we are escaping; the highway rolls on
navigating through the pines
curves through the climb
we ease into the disappearing white lines
as music completes the ambiance
holding her hand, occasionally glancing
many times we have shared this ride
a retreat far into the woods
a family inheritance of many memories
every cubic inch within gravid as such
familiar down to dinnerware, coffee cups
the porch and the nights
where the moon plays between trees
the call of the nightly owl
the rare cat howl piercing serenity
a fireplace, its glow through the stillness
the routine of unpacking, stowing away
comes the promise, refuge from a world
where we have long walks
intimate conversations, porch hand-holding
and long nights in each other's arms
existence is parsecs away
an arresting silence, prisoners in love
sentenced to be alone, free at last
in the solitary love we share
Oregon 10/9/26
Gloaming gone, gloom begins;
gabbling ghouls gyrate on
gargoyles, gawping with their
grim glaucous eyes, scaring
gravid girls, gormless boys;
goatish hooves gigue upon
gibbets, grave corpses jig.
She snaps like a brine tendon,
spilling embryo chords across the basalt shelf.
Tongues of nacre split her sides,
each vertebra strung with gravid silence.
Kelp-blind, she threads the continental rift,
her fingernails seeded with unfinished continents.
Magma foams in the pouch of her pelvis,
grinding up vowels like crushed coral.
winter
with it's fangs retracted
s l i t h e r s away.
see you next year!
spring is here
gravid
with infinite possibilities
mother earth aging
in reverse; clothed
in her sunday best.
I shall make the most of
this glorious day!
l i l a c s
breath honey
into my nostrils.
i hear early birds tweeting.
i see flowers blooming.
in the infancy of spring,
pollinating bees
buzz with excitement
gleeful blades of grass
sway in the breeze.
I shall make the most of
this glorious day!
with blessings of rain,
bare trees quench their thirst.
starlings
against the lapis lazuli sky
dazzle me so.
a shy sun peeks out,
brightly beaming
down my head as I walk,
frequently whistling
beneath waltzing clouds.
I shall make the most of
of this glorious day!
My afghan man with arms like an orangutan
who likes to kiss me while we stand
He says
He loves to look into your eyes as he kisses you
She says
You are my muse
You silly goose
And I love you mightily
and tell you nightly
He is asleep now, so i will improvise his response
He says
Oh Susie Q you are the goose
I may serve you with butter
Until I hear you utter I do
Butter she says, does another food group come along
Its wrong just to butter a girl up you know
You toss in something of a pairing to make it last long
He says
For you dear its up all night
it's quite the sight
I pet it or bat it but your voice makes it gravid
Oh dear darling you have ruined my goofy poem
You darn Scottish tall gnome
I love you forever, now get to my home!!
I put orangutan into a poem. I need an award. - For Alan 10/23/2003 11:53PM Artimus (C) Susan Manley
It started as a text chat with him
it is that look in your eyes
that commences mine closing
the world disappears
the aroma in your hand
echoes the feel as your shoulder
guiding, powering the arm
the deliverance is in hand
all the senses wait for the touching
held at bay by a Percheron steadfast
angel wings whisper
as your hand arrives on my cheek
my heart in a pyroclastic bursting
as enchantment grasps
every atom within me
where time and space have no meaning
and in that instant when lips meet
the Percherons are in a full gallop
in a universe gravid with an elucidation
that consumes my life
a plethora of galaxies i so adore
all of this from a social event
i had no intention of attending
where just one perchance look
from afar across the room
became the smile on Klotho's face
OKC 4/23
Artists give birth, male of female;
we have this ever-churning womb;
embedded in the restless blood,
a gravid ghost in the gut and groin
that seeks to be born.
It is a pre-life more alive then its parent.
That blind infant pushes through all flesh
it howls, it shoves, it kicks
until something appears in this world
as a tangible child - an appendage,
as one more monstrously revealing angel
of our illegitimate selves.
Puddles
Upon its earthly track of random holes, a settling of water.
Awash with droplets from the sky that pool and eddy in the gaps
Distinct their shape, no two the same, reflecting random light
Some crystal clear that seek the patterned stones and grit below
Grasping the gravid clouds from above upon their rippling surface
While others yield to trampling feet and sodden socks
Take care with those whose silent depths belie, hidden and still
Deeper than thought, they’re sure to ensnare and cause a stumble
“Abracadabra, brass candelabra”
Bright, white light, to dark succumb
Ring the ears, trip tongues to slur
Annul sight, dim cornea
Cast your magic, mayhem, havoc
Advance enigma, elude stigma
Danger-gravid, power-avid
“Astral blast, come” cast penumbra
Blunt sweet senses, dense and numb
Rot and blot, aurora blur
Addle brain with morphia
----------
for The A's Have It Poetry Contest
sponsored by Joseph May
written on 09/07/2022
key:
Starting letters: abracadabra
Ending letters: abracadabra
“Alphabetic”
Alliteration
Rhyming
Rhyming and alliteration may overlap
Last word of 1st stanza rhymes/near-rhymes last word of 3rd stanza
The apple fell already bitten upon,
a mossy soil coated where the tooth-cleaved.
Soon grubs worked their way out
of the pith
creating a teeming mulch.
Adam had fallen asleep again,
in his gut overripe grapes fermented
turning now to drunken snores.
The apple was changing, morphing,
the earth had gone into labor.
This had not happened in paradise before,
this was self-regeneration,
the copulation of dirt with air.
It was the flood of the moon;
Eve squatted. Her body was changing,
tidal rains washed her blood,
travail begot a tillage of arousal.
Her belly swelled,
instinctively Adam built a nest
of straw, green shoots and saliva.
She grew large, gravid, a tad snappish.
she sensed deep in her belly
that this coming birth
would be both sour and dewy,
an innominate delivery for sure
riddled with good and bad seeds,
and she knew not what to call it.
The gravity
secures us
to the ground,
pregnancy
in childbirth we are
released...
The apple fell to earth. It was bitten through
it rolled; mossy soil coated the tooth-cleaved part.
Already grubs were working their way out
of the pith creating a teeming mulch.
Adam had fallen asleep yet again.
the overripe grapes fermenting in his guts
turning to drunken snores.
It was the flood of the moon.
Eve squatted behind a mulberry bush
wishing she were more fair and slim
like the angels in her dreams. Her body was changing,
tidal rains washed her blood
and that travail begot spawning buds,
the tillage of arousal.
The apple was changing, dissolution morphing
into beauty; the earth had gone into labor.
This had not happened in paradise before,
this was self-regeneration, death, and life,
the copulation of dirt with air.
Eve’s belly swelled, growing as round and burnished
as an autumn apple. Instinctively Adam built a nest
of straw, green shoots and saliva.
She grew large, gravid, and snappish,
stamping her feet impatiently;
this birth would be a paradigm of progeny to come,
a dewy innominate offering
quilted from angelic and demon seeds
and she knew not what to call it.
Gravid universe
Promises Fertility
Cosmic copulates
They say he's losing his mind
But he only weeded the garden
They just don't recognize flowers
5th grade
I remember Mr. Werner
with that soft, gentle voice -musky cologne
calling his boys to his desk
to slowly fondle away our innocence...
and what of that paper mâché cave
in the back of the classroom
I somehow avoided that Black hole of darkness
I hear others weren't as fortunate.
At the end of each day
after he was done with us playthings...
he would read aloud a chapter of
"A Wrinkle in Time"
He was nothing but a perfumed swine.
Arthur! You're 86 years old now; time to confess.
I hear the paper mache cave children are coming back.
To birth the truth from those gravid days...
They say you've turned off your phone.
Won't answer the door, transferred ownership of your home...
Trapped in a paper mâché cave of your own making.
I think I'll join the cave children in the fray.
To help smooth out that wrinkle in time.
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