Long Thin skinned Poems
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We call it adult humor
Dressed like late night intellect
But the joke is just a cheap dare
We clap like it’s profound
We claim it’s edgy commentary
Wrapped in clever phrasing
But it’s really playground bravado
Posing as sophistication
We say it’s mature wit
Served with craft beer confidence
But it’s just petty mischief
Wearing a grown up voice
We insist it’s highbrow comedy
Sold as cultural insight
But it’s thin skinned teasing
Masquerading as satire
We pretend we’ve evolved past childishness
Framing jokes as worldly wisdom
But the truth is embarrassingly simple
We never stopped laughing at the easy stuff
On the yellow balloon
The one that goes up
A red dressed girl tip toes daintily
Floats on the rubbery surface
Dances on the head of a pin
Helium never felt so good
Bare footed balanced on top
The world below is far from over
Primary blue sky, pastel oceans merge
Storm rises upside down and backward
Where winds might take them
Into the future where land and sea begin
Pink is not out of the question
Flamingos have been known to swoop
When they fly by a yellow balloon
A ballerina on top motions alone
Encircling observers from a helicopter
Close in to click a shot, camera ready
Pictured perfect with angel smiles
Observers step onto the thin skinned surface
Beside her to find her better side
Air is not friendly to heavy weight strangers
Pins brought on board present a problem
Drifting high above becomes a danger
Rotating blades get in the way of watchers
Balloons have been known to break or pop
When drifting with a beauty keep your distance
Leave the girl alone to float
Curved surfaces hold their own fragility
Helium high and pretty as she goes
a small child
crouches
quiet
eyes taken
curious sight
brow creases
in question
it a new thing
these pink shapes
on earthy brown
face
fingers
backs of hands
throat
breasts
half covered
the same
familiar
patterned dress
she child
soft traces
them
on toes
tops of feet
calves
where flame's flowers
seared skin
pink thin
knees
knelt down
in plea
in prayer
kept brown
strange
new tattoos
alien
yet not unearthly
she
small
prods
lashless lids
pats
proud cheekbones
insistent
bows her head
dark hair
falls forward
silk waterfalls
stir shadows'
flit
over
sleeping face
eyes open
wide
fear drains
colour
then
warm
deep brown
they glow
for her
knowingly
Posted: 12-12-2018.
NOTE: No to Xenophobia.
Brighter than a fall bonfire but with the chill of ice,
the winter sun haloes a gray and barren woodland;
throbbing, almost hesitant, with a florescent pulse,
brazen in its unrelenting descent, it clings to the horizon.
How it hurt my eyes.
Thin skinned, the lids tinge orange, the white of sol’s merging.
Trunks, boughs, branches, twigs, welt the dusk,
rouging the line between, blooding the virgin night.
Pricked, the brain pulses in tune, unable to look away.
How it hurt my mind.
Splayed fingers do not block the sharpened spears of screaming light.
The winter sun, indexed, and palmed, scratches the face of I.
Within a dakened room beneath a pall, behind hides blue veins,
near comatose, I sigh, the light, the light, until shades and stars arrive.
How life and death both hurt.
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue 1 2014
We Diss, Then Cancel
By: Miracle man
August 5, 2020
Do all run the risk of being canceled today,
Or is this an addition to millennial word play?
We take up a sign when thinking things offend,
we assassinate character and are too thin skinned.
Everything’s become racist in some person’s eye,
we think that protesting gets a slice of the pie.
Today some advocate, that past history, we delete,
curriculum without history is education incomplete.
Lacking veracity, we diss others when we can,
with hearts filled with hate for our fellow man.
Ecclesiastes 12:13
“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.”
She sinks into her threadbare cushion
on the aged-old rocker she huddles in daily
placing her thin-skinned arms
cold to the touch upon the arm rail
darkened from the oil of her skin
Creaks and moans play a tedious rhythmic song
from loosed screws holding the oak rockers
that roll over the rutted floor back and forth
her feet pushing off an upswept floor
as she drifts into her thoughtless doom
It is an everyday sound to her ears
She does not feel its rhythm
or hear the sounds of the day that resonate
from the busy street below
She waits for something she cannot find
day after long day
season to season
year after year
When her heart stops listening to the silence
she watches out the window facing the street
where the sidewalks carry on with life
Her eyes meet unknown faces
that she greets with impenetrable eyes
Her mouth turns down with no utterance of words
In that solitary confinement within
her self-imposed throne
the songbird has lost its song
the sun has faded in its warmth
she sits in a cathedral without god
She has fled with each lonely night
in the darkness that swallowed her dreams
to awaken to one more day at the same window
She has forgotten the sound of her name
There is no one to answer
Splatter painted, Pollock blessed, leggy I stand,
among the green grass and healing Plantain
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
A walking canvas in the meadowland
stems, humorously stippled to entertain
splatter painted, Pollock blessed; leggy I stand.
Blush brushed by daylight, a cheeky garland;
a stand bloomed within thin skinned constraints
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
Pistils between petals unknown unplanned,
joyous the sound of honey bees restrained,
splatter painted, Pollock blessed; leggy I stand.
A plantigrade intrusion, a new brand
surface mounted digits adorned prearranged
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
So bright the upright parts, so very grand
one can but dream the crown gloriously manned
splatter painted, Pollock blessed; leggy I stand
in a kaleidoscope of color panned.
Mused: Bella online Literary Review Winter 2015
Dogs dogmatically guard the home
Sounding the alarm with a growling bark
As owners are alerted to the threat
Miscreants flee into the dark
Cats are categorically useful too
Their mouse-tracking skills renowned
When a feline is prowling on patrol
Rodents scurry underground
But rabbits are a tougher sell
Their herbivore hunting skills quite moot
Unable to save the day or keep vermin at bay
They mostly sit there looking cute
Rabbits are thin-skinned as well
There's one faux pas you must not commit
Please do not call them rodents
Order Lagomorpha is where they fit
Why then do we delight in ours
The doe we call simply “Bunny” ?
It's cuz her antics provide comic relief
When she yawns it looks so funny
Bunny blithely flips her little plate
A curt review of pet shop food
She’s holding out for blueberries or kale
Depending on her mood
Baby carrots and parsley sprigs
Make for a tasty Bunny lunch
She regales us with her table talk:
Munchity, crunchity, crunch
After a hard day’s work, I come home
To my gray-and-white-furred friend
She’ll run to be picked up and petted
And my stresses are at an end
Yes, Bunny is priceless to us
And she certainly earns her keep
Familial duties done for the day
On a little throw pillow she falls asleep
_______________________________
for contest: Furry Friend
Sponsored by: Royal T
There‘ll be black humour today,
Gentle ribbing, banter and jokes,
Stripping away of egos, repartee
Among our mixed group of folks.
Bruising conversations maybe,
But in a non malicious way.
No place for the thin skinned
That’s just not how we play.
It’s the way it’s done from
First moment of greeting
It’s our irregularly held
Veteran’s Breakfast meeting.
Just a couple of hours
Of banter forces style
Carrying each back
For just a little while
To much younger times
From a very different past
When each passing day
Could have been the last
Some of us are damaged
But none of us are broken
Some carry hurt in their eyes
From experience unspoken.
Some have seen combat
Still carry mental scars
From frontline service in
The country’s various wars
Some fought with a rifle
One fought with a pen
Each gave part of their life
As an active serviceman
The Padre’s not a Veteran
But we’ve known him years
He’s earned out respect as he’s
listened to our hopes and fears
A range of ages gathered
For a morale boosting talk,
We’ve all worn the uniform
We’ve all walked the walk
There are common experiences
That each of us have had,
We’ve been there for each other
In the good times and the bad.
It’s a meeting of brothers
And we all know what to expect,
Ruthless character assassination
But with affection and respect.
We’ll all be looking forward to,
Though not knowing when,
We’ll receive our invitation
To meet up and yarn again.
We’ll shake hands goodbye
Making the occasion complete
Feeling emotional benefit from
Our irregular breakfast meet.
.
short circuited and
the fuse of purpose keeps tripping
high voltage boredom
on auto pilot in slow motion
the roundabout is not a funny circus
currents alternate
directly challenge
polar opposition in contradiction of truth
‘it’s a beautiful day and you are in it’
thunder clouds bolt hail and torment
for no reason at all
five layers of clothes just to keep warm
a frosted swamp submerges reason
because it can and it will
webs of confusion crushes through ice
as if waiting for landslides and mud
so much is clear
lightening emboldens the scene
as water colours bleach the canvas
pierce through fabric dreams and anticipation
thin skinned the jester keeps smiling
an empty façade persona and mask
reaches out as a poet who writes
with frosted nib and inked consternation
lost for words founded in screamed silence
like her own meta-morphed metaphor
muck seems like a euphemism
warmed up in a microwave of sorrow
maybe she will walk to the beach today
watch breakers and tides
gather a sea shell
listen to what can be heard
when all else is quiet
24th January 2023