Long My own Poems
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Late mid-life street woman she is...
I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still shaped like a Boticelli urn, wrapped
in arms diaphanous in flesh and heat,
fanned banana leaves swaying to
latin notes while cooking fried bamboo
shoots, her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic fly: how she pinched
my cheek with her tapered fingers still
wrinkled pink in grasses floating
on her quivering body.. .
somehow, she gave me this
epiphany of riding with my own instinct,
the slow wave of breaths gently drifting
through a young rosiness of my adolescent
stems... if i knew how to swirl in the wakening
glides of inner flow , it was her circling baked hips
winding and bellying in nights and morns
of her own natural sashays...
How i long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still
blazing among plucked banana leaves
of female revelry or finery… I tell myself,
there is no age when her contour sways
in places where her eyes dazzle
with her near floating, tanning limbs,
of how she made me feel unashamed
being just who I am without much caution
or youthful pride; humbled so by her inherent
moon-full grace…
©
... ..............
Skat's Contest---Any Old Poem #4
We know there are ghosts in the mirror,
choose any mirror and look long enough -
it is dangerous, but so is not looking.
When my own apparition appeared there
it felt like I was a passenger on a metro-line,
seeing the oncoming tunnels, the blinking of daylight
between the speeding darkness.
I assume that we are all on a reflected journey,
the ‘where to’ and ‘why’ might be on the other side
of that reflection
and those in that other place
may be looking for the same answers.
Like Saul melting into Paul on his way to Damascus,
would we go blind or far-sighted
by this looking?
Can we really bear to peer into a mirror
until the dead appear and we disappear?
Will those we see
be younger or older than our memories?
When we stare into that bright unmasking
will we be entering a tunnel
or leaving one?
This here is a public service announcement so listen close
I mind my business
walk thru life looking thru my own scope
I'm a believer of ying & Yang
as the ancient philosophers preached
"as above, so it is below"
I vibe high as well as low depending on my mood
so if my energy ain't for you
your presence from mine is what you might wanna excuse
my spirit and my tongue is absolute
so it's a rarity if you see me doing a one eighty
I'm far from obtuse I can't and won't dilute the pure me
trust me you couldn't walk a block in these boots
so here's a 21 gun salute to everybody who didn't make the cut
I wish you nothing but the best
but allegedly this is the fifth dimension
nothing is what it seems so everything is up for discussion
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It was her kitchen, her family, and my newly-married man, and I aimed to please her by properly being fed.
With a smile and a swish, “We have butterscotch pudding pie for dessert!” My brand spanking new mother-in-law said.
Her excitement had no knowledge of the instant memory of horribleness that leaped instantly to my own quickly confused head.
I tried to take an invisible pretend bite while the family all watched, eagerly waiting but my traitorous mouth played dead.
Tears filled my eyes, as I was unnaturally smothered with the sad, angry hurt of my long-ago favorite butterscotch pie.
The feelings came so damned fast, I could not stop them at all or even slow them down, and they surrounded me, and made me cry.
When I was eleven, my family of origin was in the kitchen, laughing, and playing, and goofing around.
When the phone rang, I was asked to get it, because it was wire-attached to the wall, and I was the closest to the retched sound.
I had never heard my mother wail or keen until that day, certainly never heard her yell, “DICK!” or fall without any game to play.
Our big Dad jumped up faster than we had ever seen, grabbed rag-doll Mom before she hit the kitchen counter in a not so great way.
We all turned pure white, which was odd because we were usually pink. Fascinated, yet, hungry, I took my first bite, and heard the words “Mom is dead, and Dad’s dead too.”
We kids started shaking, sad and scared. Grandma and Grandpa were our king and queen. When things calmed down in a second or two that damned butterscotch pie tasted like glue.
Everyone wailed wild-eyed, faces red. The cousins came, and we huddled together and cried and screamed how great it was sob, sob, that they both went to heaven.
Yes, I know that was many years ago but when my feelings took my body over loud and clear, they clamped my mouth tightly shut, because I was back to 11.
I walk to the beat of my own drum
In a life that has taken me through
Highs and lows, love, loss, rejection and union
Experiences of all kinds with the map of my life
The beat goes on, with inner strength
I walk on through my lessons, take turns in the roads
Yet returning sometimes to things I left behind
Always beating the drum of truth, as I will
It may not be the beat of yours, but it is mine
I search mountain ranges for answers to questions
Seek sights that I have never seen, things unknown
Visit places old or new to makes sense of it all
Then accept the outcome of my travels, today
For it is this map of my life that I have made
As I walk the beat of my own drum
Heidi Sands
6/13/17
"You're so pretty."
Those words seem to define me.
A seemingly stable presentation of everything I could be.
My appearance must mean I am strong and stable in my own mind.
I must never believe every creeping and deceiving lie.
"She must be mean."
I must be the cause of all other girls' insecurities.
Not through my looks, but through my assumed personality.
I can't be hurt by anybody.
Words don't sting as much when they graze seemingly stable skin.
But they don't know that I am as weak as I have always been.
"Physical approval must be enough."
No one notices the skipped lunch.
No one cares about the me worth knowing.
All they see is the me worth showing.
The illusion is not me.
It's your seemingly stable certainty of who I must be.
You took advantage of me
My youth and gullibility
A medical professional held in such high esteem
Yet behind a closed door evil schemed
An older gentleman with charismatic charm
Interested, funny, reassuring, calm
Highly regarded ,recommended, well known
No fear at all of being with you alone
A bustling surgery with comings and goings
Streams of patients that just kept flowing
My appointments were always early morning
Before my work-day started transforming
It started with little things and l just wasn’t sure
My mind in turmoil as l walked out your door
Blaming myself …..this just can’t be
This man is the best in the business ….so it has to be me!
The day l knew it was definitely not right
In shock, uncomfortable, embarrassed…..l took flight
I cried so hard…l felt violated
My whole being felt desecrated
I made a call, my story pursued
Confirming my truth ,my trust and body you abused
My own questions, doubts, uncertainty l hushed
Believing instead in a man of position and trust
You did to me what you shouldn’t do
For your own pleasure .… there was no excuse
A trusting young woman you exploited and abused
You took advantage of me…..Shame, Oh shame on You!
Why do I hang onto your every word?
When I know I am merely the shame you play
The controlled part of the wanting to be loved game!
The ever changing rules,
keeping me tethered close to my false hope
Me the cup of empty that fills you up for a while
I know you want what I want,
but you want it from somebody else....
So I pick up the bread crumbs of your attention,
ignoring the being ignored part
The "not tonight I'm too busy" part
The "You can come over later and be with me" part
Then there's the clinging onto you till morning part
When daylight comes you can't pretend I'm him
You shower to rinse away the achy dirty feeling part,
Those feelings seemed less relevant in the dark
That pleasured pain that somehow tears us both apart
Me the proverbial fool
Taking
Needing
Accepting
Settling on less than nothing
Knowing that if he changes his mind
I will vanish, disappear, evaporate like the sweat from our bodies
Like the stench of our desperation
So I hope your pathetic wanting will merge with my own
I keep waiting and hoping
Dreaming and pretending
That somehow
Somewhere behind those vibrant eyes
you do
Really want me
Even though in my soul
I know
This is all I will ever have
This not enough bit that I cling to
That voice that knows one day you'll be gone
Hopefully not today, for without you I fear my tomorrow
Oh how I wish this heart wanted something else
anything else
That there was someone else
other than you
Why does it have to be you?
Don't be concerned friends, I have the one I want!
For Alfred Vassallo's "How does it feel to be Unwanted" contest.
MY SPIRIT SOARS
"The wind rides in solitude, In her diaphanous delight Her skirts brush eternity, To gather the stars of night"
Music fills my soul and wakes up my senses
and I find my whole body moving to the beat,
rhythm, tempo, cadence of the music in precise,
distinguished moves, defined, delivered with feelings.
How dancing stirs me and lifts me up is beyond me.
Every move I emote is an expression of art, feeling
serenity, freedom, happiness and being in a trance
while I sway, shake gracefully, showing my authenticity.
Dressing up makes me feel free, expressing my love
of fashion and expressing my own style, individuality.
It is art to me, playing, coordinating colors, adding
accents of scarves, hair pieces, belts showing my chic way.
Travel enlightens me, brings joy, delight to my being.
It gives me knowledge, being aware of the facts and
familiar with the places I visit while enjoying my stay.
It gives me freedom of exploring and sweet memories.
How my passions carry, transport me into
another world, where I find solitude, serenity,
freedom, delight, joy or up above with the stars
and that is when my spirit soars with the wind.
5/3/21 Choose Your Form Poetry
Joseph May
Chose: Option #4
Checked: PS Grammar Checker
I am Microscopic
The Ant of Man
A speck of dust, a particle
A tiny grain of sand
I swarm in swarms on Mother Earth
I am the alpha of Her birth
It is me I worship, Pagan Man!
– In idolatry of all I stand
Forged in my own image, I am
Cut out, organic
Of plaster, dust and granite –
I am the earthen works, the pillars of antiquity
The Stonehenge of the mystic tribe; I seize
The crust, the mantle
The liquid rock and all that I can handle
Midas-like I have the touch
Of gold within my hand
Where water turns to wine
And dust into the Sands of Time –
I am Atlas Shrugged, I bend
Man and metal with my mind
I achieve the sky in shrieks and cries
– My shadow reaches far and wide
Of me, Myself, I sing, a deity
Manifest of destiny, statuesque
Unscripted and inspired
In dominion over everything:
Water, wind and fire –
I raise my Mighty Self above it all –
I am the Architect, behold
My ego reaching high!
I am Alpha and Omega – it is I!
Microscopic? Only to the eye!