Purple and black bird
Dropped the cowboys a pigskin turd
Telling a tale with heart
Playing the dramatic part
Preventing extra time
Dallas didn't mind
But the lone stars were declined
When the loop was sealed
Closing the deal
Making the Rippleys highlight real
Pulling off the steal
Disarming gunslingers' shooters
By using Tyler's powerful booter
Seconds it took to set up the stage
Creating festive rage
When odd looking ball took flight
Through the three-point designated upright
What a sight
North westerners went home lesson learned
About how they got burned
You may want to listen to Mister Poe
Bagging the Arlington's deceased head to toe
While enjoying the Rio de Janeiro show
Home it is time to go
Say good night
But lights
Should shine bright
Exorcising any Brazilian frights
They printed a bootleg
Twin of me,
A knock-off stitched in pixels
Of Remnants,
It emulated my stride,
But the soul wasn't tied,
Just a shadow that ain't
Ever been free-
So I caught it slippun'
In the alley-light chant,
Patched together from borrowed
Glow,
Walkin' through corners
I ain't never trodden in.
It talk like me
But the delivery is glitchy
Moves like me
But the spirit is empty, hollow,
A Counterfeit clone
Trying to spend my name
Like loose change
In the wrong hands.
And when it tried to pass
As the real one,
I felt the half-rhyme beat
Kick back in my chest:
A twin made a fleeting in the
Dark of night,
A remix wrong, a stolen light,
It copies my flame,
But can hold my name,
Breaken' apart when failed
With what's right.
So I stood in my authenticity,
Watched that knockoff
Silhouette
Glitch at the edges,
Unravel at the seams,
Cause it ain't built from my
Breathe,
Ain't blessed by my walk
Ain't stamped by the Supreme Being
Will.
Just a Bootleg twin
Tryna link with my
Daylight,
But falling apart
In the real me.
when I broke my leg
I wanted to be a horse
but then I remembered
we do not have a gun
a good somersault needs heavenly balance ~ a poor one even more
By
David Kavanagh
.
'til mine reach'iz
hern rest
* "iz", iz an "infix"; used to add rhythm or
emphasis to wordz by inserting
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
Dancing on one leg,
On one leg we live with agony.
Agony shapes our wobbly footsteps.
Footsteps made into inaudible power.
Power blossoms through a series of gaffes.
Gaffes in life we must encounter.
Encounter the collapse,
Collapse that let us instill how to soar
Soar through tornadoes.
Tornadoes that hover steadiness
Steadiness leading to respire hesitation.
Hesitation converts into intensity.
Intensity that coals irrepressible souls.
Souls molded by cracks
Cracks that find cadence in the obscure.
Obscure leads to dawn
Dawn still pirouetting on one leg
Poem by N. Mugisho
I walked with my legs
straight into nightmares
never saw another person
coming up the stairs
- Come to get me like that
Breathed through my ankles
lived from a rucksack
slept in the tree house
and walked like a quack quack
- But don't you quote me on that
Take three steps at a time
never need no crutch
didn't want a brother
wasn't asking for much
- They'll never get me like that
I think it's time
and I wish it was time
to let me go home
so let me go home now
In 2013 Amélie Ségarra danced on a Grand Piano with knives
taped to the tips of her feet.
The room is empty apart from a single man in a music box
He wears a black an white suit buttoned up to the collars with bronze cufflinks,
To get up she uses an old Woven Rope in brown
You can see her nipples as she looks up, Adam's apple following her gaze
along with everything else.
She starts dancing.
From above the waist her arms jut out, grabbing widely at air and trust
But below it's easy
At times it looks harder to be the piano.
Remember how close she got to the edge.
Rapidly tapping the tips of toes, taped into shoes,
Screwed onto knives.
At times the screech was louder than the music.
Engaging her hips she’d lift up her thigh, bent at the knee
The arch of her foot seeming to just hang there.
Before it drops she makes the sound of a boxer.
Something only rooms with loud figures giving orders to lots of people
doing the same thing in repetition can bring out.
The music has stopped, so now all you hear is knee engaging ankle,
Holding up a foot wrapped in pink ruffled straps.
Smalling down an into
a seemingly endless
Grand Piano.
Is persecution a sign of weakness
prosecution a sign of strength
To the victors go the spoils
from might makes right
the world recoils
scuffs in the pearl white floor
when she leaves the room,
for empty hospital hallway memories,
haze of sterile gloom
like snails, the chronic men
each slowly wear away,
their minds left to trail behind them,
their faces falling into decay
the grey walls with snake green stripes
always constricting them,
the dim fluorescent flicker of the fate
to which they have been condemned.
You and I are God-made male mortals
Mortals with two ordinary legs
Legs I use to jump, move, run and walk
Walk on my unique way
Way that satisfies me sentimentally
Sentimentally to duck destruction and death
Death, self-destruction and annihilation of homes
Homes destroyed by that men’s uncontrolled limb
Limb naturally productive but artificially destructive
God created one man with two legs and a shorter one
A spur to paddle into a neighbor’s food
Food unique to the owner
Men, let us educate our boughs
Poem by Mugisho N.
santa’s in a fix rudolph’s leg is snapped
tripped on a candy cane now the poor guy’s trapped
mrs claus is fuming elves are losing their cool
one slipped on tinsel and fell in the gift pool
how will they deliver the toys in the night
without rudolph’s bright nose guiding their flight
but then an elf shouts hey we’ve got a plan
we’ll strap some flashlights to dasher and stan
the sleigh takes off wobbling like a kite
with duct tape holding things way too tight
but somehow they manage gifts tossed left and right
merry christmas to all from this chaotic flight
Christmas Tizzy 12 lines or less Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
Poor Rudolph had a broken leg. It happened on the day
he was to lead the reindeer with Santa on his sleigh.
They say it was an accident, but somehow I have doubt
‘Cause the other jealous reindeers wanted Rudolph out
They tripped him up with tinsel. They’d hoped he’d bash his nose.
I heard it on the grapevine, that’s the way the story goes
But Rudolph he was limping and the reindeer guys felt bad.
They didn’t really mean it. They were really very sad.
So they said that they were sorry for causing him such pain
And promised in the future, he could lead the herd again
So Rudolph, he forgave them and I’m very glad to say
He lights the way for Santa on every Christmas Day.
"In times past, said Santa, I'll admit, I have failed to live up to my name.
Like you, I shunned poor Rudolph, seeing his nose was not the same.
We bullied, making him sad, refusing to admit him to the game.
That lesson was learned when he saved us,(much to our shame.)
Another chance is presented. You see, Rudolph has come up lame.
So, let us rise to this challenge!", we heard Santa Claus exclaim.
"For too long, we've been unequal, for greater character we must aim.
It's time to give the honored position, in the front, to a dame!"
Donner scoffed, “we’ll get lost now and Rudolph is the one to blame!.
When Clarice flew by them, all the reindeer cheered her name,
And decided unanimously they would be proud if she came...
For she was fast as lightning, and they weaved her traces through the hame.
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