
To do the will of WE THE PEOPLE
And so, we chanted from dawn to nightfall
We had found the one to bring down
The torsos of former despots
That sting our eyes from accursed daises
Along roads they refused to tar
And so, we defied the scorch and downpour
To defend the ballots to secure his mandate
With his left hand on the Holy Book
And the right raised to the Heavens
He swore to lead us like none had done before
Then he entered the Palace and inhaled the air
Then he tasted the food and drank the wine
Then he sat on the sofa and laid on the bed
Then he slept and arose with roses at his feet
Then the spirit of the palace possessed him
In a short sequence our very own was altered
We who chanted on the streets and the creeks
Became brigands in his eyes and had to be quelled
Before our eyes, the servant leader turned sovereign
The servant leader turned builder of statues
He brought down busts of former lords and planted
On pothole-riddled bridges horrid statues of himself
In every town, large and small stood a statue of him
Made of limestone, wood, bronze, marble and clay
He likened his images to that of the Redeemer
And those of Liberty and the Sphinx
Upon all his name is engraved
Those who dared not to worship the sovereign leader
Were sentenced to piteous fates
What men labored for decades to build
He pulled down by decree between the sun and moon
Once a Man of the Citizens, the servant leader
Sought immortality by abolishing the ballot
To attain everlastingness, he opened the vaults
And the lords proposed that he be beatified
Even while blood flowed in his veins
Thus, the servant-leader became a Saint among us
Now, having long abandoned the companion of his youth
He sought our wives and daughters to quench his lust
But the curses of our naked Mothers spoke for us
Alas! We hear the servant-leader pleads for mercy
But to forgive him will be counted as sin unto us
For he betrayed the trust of WE THE PEOPLE