I recall your slim ankles,
your fine wrist bones,
the sleek musculature
of your strong limbs.
My butt in the easy chair
weighs heavily on my mind.
Yes that well-oiled anatomy of youth
has hit a new peak of low.
Plump, I'm plump.
Only girls should be plump
plummily men go softer
as their souls harden.
It's my age,
I suckle on the fat of the land now
and I positively bulge.
Could pull myself together
but that young body
is never coming back
anyway it could always run fast -
now it's out of sight.
I tell my body to at least
put the brakes on
before it crashes into that fat man
I am becoming.
From life, i
wish to be partner,
not just passenger.... !
of being a man,
I don't worship musculature,
no athletic strength...but
virility without violence,
no virulence...
On the female side,
the tender sensitivity,
constructive... without subservience.
To be a physical body...
I appreciate the alignment
with right principles,
sans arrogance...
Of being soul, the constant search
of improvement...
Of being human, yes, humanly
to share with the brothers,
pure teachings...
And wait patiently
the final meeting
of the spirits...!
The strongest and most used
your intellectual musculature,
learning Will be plus benefitial...
Against the evil that enslaves,
our musculature
is the reading and information....
that reveal freedom...
Evil makes wars
we make fight... evil does
malice, egocentricity, ignorance
stupidity, cause us
cognitive gaps... but
The righteous fight
with literature,
lucidity
and poetry...
We must dialogue with
the thought, Plato,
Socrates,
Beauvoir...
Dialogue is our meeting...
dialogue with everyone
That's how we create resistance...
against hate,
the remedy is Love!
First and Last
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
You are the last arcane rose
of my aching,
my longing,
or the first yellowed leaves’
vagrant spirals of gold
forming huddled bright sheaves.
You are passion forsaking
dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose.
And still in my arms
you are gentle and fragrant—
demesne of my vigor,
spent rigor,
lost power,
fallen musculature of youth,
leaves clinging and hanging,
nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour.
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review and Poetry Life & Times.
Keywords/Tags: rose, love, ache, desire, longing, passion, autumn, leaves, leaving, clinging, hanging, sunset, lost, youth, joy, joys, yellowed, golden, first, last, final
further cultured is
greater musculature look
optimum reading
You said your dimple
Was a flaw
In the musculature of your face.
And then you disappeared.
A year later you called.
From the hissing distance far away.
You were surprised I remembered,
But of course I remembered.
Though I cannot remember your name
I cannot forget your flaw.
The musculature
is I am sure
somewhere in hiding
just waiting and biding its time
to amaze me.
She laughs at this and gives me a kiss
I pull a face as she pulls me closer
and
who needs a six pack
when I know she's
'got my back?'
I do like the colour pink though
although
blue is my favourite.
I also like curves that curve,
curves that make me do a
body swerve
and 'art deco's' not too bad
either although rather
angular
still
it takes all sorts
and that's what we all are.
Observance
It is time for the crane to speak,
the crow,the heron to say,
The musculature is strong,
the position is right; Fly.
cm
The howl escapes me,
I cannot help it;
an ululation heralds my arrival.
I am commanded.
Something has slept
but wakes now, is loosed,
something primal, instinct
given licence to devour.
She drives my sweet new youth,
my keen eyes, my potent musculature,
the urgent hormones
that set my new agenda.
She directs, she is
my dominatrix;
her whiteness
is fire in my veins.
Feelings unfurl from within
like a flag declaring dominance.
Hair bristles, bones crack,
she ordains my morphology.
And I am thirsty, and so hungry
to sate this new appetite,
to experience, to touch, to infect.
I change irrevocably. I am Alpha.
The autonomic response seeks a trigger
within familiar brainwave states of being
to toss aside the conflict of conscience
inherit behind the valor of mortal peril.
A batting eye or moistened lip sends
corpuscles on a dance of endorphins
pattering in time to the mother pulse
that stirs the fiber of chattering bone
defiant beneath flexing musculature
soaking up lipids and protein strands
to quake the bleached core of form
that lines us erect with proud notions.
Within the field directing our gait
are ricochet messages from cohorts
and scoundrels with intent on returns
reigning dominion over human action.
The structure of the machine grinds
regardless of purpose or preference
until cellular matter loses gelatinous
resistance from such bombardment
of sigil energy and profit centers in
constant dialogue with all instincts
selectively pursuing black or white
in balance with the Boolean hoard
shaping the appropriate margins of
acceptable thought processes until
sharp knifes cure our insufferable
ideas of mitosis feeding liberation.
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