Short Tendons Poems
Short Tendons Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Tendons by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Tendons by length and keyword.
tearing tendons of
love attached to
incumbent str-
ata of rocks
relentless gush of
rage- penetrating
rituals of sacrifi-
ces- black arrow
on the bleeding
tongue
Form:
A pen travels across paper; a line appears to follow.
Curiously growing eyes; anxiously follow its path.
Muscles and tendons taught; cat leaps and the sketch is gone.
Tender toes,
Treading tentativly,
Taking time,
Trying tactfully.
Tendons tremble,
Tension tightens,
Tilting, Twisting,
Tripping, tumbling!
Terror. Trouble.
Touching totality.
Tomorrow. taken.
They rang out clear on the spine of the night,
Smashing stained glass of basement churches
And disembowelling pots of truths.
Aiming at the tendons of hate from
Lone-eyed monsters,
The slugs, flaming and fertile,
And with sparks of racial rage,
Penetrate America's gloom
With a boom.
Listen to poem:
Spent spirits bend; grasping grips slip.
Bent backs bear what numb nails can never mend.
Frail fingers fail; bent bones break.
Weary wrists wrench as tired tendons twist.
Cold claws clutch sore shoulders.
Rust rasps hard; battered palms pull back.
Hammered hands hang; tired tools fall still.
Sweltering tears incinerate gorgeous eyes on the way to drown perfection
Vocal tendons shredded from poignant packed reverberations
Blood-spattered limbs clutch tightly touching the intangible
Beating hope trickles through a gentle heart stroke
Lips leisurely curve and I thank God for letting me grasp life once again
He allows himself to hover
over his own flying weight.
He recalls the ease
of running effortlessly…the dopamine highs.
His toes are earth-pushing landmines,
his elastic ankles are circa 1980’s,
they detonate and thrust vibrant tendons.
Tonight restless legs push him across
a damp mattress -
and he still running after
a running dream.
Feel them in my tendons
Hear them in the quiet
See them in the wind
Smell their fragrance
A constant in my life
Like a steel manacle
Arrested and limited
I must pay the price
Sins from lives past
Karmic justice served
Grow I must or else
Be trapped hereafter
So I speak the truth
I am compassionate
Eschewing victimhood
Pleasing higher beings
Joints and tendons ache
Water works partly block
Teeth; gums you forsake
In the mix, the odd rock
Nobody prepares you
Suddenly, the decline
Friends not foes, few
You want to only recline
Like yesterday's news
You are now quite stale
Worth very few views
Repeating a woeful tale
Your pals drop dead
On goes the count
Next obit to be read?
As health events mount
A new washed morning air
combs my gray muzzle.
I was dog tired, but now
a warm sunlight
unwinds tendons and
taut nerves.
Sunday has its own natural prayers,
Shabbat heals wounds.
we had never thought to mend.
Elsewhere there is darkness and death,
yet in this one golden hour
I stand with all men of goodwill,
old men who know how to pray
on behalf of the hopeful young.
She recycled the flowers as they lay in their beds.
She recycled the gown in which she once wed.
She recycled her food so that others were fed.
She recycled her tires once they lost their tread.
She recycled those thoughts that were stuck in her head
and she wove them in words as they rapidly spread.
They tore thru tendons and sank in sinews, forming a
tincture of rhythm and blues.
I wish I could be as gorgeous as you are now. Strong and strong-willed. Muscled and lean. Compact, hard, soft, curved. Covered in sand. You are all long legs, tendons straining to push muscles further. You are all long hair tied back, braided. Concentration written on your face. 4 girls. 1 net. 1 ball. 21 points. And you are a glowing beast.
Dedicated to Misty May-Treanor and Kerry Walsh.
Frances exits the bistro.
Her napkin falling
onto the tablecloth,
it flutters down in slow motion;
a snow-goose onto a red desert.
‘Not a good way to break-up Frances,
not cool’.
On the pavement, high-heels clacking.
Frances running,
the backs of her heels bleed,
tendons bolting her onward.
On hind legs
a restaurant chair tries to follow.
A thunderclap
as the napkin lands.
The mood ring was rung.
I held it like purple-blue.
Red-orange.
And maybe green-gray.
In between, bothness.
Like hot bone broth, like tendons.
Sliced just wrong.
The mood ring on my finger.
I peck at it all day.
I’m peeled open.
The mood ring was rung like a soundless pine needle hitting the ground.
I’m a cycle like this mood ring.
Bipolar sounds like-
Eating a mood ring sandwich.
Steps snoring on the slipperless carpet
At snail sped a thought brimmed him
His tendons and tensions are thawing wet
Ang glazed eyes graze upon the dim
Evening ekeing out its sunset ending day
In wet seas of memory that washes away
That joy that kindled him by treat of kiss
That joy now folded like skin and put away
Left him fogged with feeling, empty and grey
He is weighted with thoughts of people he missed.
She exits the Chinese Restaurant,
scattering all in her hurry,
her napkin falling,
it flutters down in slow motion;
a snow-goose hovering over a red cloth.
'Not a good way to break-up Frances,
not cool'.
On the pavement, high-heels clacking,
Frances running, her calves straining,
tendons bolting her onward.
On its fore-legs, her toppling chair
seems to want to follow –
a thunderclap
as the napkin lands.
Dark Matters burn; a new age will beckon
Ancient plans turn; with creaking tendons
providence a blight, hidden in questions.
Made of the aether; not of the heavens.
Coalescing tangles and connections makes.
Spinning an eon; the darkness breaks
Shadows cast in the gleaming wakes.
Gravity pulls into endless space.
Eruptive remnants of eons past
a common core of bonded ash
come together to form, at last,
a brand new cycle from circling gas.
Ammonia-ed clumps of damp, dunged straw
forked onto her cold barrow, then rolled outside.
Across the field where her ninety pounds
thrust up the dray atop a mulching mound!
Nineteen times before the sour dregs
are swallowed by the day.
Bowed tendons stripe her calloused palms with pain.
She racks each open with a metal comb
to rake her horse’s mane.
Stall cleaned; horse fed, mane combed to shine as gold-
Showered, she brings her smile to our bed.
I had the desire to release
my aggressive wasp nest.
it comes and goes
similar to my desires
I can't let it seep through
it would only make my image look weak and nasty.
I can't talk
it won't let me, it just cuts.
make it deeper
much deeper
hide my scars with fresh ones
let it stab my organs, muscles, tendons, and skin.
Its my weakness
this feeling
is invalid.
They're right, always right
I was wrong all along
I'll just restrain my mouth shut
You lick the tendons of my oxygen-
sucking away my breath bit by bit,
heartbeat by heartbeat-
I am drained like a broken thermometer,
mercury spilling onto the floor
like a small pool of ink.
There is no remedy -
hope has sailed its sinking ship
and I sit around silently
like egg-shell white paint
drying on the living room walls.
Effacing myself was never a choice
so I drifted away from you
like a blue balloon flying away
from a child's distraught hand.
He should let himself hover
over his own flying weight.
He recalls the ease
of running effortlessly….the dopamine highs.
His toes are landmines,
his ankles are circa 1980’s,
they detonate snapping tendons,
hold the dream together.
Restless legs push him across
a damp mattress
to where a running dog
wades across a last river.
Halfway over
the dog looks back
suddenly alert to the flailing man –
he has fallen into an eddy of time.
The dog sits down to wait
30 years.
In mental stasis, I remain,
Moving restlessly, never inane.
Nomadic actions, thoughts immobile,
A dichotomy within, deeply hostile.
Self-pity offers a deceptive release,
A dopamine hit, a false sense of peace,
Clawing at myself, seeking the thrill,
Lacerating tendons, a need to fulfil.
Red-handed, pale-hearted, I stand,
Distanced, departed, to the unknown land.
Uncharted, unguarded, my soul's domain,
Discarded, disregarded, from my own disdain.
That started from stopping...
youre a red apple
the outside i devour in large, juicy bites
as much as my teeth can fit with all corners stretched wide
youd think to do the same at the core
But cracking bitterness brings seeds
scratch small bites, an itch
Jaw working, bony indents stiched
I like the way my tendons flex
Palm spread to grasp that hard fruit off the wiry stem
The core delicate
Slurping juice of whats left
The carcass melts into a brown sugar debt
Back to the earth you go to be reborn again