A love affair with fingers
May seem dumb to some
If only their brain cells would linger
The depth of the matter plumb
Fingers play sonatas and arpeggios
Hold the spoon for to eat Cheerios
They fold up into tight fists
Unfolded, help to play whist
They tap out rhythms on desks and tables
Of so many things are they able
So, why shouldn’t we love our fingers
One can even be 'given'
to lunatic left or right-wingers
You can be restless all the time.
Claws.
Reaching with ghost tentacles.
No mouth.
It is possible to feel like poisonous lavender.
Jolted by other types of senses.
Rising.
You can be restless all the time.
You’re the holes in cheese blocks multiplying.
Bug eyes.
You can be restless all the time.
Toppled over trash can with a body in it.
Feel the air wide open
her arms crave carefree days
hips sway swivel left and right
electricity in momentum
a whirligig of laughter
she can feel the swoosh of her skirt
is she alone she can tell
the air’s scented their breaths hold
clues…her body listens quiets
at his approach they move
apart together
having learned to avoid
control her palms rise
and gyrate with the oxygenated current
she has no idea
how slender and graceful
her form appears in the wall mirror
petite soles arch
and she dares tippy toes
now her sisters
narrow the gap shadow
her agile movement
her eyes open or closed
matter only to her audience
her eyes are pretty they stare
into the past and the future
blinded by an unseen light
dancing dewy delight
Some people point a finger
at my face and ask,
“Is that really your body?”
I say, “Oh, come on.
Why would that be my body?”
That is nothing but
an old, weathered mansion.
Once, it was bright and gleaming,
polished, immaculate.
Now, it stands on the verge of ruin.
Banyan saplings push through
the cracks of its crumbling plaster,
while bats and house snakes
have made their homes within.
But what can I do?
There is no other way.
I have now
put that ruin
on my body
and wear it as my own.
Across the twilight sky,
astride a mad horse
racing through the clouds,
I am, after all,
nothing but
a missing horseman.
my ...
fingers are
tactile moonbeams …
and like that porcelain light
I let them dance upon you, bare -
tiptoe across your shy
places with a
delicate (but deliberate)
adoration ...
many, the times they've made
this dermal sojourn
yet each is as if the first -
softer, sweeter, more
sure that the journey is as savory
as it’s delicious end …
each inch, it's own mystery
here-and-there your flesh jumps and
rises as you coo and sigh -
little bumps follow that spread
to the rest of you
like moonlite spattering the sea …
but your sea is mine -
an ocean of tender integument
beneath my touch …
much deeper
and darker
warmer …
and where I
long to …
drown.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
I awake and here I am,
naught but a mere mortal man.
Why came I this weak way,
restrained in fragile skin,
little but stiffened clay,
imprisoned as are all men?
Flesh will away, that soon day,
to the dust where it had been.
Then I will really be Me,
with mind and soul soaring free.
- Darrell Simmerman copyright 2024
my working parts
fingering is just the start
on the march
knees and legs take part
head and heart, with soul
still two fingers
dumb, not speaking to me
a numb okay
grasping utensils with one hand
not a lefty, that’s right
I hate the feeling of my tongue on my teeth,
The way my breath hides underneath.
You think a smile is a sign,
To cross my boundaries, blur the line.
You reach for me, one by one;
Until my trust is overrun.
You twist my words into a game,
And somehow I'm the one to blame.
For you it was but a failed attempt,
But to me, it's thoughts I can't repent.
I sit here with a pit in my stomach;
While you move on, still living free.
You were nothing more than a friend to me,
I said that clearly, repeatedly.
You say something strange, I look away.
I change the subject; you laugh and stay.
I trusted you to respect my wishes,
But you turned my silence into permission.
You act as if I owe you touch,
When I never promised you that much.
Even now, I cannot help but think,
I replay each word you made me drink.
My voice is mine, my body too;
I owe no part of me to you.
When I walk,
beneath my feet,
the road begins to sound.
I listen
to the music of the road.
When I walk,
beneath my feet,
the road begins to dance.
I move my feet
to the rhythm of its dance.
When I walk,
beneath my feet,
a map of the road takes shape
.
I scatter myself
across the map of the road.
I want to play
with the road.
Hungry map
It gobbles up
my body.
‘Oft overlooked is the noble foot.
But please let me in, my 2 cents, put.
For, granted, it is so often, took.
Homely and crooked, though it may look,
still gets you there, that most noble foot.
Darrell Simmerman © 2026
With blistered hands we reach for the things that are sweet,
And gather the ashes that fall at our feet.
We barter for things that decay,
And cry when it all gets swept away.
We hide from the heat,
Believing every sting is our defeat.
Yet, these earthen vessels are broken before being filled,
The stone must be struck before the waters are spilled.
Our small comforts we guard and we run from the rod,
We mistake our wounds for the absence of God.
We forget that oil is pressed,
And the soul must be emptied before it finds rest.
The branch must be pruned before blossoms appear,
And joy that we seek is bought through the tear.
So open these hands that have clung to the clay,
And shatter the jar for the dawn of the day.
He’s almost half-blind now
his right eye, oh my!
Once-fabulous hand-eye coordination
replaced by daily frustration
Doesn’t hear too well these days
"Again... Please repeat! What did you say?"
His spine looks like a barber’s pole
feels like a whack-a-mole
Hips stiffer than petrified wood
his walker does him little to no good
Knees like old-fashioned shoes, they buckle
if it weren’t for the agony, he’d chuckle
As for his feet, the bottoms have no feeling
the slightest crack in the pavement sends him reeling
But he’s determined to count his blessings
even if with his body nature seems to be messing
He can still see well enough to write a story
his left eye spared damage, thanks to God in all His glory
And the latest gossip he doesn’t have to hear
doesn’t even have to cover his ears
As for his crooked spine, mindfulness came with it as a gift
a practice - a habit - he now knows not to give short shrift
I could go on through the rest of his body's litany
but surely you already know ~ this poem is about me
I know not your will our pain suffer
tear soaked ground
Fill with empty coffins of decaying past,
no one's home; soul gone away
Vulgaris society like yesterday's dreams
Hatred killing blood shed streets run
Love no more, independence of oneself
Is it not ourselves we save our own
Bones wasting away six deep in
Is it not of diversity we pull strength
Everything we kill we wipe DNA to life
What is purpose if we abandon reason
Once a nation founded on moral respect
Bitten by snake's venom piercing blood warm veins
Does a one not hate of their own accord,
despising everything good
Are we better ancestors, same battle since dawn
Good vs evil, war only you make difference outcome
Blood warm, resurrection Jesus; infinite mind to peace
colors colors
the way my body twirls
would you like to see me spin ?
one flick or two just for the win.
Body Categories
Definition | What is Body in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
anatomy, being, carcass, creature, frame, human, individual, mortal, party, person, skeleton, soul, torso