shapely legs, biceps
mini white skirt against tan
sharp eye on the ball
strings of tennis racket taut
don’t call her mom on the court
Indulging in a flirting spree
Succubi demons within me!
I self- admire all daylong,
Humbly hum a seductive song,
To me my gorgeous bits belong!
As I gaze on me from above,
I blush with glee at my true love:
My biceps worthy of Greek myth,
My charming smile - the perfect pith,
No one I’d rather coddle with!
I believe beauty lies within!
It’s one-on-one, therefore win win!
I shall confess if you insist -
I’m an intrinsic narcissist,
I bet on me, you get the gist.
As over my visage I drool -
Head over heels! Dead in the pool.
"I guess you got into a job that's stressing.. Be strong."
Of concern, in a little while
Holding onto the ought be
Jogging a stroll of absence
In her heart, I got some more
Than enough which I am used to
May be politely false or wrongly true
As I walked down these steps,
My eyes caught her innocence.
But far away from my sight...
Long time not my writes
Add breeze to her flying kite
Unto my friends and foes biceps,
I hold firmly my troubling conscience.
To stage no peaceful or scary fight...
Till providence shows its heights
For me; for you, by luck and chance to bite
Your firm cool concern's note
Could not make me rest;
And as you have been there worrying
I hope you are heartily scurrying
As my writes now early bid farewell,
I wish to hear you soon of good news to tell
But in my mind you feel good too soon
As my seeming little writes miss you these often
Thanks dearly, sister.
Grunts, groans, grimaces
suited to biceps and triceps
Became the discourse of Wimbledon
without becoming it one bit
Just ‘jealous’ doesn’t do her justice, since
unless you factor-in her womanhood,
no vestige of the passion in her blood
or motivation comes across: her prince
conceived real circumspection. He’d convince
alumni, friends and allies that they should
placate her: Juno wasn’t wholly good,
in Miller’s words, a phrase which wins the quince,
the prize for sweetness, but wholly herself.
Our modern model argues men are strong –
look at his biceps! Somehow, all along,
I’ve known the Ghibelline to be a Guelph:
no question, Juno would approve my song:
as ingrained as the view is, it’s still wrong.
Tombs begin to bloom like raw, bloodless wounds.
Tomes are written with truths of her dead moon’s
tones. A keening lunacy keeps the dirges alive, while
bones rise out of repose. A degloved hand on the dial
hones into a night rainbow's radio, she runs on solar,
hopes for the rhythm to wrench free from her toller—
copes with the captivity of being bodiless hands. Twilight
comes to chance escape—open palms toward birthright.
Coves burst into flame; a hungry fire wants holier water.
Coven circles, recovers the skinless limbs of their daughter.
Woven like song, sirens' balm to restore coats of missing arms,
women are spells read correctly, using words as our alarms,
woken to language, resurrecting ancient pairs of sacred charms.
Young and athletic
You just showing your biceps
Young girls smile shy.
Big muscles of the organ grinder, his biceps burning.
Cranking springs, the tired, but cheerful, Italian chap.
Many chapters of his life on streets of cold cement.
His beard, silver tone; his worn hat filled with coins.
You’d expect for the old legs to be moving, it rests
as the tunes be calling, beckoning through windows.
Accordion sounds be arousing smiles and curiosity.
Melancholy dirges wet the shoulders of the bitties.
Again the pedals and thighs grind along, travelling
as the kids and townsfolk wave goodbye. On his
merry way, feet tapping, ladies dancing, men puffing
on their pipes and cigars. The music says so long.
And another group gathers in the waning sun, waiting
for their favorite song; and the grinder gladly plays,
telling a story, with his barrel rolling, his pins caressed.
Kaput - he moves into a museum, a blast from the past.
Sit-ups, planks, and crunches
My push-ups done in bunches
Deep heavy squats from the rack
Deadlifts are good for my back
Just pumping up my biceps
And cutting up my triceps
I'm sweating harder each day
So I look sharp when I play
I close my eyes
So I can see you
That I'm still in your heart
I clench my hands
So I can feel you
That I'm still inside of you
I rub my heart
To ponder... that you still care for me
I call my soul
To wonder... you're my home in me
You opened my eyes,
Covered and blinded
Under the dark skies
You softened my hands,
Rough and burnt
Under the sun that dries
You revived my restless body
And lifted up my spiritless life
You brought back
The smile in me
And laughter, long buried
Inside of me
You are my home
My heart and my soul
Wherever I am
I carry you with me
I walk in your footsteps
Holding my heart with your forceps
My strength in my biceps
My shield above my triceps
Your shoulder
Is my armor
Tempered with ardor
Your heart is my home
My heart that dwells in chrome
What really attracts most women to men
Does the size of their biceps make ladies yen
Methinks not, that ain't it
A little boy image is always a hit
So start wearing a diaper with a loaded back end
I love plenty green grass growing with flowers
fireflies flickering at shows at nighttime
their bio-luminescence internal night-lights flashing
people pleasuring by the beach with hot sunny sun-tanning
builders are there on many beaches with wet sandy sandcastles
swimmers are swimming; snorkelers are submerged in blue water
sun has illuminated many bike trails for mountain-bike bicycling
sunrays light up parks to have some fun of festive fraternizing
days are longer with sunsets a glow of lavender tinge and orange
4th, July has multi foods of tasty outdoor tender barbequing
summer sun brings out short-sleeves boasters bulging biceps
freedoms a most pleasurable thing of this most seasonal season
From dusk till dawn, the fields, they toiled
Enduring lashes from the overseer's whip.
Grimacing as the sun on them, boiled
The pain, too deep for them to even weep.
Heavy iron shackles impeded their footsteps
Hot iron on bare skin branded them as property
And while many suffered from broken biceps
Others died and few in pains, reached forty.
The maidens got raped by the bearded monster
The children, separated and sold like sheep
And while many got maimed in this order
With stoicism they endured with little sleep.
The Americas, my Ancestors built
And like soldiers far from Rome,
They sweated and died without guilt
In a land they couldn't call home..
They toiled under the sun in silence
Their minds, blurred by the middle passage
Such hideous and appalling violence
That saw thousands cast overboard during the voyage.
Gathered at dusk around their candle stick,
Desperation had struck some with insomnia.
Families in fear clung, while the kids kick
Hearing their parents voices singing in nostalgia
"Home again again, home again again
When shall I see my home?....."
©Temajung Michael T
I met a guy in the dairy section of my local grocery store
He was carrying an over-the-shoulder, leather purse
He had a purple scarf around his neck, what could be worse?
The fellow was driving a great big, black funeral hearse!
A buxom young lady was shopping in the produce aisles
I could have sworn she had had extensive lipo-suction
Her enormous biceps were a work under construction
She had three children with her, an obvious deduction.
I moved on to the meat department and stood watching
An old lady maneuvering an enormous motorized grip
Ordered a butcher to cut her a three-pound New York strip
While she was waiting she did a perfect backward, reverse flip.
Tell me, before I go stark raving, mad-as-a-hatter crazy
I am jumping too quickly to unwarranted conclusions
That after what I saw I should immediately go into seclusion
It only seems that way; clearly, I am victim of my own delusions.
Written March 18, 2021
Submitted to Kai Michael Neumann’s
“It Only Seems That Way” contest
When you are a drunk man
all the long unused muscles in your brain
travel down into your lower back
and arms.
You feel you can carry a small dense world,
a world with the specific gravity
of a bucket of kidney stones
at the bottom of a barrel of wine.
Drunks never have time to practice
or exercise their feet,
they stand like beach-wet oak trees
bulging in imaginary oak tree trunks,
impervious to age or ability
they carry a helpless Zeus
as if they had always been his father,
then later, topple in and out of a life raft
painstakingly explaining
to a gaggle of lesser gods
how your biceps once were as big
and as tight
as Herculeses’ bursting bladder.
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