Tendons Poems | Examples

Like a Strawberry

Like a strawberry. 
Seeds on the outside. 
Tethered vines of trees. 
In the grass.

I have to eat sometimes. 
Just yummy stuff. 
There’s no one there. 
So I stir a little more.  

Look outside the outside place. 
And you’ll think of berries and shrubs too. 
That could be endless. 
Like socks, and tendons.

I have to eat them all. 
Rancid and sweet. 
Nothing but outer space. 
Past that tree. 

I have to grind it all up.
With strawberries, and blueberries. 
Making some jam. 
And growls. 

Inedible jam.
We took the sludge we made. 
Worth nothing. 
Tossed it into space. 

Like a strawberry. 
Gets thrown away right off the vine.

Fatal Shots

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.

My Man

The fingers crawled over
my lips, each step a crunch 
on my parched soul -
lullaby for my desires 
But where’s the wind ?
Where was it, before the drizzle?
The crawl slithered into sleek
curling my lips into his mouth 
like a prey, I panted in his loop
struck by the venom of his kiss
I strangled reaching for the antidote 
You unheard my Ahhh as -
mistaking it for consent.
My naked body cracked in the sun
frail limbs creeping  towards the shade
He snatched me like a predator 
engulfed my head and slowly 
all of me .
My bones and tendons
all crushed in his muscular coil.
A chill and breath left in me
maybe just for tomorrow.

The Other Woman

The other woman lives inside of you;
I can see her silhouette in your eyes.
Her tendons twist through yours, interwoven,
down through your fingertips, I see her there.

The other woman lives inside of you, 
I can hear her hungry heart through your chest
Her whispers bleed like poison through your mind, 
echoing in your voice, I hear her there.

The other woman lives inside of you, 
I can feel her presence through your body.
Her figure snug beneath your satin skin,
radiating through you, I feel her there. 

The other woman lives inside of you, 
I can smell her cloying rose upon your skin
Her scent smothered in your tousled brown hair,
absorbed into your flesh, I smell her there.

The other woman lives inside of you, 
I can taste her lust when I kiss your lips. 
Her secretive tongue in your starving mouth, 
That name stuck in your teeth, I taste her there. 

The other woman lives inside of you, 
and though you assure that she isn’t there, 
could she too be capable of sensing
The haunted woman who lives beside you?

My Vines in Winter

Vines in the spring of my life
were sturdy and spry. Utterly dependable,
they ran along the many parts of my body.
Able to cling to ligaments, tendons and muscles
with great connectivity,
they allowed me to walk, run, and jump with ease.
How wonderful was my pain-free youth!

Winter has arrived all too soon. 
The vines down my spine have lost 
some of their much-needed support.
With hardship now, they move toward
the joints of my left knee.

My vines in winter have me out of kilter.
No longer do they comfortably sprawl.
No more can I joyfully jump or dance.
Matching their apparent stagnation,
I still try my best to keep
c   r   e  e  p  i  n  g     a  l  o  n  g
   longing for the days when 
vines were green.

Taken

Tender toes,
Treading tentativly,
Taking time, 
Trying tactfully. 
Tendons tremble,
Tension tightens,
Tilting, Twisting, 
Tripping, tumbling!
Terror. Trouble.
Touching totality.
Tomorrow. taken.

When summer is gone

Stories that stood behind soundless shapes;
Silence have finally found its way, 
Dressed in a tall sky of towering tendons, 
Wishing-wells weeping for wagons, 
And as fiends of the forest frame fervent flavors, 
Gruesome gravels aching for a touch of dirt from bittersweet barrels, 
But one day the festering foe will see , 
what it means to be on scorching knees, 
When summer is gone only the snow shall bleed, 
A sonnet shaper than the dark Lead you read,  
What good are ammos without the gun it fits to, 
Perhaps threats are just a view only to sit through, 
Salt and pepper beard too seek not for fluffy old warm rugs, 
when your floors were far too cold for your own bugs, 
You’ve stained the better half of what was meant to be, 
Then required a fully functioning me? 
There is no room for light in this foggy page full of grief, 
For hope is a delicacy garnished for thieves.

Spinning Knee Man, from THE WOMAN WHO COULD EAT WOOD

Spinning Knee Man


His knees grew bigger and
steel strong until he was big.
Whenever he wanted to he could extend his knees (and it didn’t even hurt!) ten times as big.

That wasn’t a grotesque display
as it probably should be.
No one could see his flat, rounded triangular bone,
only see his pale hairy skin that covered his knee.

Shockingly no muscles damaged.
Shockingly no tendons and ligaments damaged. 

He could spin his
knees and skin like a small chopper in high gear.
His role was to air deliver packages to homes. And deliver orphans to their new homes afar and near.

Doing both was highly rewarding. The community marvelled at his ability that was totally rare. 
He joked that the best thing about it was 
that he got to fly for free everywhere.

Pause for thought

I can feel my tendons contort
The sickening crunch of bones breakage
The skin across my face pulling to a snout
My lips ripping apart as razored enamel
adorns a snap
Can’t stand
Beneath me legs bevel lowering me earthward

I can taste it’s iron on the back of my tongue
My stomach grimaces in tongues of twisters
Left need so far back
My ears ripping into points
Every rustle edible on the nights hum 

My screams no longer have a trace of humanity
Snarling spits and swirls of froth
Just highlights in the slit eyed shape I must become

O'er The Other Side of The Fence

I seek escape from this side of the fence where
Grassy thorns beneath my feet pierce my sole.
Scrambling, ambling, trekking to the freedom
Awaiting on the other side.
I search for pockets in my ascent
Digging trembling fingers inside 
its moulded, muddy enclosures, securing each grip
Then clawing my way up until
I grope my way over.
Lest I should fall as my nimble and bruised tendons
fail me and my blood-thorned feet derail me
Let me land with a thud o’er the other side of the fence
Rather than fall on the familiar turf where my body is forever spent
And my mind, broken and bent.

The Cycle 1: Proto

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.

BODYCOMBAT

the tendons release tension
as a spanx glove grips tightly
allows me to exercise 
to loosen my fists

The Nowhere Tower

The cold stairs,
the cold, hard, stairs,
the cold, hard concrete stairs,
the cold, hard, concrete, piss-stained stairs.

He climbs,
climbs to the stars, the cold, hard stars,
climbs to the starlight
that glitters in his black eyes.
.
Thighs walk up a spine.
Upwards, bootlaces tugging a brain.
,
Head dizzy, legs stretched up
into a light-bulb head,
tortured tendons
trembling elastic bands.

He leans his cold, wet forehead,
on a locked, wet, metal door,
his body is bent like a question mark.

He sees distant glimmers,
glimmers of starlight,
starlight
down,
way down in the cold, black stairwell.

The Devilish Qualm

And there, painted
and playing in sweetest frame 
is the timeless province.
There, suspended 
by the arches of axiom,
with sputtering brushes
of wielded coherent structure.
I drown upon spearing fear
in the devilish qualm,
splintered to scattered scree
upon the wuthering face 
of this old, roaming sphere:
in continuous form
and bristling invariance.
Here is one soul 
stripped of fire's bite. 
I have my tools at hand, 
extensions of my form;
yet the tendons are emblazoned,
threatening to break
upon the simplest gesture.
I dare to say
that I do not live:
I am suspended in a desert
where life once drifted.
I once was electing Truth
but am now spirited into hushing,
principled in my lightened travels.

Natural Prayers

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.

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