Letter 'K'
Kaleidoscopic aura kindles the kunstvoll dawn sky,
God's kingly artistry kneaded in the lapis lazuli,
Kissed by the sun, kinesthetic earth feels klutzy,
Light rays knock gently on day's door,
This knockout scene would make anyone kneel
Or keel over in kitschy joy ~
A keen reminder of the glory of the Kingdom to come.
all automatic alligators arrive arrogantly
barely behave beautifully but brazenly
carousing with creepy cruddy crocodiles
desperately denying despicable wiles
effectively expediting expediency
forever forsaking fruit flies who flee
glaring at grazing gritty grouses
hijacking horrific herbivore’s handy houses
igniting ingenious iguanas in I-o-Way
jubilantly joining jerky jaguars along the way
kibitzing kinesthetic killers from Zion
lollygagging like lively luxurious mountain lions
marvelously marking multitude of mini monkeys
notoriously noting nefarious nodules of displease
ostentatiously opening overt outages in Oregon
providing panda putrid prey Paul just spit on
quarrelsome quicksand quail
rapidly reading registered mail
saying sassing sentences swiftly
turning terrific tarantulas toenails thickly
utilizing underwater undercurrents down under
verifying valid villans' voluptuous plunder
with wild willingness and witchy wonder
‘xacting ‘xactly ‘xtreme ‘xestentialism supreme
yelling youngster’s yips on front of the queen
zinging zealous zealots into zebras galore
end of this abcedarian poem, there is no more.
Karla the kickback kindred kinesthetic witch from Kickapoo County
Ran back to Rustic Ranch when she kicked out Murray the Mountie.
The way she was running, we thought there might be a bounty.
She has a wildly weird wonderful reputation here in Kickapoo County.
Amalgam vis-à-vis
of enzymes...
enraptured bows
of intimate fires...
Love, unsatisfied mix
of electrons, protons and neutrons!
screens emotionally
intertwined in feelings
ethereally woven...
prime seams,
magnetized caresses
attracted by the vortex,
kinesthetic vibration
that is the love !
Let’s celebrate our…
Ambivalent attitudes
Brave boldness
Creative curiosity
Desirable delightfulness
Enthusiastic expectations
Fabulific Ferociousness
Golden goals
Humanistic hopes
Intelligent imagination
Joyful jolliness
Kinesthetic kindness
Lovely laugh
Marvelous manners
Nonsensical nature
Outstanding optimism
Playful presence
Quintessential qualities
Radical reviews
Savvy sassiness
Terrific tones
Universal understanding
Valiant verbosity
Wonderful wildness
‘xceptional ‘xpectations
Yabba-dabba youthfulness
Zesty zaniness
muscle memory
kinesthetic awareness ...
like riding a bike
11/27/2022
Poetry form: Senryu (for you and me too)
Finding balance can be like riding a bike if we just keep our focus on the more important things.
I'll look at your picture
again today,
but in my mind
You are kinesthetic,
though my images
do not flow smoothly
But jump about in
unpredictable
stop and go,
Attitudes that melt
suddenly to find
animation.
You are never still
but keep on trying
at my idle doors
Demanding
Entrance!
Lamps be lit!
I'll look a bit
longer at these
photographic eyes
Picturing again
the life
inside.
Softer than the softest satin,
admired with style and grace;
Caressing me with fingertips
regarding my skin as sacred;
Etching every inch in your mind,
drawing only seen with closed eyes;
Scandalous like your imagination,
kinesthetic unforgettable trip;
Imprinted tapestry of devotion
narcotic stupor, I can’t forget your touch.
I am playing in the kinesthetic sand pile
With a child who has never professed to like me
I have done my unusual best to like him though
I believe he has come around today
When we share some stories and a couple of laughs.
He is a fourth grader who despises Chick Filet.
I despise Chick Filet myself, so we establish commonality.
I give him a time limit.
If I don’t, they want to stay all day.
I am the counselor.
My “gig” is playing.
I ask him if he has any questions for me.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” He asks.
“I want to be a race car driver,” I reply.
He nods. “I thought that was it.”
Great start to a Friday.
I am playing in the kinesthetic sandpile
With a child who has never professed to like me
I have done my unusual best to like him though
I believe he has come around today
When we share some stories and a couple of laughs.
He is a fourth grader who despises Chick Filet.
I despise Chick Filet myself, so we establish commonality.
I give him a time limit.
If I don’t, they want to stay all day.
I am the counselor.
My “gig” is playing.
I ask him if he has any questions for me.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” He asks.
“I want to be a race car driver,” I reply.
He nods. “I thought that was it.”
Great start to a Friday.
without moving anything but my eyes I see
a mouse pad, computer, power cord, phone
fork, knife, spoon, half eaten chunk of meatloaf
stapler, scissors, Clorox wipes
Jason Reynolds and Ibram X Kendi’s books Stamped
without leaving my seat at my desk
I see two bottles of hand sanitizer, my work badge,
a red cloth face mask I am tired of wearing
an address book with a multitude of squiggles
which no one else could read
they might possibly think I was mentally ill if they got closer
by turning only my head to the right I see two notebooks
three pens, one of them happily has red ink
an oversized yellow bottle of water I continually knock over
a roll of blue tape, and a walkie talkie that needs plugged in
I am looking to the left now. Three posters
One says “Effort and Perseverance are the Keys to Success”
There is a blue chair with an ugly hexagonal print in yellow
A bookcase with kinesthetic sand which I love as much as the children
Welcome to an Elementary School Counselor’s Office
The Marmite Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Natasha L Scragg
Written 8-17-2021
The child’s face is as red as his mask, which is red.
The principal says, “He needs a place to cool down”.
He looks like he needs a refrigerator.
I wish he had a popsicle; he needs one for sure.
I give him two choices- talk or just play.
He chooses to play, a good sign.
Some come in so angry they choose to glare.
I have ten grandchildren, so I easily ignore this.
When he is ready to talk, he turns into Mr. Delightful.
He tells me his woes which do not sound like woes at all.
I tell him I think this is silly stuff.
I ask him “what do you think?” He agrees it is silly stuff.
While we play with kinesthetic sand I learn more.
He has some mean teenage sisters who pick on him.
He has a brother he never gets to see, and another brother
who died of a drug overdose. He says this matter-of-factly; he is eight.
I am starting to think maybe he has a reason to look angry.
An angry face almost always is a mask for sadness.
I am sad for him. He continues to play, throwing out more information.
I am not surprised; this is how it always goes in my office.
Everyone needs a friend
Teachers too
So I am one to them
Even though I was never their favorite
As a student
I was too opinionated
Too self-assured
Too involved in my imagination land
Most of what they tried to teach
I had to teach myself later
For teachers used to do all of the talking
We were not in groups
We did not pair up
We did no talking at all
I am a kinesthetic learner
So the only thing I could do for self-preservation
Was to tune them out completely
So I could live my truth
Only seven percent of the population of the world
Learn through hearing; we call them auditory learners.
We have so few, and yet in the 50’s and 60’s
Their way is the only way the teachers taught
So I took my kinesthetic self, and nurtured her the only way I knew how
Today’s teachers have learned better.
Yet how do many teach?
The way that only reaches seven percent, sadly.
School used to be my awful place.
Some teachers did not understand.
Kinesthetic child moves
New ideas okay
The best practices
Was the Sixties
Imprisoned
School
Cell
As the tempo lifts unto a spotlight
releasing a pulsed dangle where limbs,
arms, and hips gyrate on flamed waves
of a lambent dance: skirts mounting
through Chicago musical’s tones…
and like splashed paint, each raced jiggle
turns vaudeville into fireworks of air-brushed strokes
illuminating the arena with raw movement
as every tap enters a kinesthetic pore;
while I, between suctioned gasps,
quiver inside my belly…intoxicated!
For Contest No 227: Brian Strand
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