Long Hands down Poems
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Kawehi : Part Three
No-one can be like Kawehi; but if you listen to her with me,
You will see the smile on my face and maybe, just maybe,
You will realise the love I have to give, is here inside your arms.
Hold me and never let go and in the morning set no alarm.
Let’s wake up together when we are fully rested,
So we can spend another day down with the gifted.
Yea-----h!!! You rock!
I love her music…Mrs. Beatbox.
She can pick the right song and make it better.
I don’t have a new complaint; I am all apologies to any other.
Pop bands can try and try, but they will never be good enough.
Kawehi wins hands down; my soul has been shaken.
Throw down your remixing tools, because they have begun to rust.
If you want a song to be improved, she just makes it happen.
I am in nirvana, with Nirvana,
But when I hear Lucy leaving me to Kawehi’s wonders;
I just think she could never understand me,
So now she is just a memory.
My world revolves around my soul and you drown out all the thunder;
Noise only exists inside my headphones and you are no fictional reality.
No tomorrow could compare to the day I found your songs;
It’s a very, what? Happy birthday!
So surprised to find you there,
Beneath the sounds of those who do it right
And you are able re-write the bad band’s wrong’s.
All you do is right to me and what more can I say?
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Is there any better sleep than an afternoon nap?
I think not, my Soup friendlies
Hands down, it's like I imagine what heaven is like
Not that I'm in any big hurry to make the trip
I really don't advise doing this if you haven't retired yet
Your boss could get a cranky old sod
Especially if you have your afternoon nap
In the middle of a very important client meeting
Perhaps then you might know what it's like to be retired
When I was much younger I envisioned retirement
As being “put out to pasture”
It ain't happened yet, I'm still full of “viss and pinegar”
As a hobby, I started searching some recipes online
And have made some tantalizing dishes
Which turned out pretty good for a rookie chef
Much to Cathie's delight I might add!
So my afternoon naps have been a lot less frequent recently
Along with writing poetry and cooking up a storm
I'm having to allot some special nap time
What a twist that's turned out to be!
© Jack Ellison 2014
No Flies on Me
What is it that makes these creatures so hated
With an image in life that’s always berated
Could it be their allure to the dung and decay
Where their babies are born, what more can one say
And after to settle on sugar and butter
Then vomit and liquefy food for their supper
Their ability to taste is inbuilt in their feet
They can walk upside down as well as excrete
So mind your heads that’s a warning to you
You could find yourselves all covered in poo
With probing proboscis that persistently delves
Shows ample dare and considerable nerve
Their acute reactions and speedy avoidance
Cause so many, significant annoyance
With compound eyes they’re bound to win
Their battles with swats, firmly hands down
Without the fly we would lose such a lot
So many beauties with colors to spot
As pollinators they’re ace, akin to the bee
They’re food for the frog and the spider you see
The gardeners love them for aphids they eat
This indulgence in pests is real tough to beat
But sadly the diptera steadily decline
Their extinction would mean the end of the line
There’s no flies on me and I hope that I’m wrong
And we would no more sing life’s glorious song
gaslight me the movie
of my underdeveloped consciousness
give me a hand
take thine arm
without the silent treatment
and a thank you
for the mind fook
hoovering is not allowed
this is not magic but it is
never seen a fly so brave
the invitation is in the mail
RSVP the art intelligentsia
or Milly`la`Foret's lost inheritance
embodyed in the stereotype
of conceptual oopart
padded by manipulative faking
whack my loot
thu nigh thy sacred book
smiell my surrender thighs
over a fabricated link
burning real Benjamins
to the sound of Marilyn Manson
pareidolia
patterns and wormholes and time loops
time present and future coexist
what to do with such knowledge
carved into the limestone
surrounding a city like distrust
lifted in grey moire
over a living ocean
rocked over engraving rollers
in the arms of a sleeping monster
whatever it is
it's right up ahead
everything weighed and measured
the metrology of red flags
illumated under ambient withholding
dreamt up into a real world
of Indian parenting techniques
dormant till spring
into the arms of the universal awakening
a kinetic toy is walking
must be the bravest sub of all
to have turned off all notifications
under a gas light on the green screen
splitting personalities
abannan soleil and mistel
disclosed and made public
spinning on the golden wheel
eyes glaring a dupper's delight
hidden underneath an unkept beard
chin up and hands down recoiling
the circuit does not always
go round and round
it comes from underground
with little steps
tip toe in the dark
the water is warmer for you there
peowetling peowian
it's not from where i am
cold in the head
cold shoulder painted red
don't pay your rent all at once
is a forever later game.
by a rinelle in Catemaco
reddish purple about the neck
innocent and unsecured
not noosed nor snared
skilled in mysteries and kindness
i mind here finely prepped
a synomyn in liminal space
past your window into another's partition
the remote to our TV disappeared last night
my husband and I checked both sides of our chairs
the table, a shelf, the floor, a shoe, the garbage can
My husband asked “do you think Beau has it?”
“Not a chance,” I told him “we would hear him chewing it”.
We turned on the lights and tore the living room apart.
Moved the couch and both recliners.
Put our hands down the recliners three or four more times.
“Your mom’s birthday is tomorrow,” I said “do you think it is her saying hello?”
His mother has been gone twenty years, but this felt like spirit playing tricks.
We already lost one remote to this machine and it was never found.
I will not be surprised if it is sitting here next to our chairs tomorrow.
I was wrong.
It was sitting on the chair in the morning.
A little young Indian girl met a white man,
He asked her questions about the earth,
The little Indian sat on the earth and place her hands down,
She asked the white man to do the same,
She asked him what do you feel.
The white man told her i feel nothing for it was just earth,
The little Indian girl then started to say,
To feel the earth you have to be open to feel,
I feel the rumble of the earth like it breathes,
Do you feel the rumble?
The white man say yes I can feel the rumble,
The little Indian girl stood and told the white man to do the same,
She put her arms out to the sides of her space,
She begins to say do you feel the spirit of the wind?
The spirit of the wind the white man said all confused,
Yes the spirit of the wind, for if there was no spirit in the wind
How do you exist? For your body needs the air to breathe,
The spirit in the wind helps you breathe,
Oh I see the white man said,
Look come the little Indian girl spoke has she ran off,
The white man followed her to a dying dear,
She place her hands on it,
What do you see what do you feel,
The white man said I feel nothing but I know this dear will be dinner soon,
The Indian girl spoke please remove your evil sight and begin to see,
Place your hands on the dear and close your eyes begin to feel,
For this dear has a life even a spirit and a name,
But all you white men have been taken away from your true destiny,
The white man place his hands on the dear,
And began to cry,
I feel its pain the white man said,
The little Indian girl replied,
Don’t be sad that the dear is moving on,
He will return to the earth from where he came,
His spirit will swore in the sky’s and even become a wisdom spirit,
That will guide us.
The white man stood wiped his tears,
And said I now see,
The earth is spirited with all that walk apron it,
written by Davina Browne
26/01/2015
inspired by my muse
Form:
In a vally, so deep and narrow.
We find the indian, him and his bow and arrow.
Where waters which flow in a steady current.
Cover the rocks and the stones, which forever flourish.
Bucks and buffalo cross this channel.
Easy prey, for the bow and arrow.
On this dark dim dusk filled day.
We find the indian, him and his easy prey.
He pulled out his arrow.
Rosined up his bow.
Drew back hard.
Kept his hands down low.
He fired his arrow.
It flew through the air.
There lie the buffalo; and the indian,
who didn't care..
Indian Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1985,2015..ALL rights reserved..
Were I to swim to the edge of the sea,
what splendid scene should await for me?
Would I behold the legendary town
with glittering brick roads and king’s famed crown?
Could I uncover the truth in the seed,
win a place in the king’s absolute creed?
Anoint my body, in sticky sap drown,
paddle to Guatavita and dive down.
Arise from the waters clean as a bead,
to the fest of El Dorado I’d lead.
No other exists so gilded, hands down,
an existence of gold — building and gown.
I’d join with the Muiscan folk, indeed
take up residence and full life proceed
to build again a foundation so sound
that none could purloin the gold around.
World befallen by avarice and greed,
best forgotten I hardily accede.
To such golden place without up or down
I’d ever exist in paradise found.
I will start with using my hand as a guide
And in the end I will open my eyes that I will decide
I consider to do this with one thing in mind
I will close my eyes and will imagine it blind
With no colors or fractionation of the light
Just plain me and a vision with my hand as my sight
My hair is very coarse and some what fine
What I just described is so benign
I twirl my hair and make it bend
And I will say its very clean not oily on the ends
As I press on my forehead I simply feel a distinct part
I notice from hair to skin it is very different from the start
The simple partings from hair not like skin
I am going to feel with my other hand and begin
The smoothness of my skin like years of water eroding a rough rock surface smooth
Not just that my skin is like home to years of stories like scars and attitude
And when I raise my eyebrows the wrinkles it makes is more so for expression
I did not notice it with certain ideas, thoughts, and emotions
I run my hands down to my eyelids I feel movement of my eyes trying to peek
Eyelids that I have, vibrates with some kind of fear, Why?, that I will seek
Just now as I thought about it a sensation ran through my brain
My eyes is the world to me and that is true and not insane
Myself portrait of me is through my touch for now
But to finish it I will have to open my eyes soon and how
I been in a trance full of so many ideas just with my eyes closed
I run my hand on my nose and lips and I smile who could apposed
The feelings in the tip of my fingers rub on my chin and jaw with care
I do notice roughness of unshaved velcro gripping hair
I skip my ears so I will sneak a feel with my fingers I chose
I notice it is like my nose with cartilage, so I don't suppose
I will now open my eyes that I will use a mirror to see myself
My head is oval shape and my neck is like a stump, please help
My skin is very tan and my eyes are brown with my eyes I see
With all the description with my hands, one sure thing is the same and key
It is the description of measurements that is what my hands and eyes can see me
With a smile I am looking into the mirror and I can describe that I am happy
Myself portrait of me is such a way to get to know myself once more
I will never think it was a waste of time or a bore
Have you ever noticed how
raunchy our children can smell?
Like the stench that arises
from, say, a rotting seashell.
It's true; cohabitation
can impose a certain stink.
But family ignores it,
despite what others might think.
Sometimes a polite request
is personal and discreet.
And other times, dad might yell,
for God's sake, go wash your feet.
Baths are most often paid for
when odors can't be ignored.
Perhaps you'll offer a toy
or some treat as a reward.
When they sit on an incline,
foul gasses tend to leak out.
And with a rubicund blush,
they'll blame the dog, no doubt.
We have learned to tolerate
most odors floating around.
But those silent, deadly farts
are the grossest smell, hands down.
(Quatrain)
3/5/2015