I know a man
Who has trauma melted into his very soul
Eyes shine with the blackness of his soul
Dragon wings like hunchback
A weight too great to stand aright
I know a man
Who has spent his entire existence searching for some hidden truth
Sculpted in the corners of his room
Thinking, thinking, feeling
Clawing at his head, his throat
Eureka or madness?
I know a man
Who walks like the world is on his shoulders
Mouth glued shut, nose wrinkled
Posture like the map of Africa
Slouched, bent, broken
I know a man
Who writes every night
Words people never get
Plans people pause to forget
Art artists detest
A failure who thinks himself misunderstood
I know a man
Who looks every bit his age
Comatose eyes, lifeless and weary
Face pressed into submission
Every line, a sign of his many failures
Doubts like sweet incense
I know a man
Taut with passive pain
Benign smile, hollow laughter
Shades because he's scared they'll see his eyes
The eyes so far shrunken, they become pinholes
I know a Man
You know him too
Peter in the summer morning sun
his cool smile shaded by shadows run
his voice as soothing as coffee’s scent
tell me he wasn’t heaven sent
Peter of Malibu moss and Spanish rose
his lips like light-coral, in kissable repose
his legs slouched akimbo, like a tiger’s limbs
how I long to re-entangle myself in them.
Peter’s quick caress, on windy Tropez beaches
aren’t men the most delightful, of nature's invasive species?
I miss the jeweler’s precision, of his warm and playful hands
and how the sun slowly gifted him, with a model’s golden tan.
Peter sipping coffee under a brittle, New Haven sun,
his rough laugh following something silly I’d done.
There’s no cryptic, localized pathology, happening at the beach,
when the two of us are together, our worlds just seem complete.
.
.
Songs for this:
What the World Needs Now by Tori Holub & James Wilkas
be mine by strongboi
I wake up in a film noir bedroom—
streetlamp shadows on my ceiling.
I dreamt not of being chased
but of chasing, of attacking—
of taking primitive pleasure
from the feel of a face
under my fist, the taste
of someone else's blood
on my knuckles,
the satisfying slish of a knife
penetrating a plump belly,
the recoil of a rifle
against my shoulder
and the head of a stranger
in my sights exploding.
I stumble to the bathroom,
flip the light,
splash water on my face
in the dirty mirror,
hair estranged,
stubble like tombstones,
I look guilty as hell
and wonder out of which circle
that nightmare slouched.
(first published by Dark Sire in 2020)
As he is making love to me he has the most loveliest smile.
He is slouched right on top of me, as he gasps all the while,
Giving into my every seductive womanly wile.
I stand a while and ponder, my tummy sticking out
my heels a little cracked, my thighs a little stout
my shoulders slightly slouched
my eyes a little pouched
my nails could use a buff
my belly-button’s filled with fluff
my profile lacks the pride
that claims a better side
not elegantly tailored with snug and perfect fit
not eloquent in speech nor known for comedic wit
not filled with derring-do
not blessed with eyes of blue
all in all I’m quite a sight
but that’s okay, it’s quite alright
for my daughters balance the scales you see
by thankfully looking not even the tiniest bit like me.
Beautiful things in life have to do with taste
But who can tame those taste buds that seem to never waste
Has anyone been so careful in his eating habits
Today we are constantly nibbling like bunny rabbits
It is through eating that our first parents were tempted
And it is in through eating (the eucharist) that our sins get exempted
Yet food has been the greatest battle in my life
Greater than even those which I have with my wife
Monday to Fridays we are over our laptops, slouched
Come weekends-endless are the walks between the refrigerator and couch
And what of today, burgers, fries and other fast foods
Swiggy, Zomato and other food deliveries get us in right mood
At the swipe of our cell phone everything made so easy
We want to tempt those taste buds even when the thought makes us queasy
At the rate at which we are gobbling
I’m afraid in the mirror one day I will be spooked by an ugly fat goblin
They came in a single file
Noiseless like wisps of smoke
They'd taken their chances
For they say it's always greener
On the other side.
From the watch tower I perceived
The procession with a depressing pity
They had crossed that line
They had defiled our land
In their innocent quest
For a better day
Retribution was sure to come
Fist, fire and sword in varying measures
I blew the horn.
For that's my role as a watcher
Several others rang in response
Far down below the barracks stirred
So vigorous it must have been a stampede
Then I saw the flaming torches
The cavalry. Itching for combat
Sworn to protect their kin
To safeguard the liberty of the land
To create a formidable history
To die in battle, to bask in the glory
Therefore they advanced
Fearless, bloodthirsty
Against a crippled race
A wounded lot on the trek
Blighted by hunger and their wrangling
Marred and charred and limping
And the fire descended upon their heads
Against the gates they slouched
Begging for leniency
Yet the gatekeeper was a valiant man
And a people were roasted a rusty black
While he hummed to himself
An old hunting tune.
It's been a while; I took a beer from the bar
and sat in a booth
which obscured the view, the world
and myself.
I wanted to be a young man
needing a young woman, but the head of the pint
soaked my mind into a quickly foaming reality
that I had to watch go flat.
I kind of slouched in the seat,
a tired-eyed server asked me
"if I was Okay”?
I dry mouthed a thin-lipped grin,
she looked away,
maybe she was avoiding a sight
in my sore eyes.
I ordered fries, to change the subject
or distract - not sure which.
It was dark by then
my reflection in a window
was too much to comprehend.
Slowly I drained the bottom of the glass
of any further meaning.
I felt better.
The fries had not yet arrived,
maybe they never did.
I eased myself out of one empty space
to enter another.
I had to try to walk away
from an old movie in my head.
Home.
The deepest crevices of your arms felt like home.
It was a place of warmth and comfort
A place where I can nudge my nose into when it is cold from all the outdoors.
It reminded me of a sunset that I can feel close to me
I melted whenever I would push my nose up against your armpits.
I wondered of all the adventurous stories you've gone through
Those armpits of yours.
It was a story of a sunset when I felt it on my nose.
My nose was my eyes whenever I felt the tip of the
words brush on me.
It was moist from all your trekking and warmth from all the talking
You’ve been through the day.
It smelled nice too, like a field of ivies and dandies
Home.
What a place to be when I’ve trudged up all the mountains of life.
Home.
A place where I can be, putting my legs up on the sofa and slouched
You remind me of a place I want to walk through, but it is there.
There for me here in this place I call home too.
It was the work ethic that did it.
He just couldn’t get enough.
He would sit for hours and hours
Just contemplating the stuff
Until suddenly it was home time,
Getting on for half past four,
And he knew that in the morning
They'd have delivered plenty more.
After nearly a week they found him
Slouched dead in his swivel chair;
He'd been hidden by all the work
Piled up in mountains there.
They gave him a long service medal
Posthumously I should think
And following his last wishes scattered
His ashes by his favourite old golf link.
Thus an illustrious career was ended
Without a hint of any shame
For the company couldn't afford
Any slurs to be cast on its name.
And all the work that he'd not started?
They just shovelled into a bin
Knowing if any was important
A client would write again
One old man slouched down with his worn bent-brimmed hat
Wrinkled face covered, asleep in reverie
Comfortable in his enclosed habitat
Across his boney chest, hands so leathery
Body now bone, shriveled, which once stored-up fat
In his daydreams and REM dreams a treasury
Memories of those youthful accomplishments
Carry him on to future's astonishments
Date: 9/23/2022
Contest: Ottava Rima
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
Checked with syllablecounter.net
Checked with Grammar Checker on soup
Listening to the Blues
Slouched almost supine
Next to special person,
Her hand clasped in mine:
Mississippi picking,
Bottle neck used as a slide
St James Infirmary playing,
End of a long Blues ride.
Now a mouth harp break
Exhilaratingly raw,
Finger picking guitar
Carrying the music before.
House rent music that
Spread the world around.
Borrowed, refined, adapted
Into a multitude of sounds.
Music to relax to that
Seeps slowly, and with style,
Down into the soul
Satisfying all the while.
Voices of gravel,
Voices that moan and wail
But voices of power to tell
Some of life's varied tales.
At times when I'm stressed,
Or at times of despair,
At times of great joy
The Blues are always there.
I first listened as a child,
A period so long gone,
But still my favored listen
As my life speeds along.
Now almost in my dotage,
Slouched almost supine,
Still listening to the Blues with
A very special friend of mine.
Hot cascading non-stop tears
From well-founded disturbing fears,
As The Mist from The Mysterious clears
And A Date for A Death nears
For A beloved One, very Dear,
Whom they would his flesh fear
With a clean or dirty spear …
Later, it was his son who did
From a concealing bush he’d hid
And later towards quarry slouched
While he by a fireside crouched.
Should he this report to The Police
Or to his Born-Again Wife Alice?
Ted’s capture is certain by The Former
To no escape route a newcomer …
Alice might start a Forgiveness Drama
Or Ted hit with a plastic hammer.
Laid back over oarlocks,
arms akimbo, hat slouched;
slow riding the Loire.
The river pushes
into a bobbing place
a sylvian picnic
where female bottoms convene
in soft repose.
Iridescent thuds, a thrashing of fins.
A large trout flops in the gunnels.
Wide lips, mouthing Gallic obscenities;
the rainbow splashing
of a disgruntled fish.
The rowboat rolls, rights and recovers.
Upon the shore
bottoms rise like plump geese
from green lawns.
The fish sneers,
flips a glowing Gauloises
between thick lips.
Full-figured forms rise
to watch the watery fuss
then shrug
as more wine is poured.
The trout jumps into the river.
Parasols open and twirl.
We all smile behind our hands
as Renoir paints on.
Power To You
By: Sikolwethu Mthethwa
In the deep dark waters of a lockdown
slouched in a dark corner of despair in quarantine confines.
I watch in vain as a waterfall of tears dominates her eyes.
Her head bowed between her knees.
I am pained as the loudness of her sobs increases.
Hammered by society's labels
that have dimmed her light and
left her soul in shackles.
Oppressed by the obsessed venomous slithering snakes
that claim to cherish her.
Black female child, dear Black Female child,
with dreams so large and thoughts so wild
Never let up, keep your head up.
Let them bare witness to the thunder in your voice
and the lightning in your words.
Blind their sight with your light.
Wear your crown with confidence
and let them acknowledge your very existence.
In envy and astonishment, let them bow before you.
Let your greatness be evident.
Dear Black Female Child, I say Power To You.
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