Long Tendons Poems
Long Tendons Poems. Below are the most popular long Tendons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tendons poems by poem length and keyword.
Sometimes I can’t go to sleep;
because she just won’t shut up!
Obsessive chatterbox, interrupts until I put
pen to paper or brush to canvas.
The many nights she’s had me working at
two, three or four am;
she doesn’t stop until her imagery has a physical home.
My walls are full of her mid-night neighborhoods,
Bold-colored tantrums and ravings.
My hand aches; searing pains wreak havoc
on spent tendons but, she won’t shut up.
My journals are clogged from her cries,
jokes and yes, wisdom.
My life is full because of her, even without rest.
Somehow, sleeplessness is insignificant
in the light of her gifts.
I never want to live without Muse.
Easy go fast and slow the melding of two souls is prime
when the sun plays hide and seek all hearts reframe
while wordless exchanges of timeless moments derail
the eye engages and the mind draws in the other self
loosing tendons as they climb to the climax of good sex
wrapping each other up with an embrace of lip to hip ...
Pantomiming sensuality unleashing below the surface
skin to skin they reveal the many faces of oneself
as shutter stock images arrive to reel in life,
everything begins to slow with insistent moments of syntax,
when all fair in love and war, thats when it matters most .
5/12/2020
Winter had buried
the tectonic Earth with...snow:
a wedding white land;
the xanthus plumes
of the snowbird, with
black amethyst eyes-
their hearts. HIS cracked...
cup... is a ground glacier till
sculpture; he drinks
the coffee; he looks
at the color: perhaps the shade
of a FLUXING moon;
an ancestor's skin,
of the hot Earthen cradle;
the shores of Summer.
Today pollen drops
softly like the fold of a Robin's
wings as they alight
on tarnished grass,
the brown-green tendons of Spring.
The wings are the hue
of black-grey clouds-mountains
that rise in the evening
sky-monsters-that float,
suspended like their
conversation. SHE smiles
as he tries to brush
her thin fingers, hue
of a corpse on a medical
examiner's slab.
She withdraws. A door
creaks, the curry -yellow drapes
that cast night shades shift,
caress the wall- soul
of the sandy hare this morn'-
she whispers, "THE WIND".
My soles are set free when I walk in my house,
Free once I walk through the door.
My soles are free to feel every emotion,
When they walk all over the floor,
On the deep piles of plush, which shags both my soles,
Loving tendons, ankles, heels and big toes,
The rug kneading and soothing, rubbing and stroking,
Turning both of my soles into dough.
And once my soles have unwound to an ease,
After their escape from their cells,
My other soul’s set free from its daily torment,
My other soul’s relaxing as well.
My sole gifts my soul a lovely small gift,
Every day when I no longer roam…
My sole relaxes every bit of my soul,
When I stand on the carpet at home.
Scarlet Rivers--by David Lustrup 2016
if you saw my heart tonight
you wouldn't recognize it
trodden trampled torn apart
before i realized it
shredded hanging bleeding
tendons torn and tattered
you were everything to me
you were all that mattered
and now im drowning in this blackness
circling the drain im going down
where is the end to all this madness
this misery is so profound
memories play like movies in my mind
kissing your lips so bittersweet
little short films playing constantly
tear jerkers on repeat
and id give my torn, and tattered heart
for a bright tomorrow, where were not apart
and id sell my last drop, of blood you see
for a single smile, that was meant for me
under star filled skies, in the deep dark night
i remember you, in the pale moonlight
with a million stars, shining in your eyes
how much i loved you, you never realized
as i pull the trigger
as i hit the ground
flashes of your face fly
as lights are dimming down
life is fleeting now
as im bleeding out
let the rivers flow, the rivers flow, scarlet rivers flow now.
Form:
Some wake up in cardboard boxes.
Some drive around in silver boxes.
Cops in Irish pubs drink whisky
with black morning coffee.
Who will be first to climb the dawn light?
Daybreak stretches its long gray tendons
to high windows
where dim reflections mirror
strings of geese leaving.
There’s a virus crawling around they say.
Some wake up dying,
some night-walkers go home
to their daydreams.
The town will wear a different mask for a while,
on the freeway rubber rolls to elsewhere.
A limp light wallows in roof guttering’s,
shadows run low, scuttle into dank corners.
The last skein of geese has passed by.
I am at my window watching,
the concrete cells are waking,
some will not sleep again,
not before the next gasping night
steals their breath away.
The blade in my hand has been honed razor sharp by reality
I wield it with the careful precision of a skilled physician
who was accrued decades of experience
performing the tedious task of dissecting existence
cutting cleanly through connective tissue to the bone
peeling back striated muscle and skin
securing them with tiny pins
severing ligaments and tendons
disarticulating joints and limbs
unveiling what by design has been hidden
beneath the deceptive shell of rosy flesh
revealing what some shield themselves from
by donning blinders made from money
building walls with the bricks of their success
never having seen or but briefly glimpsed
the darkness and depravity of the world
that exists within each of us
buried deep down or just under the surface
before turning away in disgust
preferring the pretty pictures on the wall
to the truth of it all
Can't see my mug
Put bum cream on my face
Thought I saw you drinking white wine
Too late to go to bed
Jumbled thoughts get you that way
On a long day
When the brain is drained
And the night is cold
Spilled the Jaegermeister
On the new carpet
The corners of my mouth
Are much better now
Thanks to the cream
Something I saw in my dream
Was that something in my reality
The glass full of drink
I took into church
Wasn't the cup of suffering
I thought it to be
Yet I spilled it on the rug
Dragged the 7 fin heater
Behind on the bike like a trailer
Thought it might tip
Crossing the railway
It started to rain
Didn't want it to get wet
Rested it on the veranda
At the old peoples home
But they might snatch it
As I have to go and do a job
Down the road a little
Nah, they can't afford it anyway
Can you see the connection
Between the metaphors?
As if the thoughts
Are spilled like blood
Sacrificially
Like the man who
Pulled a knife on me
To show me how he would cut
Both Achilles' tendons
So I'd never walk again
Only I gained some distance
On that imagined reality.
Yes, it is as if the thoughts are
Spilled like
Sacrificial blood.
Fibromyalgia pain, unbearable at times
Is only good for turning in to rhymes
Bending is a problem with pain throughout
Regular twitches and spasms of doubt
Obnoxious frenemy causing woe
Morning stiffness from head to toe
Yawning constant every day
Aggressive and hard to keep at bay
Ligaments, tendons, muscles all sore
Gastro tracts feeling poor
Insomnia making for sleepless nights
Anxiety, depression, memory fights
Swollen glands, shooting pain
Temperature swings, damn migraine
Ribs hurt, back aches, itchy skin
Out of order, BUT not giving in
Nerves all frazzled, Fibro is rough
Gives us hell, BUT we are Tough.
my carnivore self is displayed out in the open
I tear a bovine’s tendons and muscle with gusto
my teeth coming up red and bloody;
it is the human way, is it not?
my mouth, throat and gullet gulp away,
unaware of the undigested meat already in my colon.
I plan an organized kindness parade, not caring about cows
Or pigs, unless I am anticipating bacon and pork roast.
I seek direction from no one; feeling all-powerful.
I am a carnivore, am I not? This is validation enough.
My cologne is a combo of unrecognizable floral mixes.
I look pretty, therefore, my killing ways can be forgiven.
Later today I can do a bit of wind surfing or fall off my skates.
My concentration is no longer on my food, but on life.
Why am I never satisfied? Where does my depression originate?
My dendrite stream never realizes I am picking up on animal psyche.
In a subconscious way, my body is reacting to their misery.
When they get brain smashed, so they can be carved into steaks.
I lick my lips, enjoying Heinz 57, wishing I can figure out what is wrong.
My soul knows, but cannot share it with me on this plane.
Will I understand post death when I see my own cadaver?
Will my corpse make me realize how uncivilized meat eating is?
Will I be depressed as I head toward heaven?
Or will I be heading to a lower place?