My Sweet Girl
Giddy baby, giggles and dimples,
hardly ever cried
Except when time for Mommy’s awaking,
With patient eyes she spied.
Humming with gurgling baby sounds,
Hair wispy softly curled,
Watching down the hall to catch me,
By precious, my sweet girl.
Quietly at play all the while,
two fingers in her mouth,
By chance If hearing my door open,
Only then she cried aloud.
If I could skip across the hall,
Bathroom just across from my room,
It must be done without a sound
I would quickly zoom.
But if she saw me my sweet girl,
would loudly make it known
Cries interpreted “Aha! I see you!
Your cover has now been blown!”
still two fingers
dumb, not speaking to me
a numb okay
grasping utensils with one hand
not a lefty, that’s right
Every time I sit, really just sit
I'm reminded that this
is enough
to let it go and just settle
without expectation
but alert awareness
here and now.
Enlightenment, liberation, grace, peace etc.
whatever we call it - the ideal we're aiming for -
isn't a matter of building or achieving
or a process of developing or becoming
it is instead what we naturally have
when we stop the building,
relax the grasping.
Yet it is easier said than done
especially when we're young
and our ability, our habit, our desire
to grasp is so strong.
And so we use that desire
homeopathically
to grasp and really hold
until exhaustion.
And then instead of holding such ideals
and concepts, and methods
so tightly
just let them go.
Or if we must
hold the concept like the reins of
a wind horse
gently, delicately between two fingers
ever ready to release
in this
complete moment.
And simply sit, just sit
and trust that that is enough.
(First published in my 2016 book, Little Pine)
The feeling of dread as I hear,
“Come for dinner.”
All I can truly think about:
“How many calories?”
“Will I gain weight?”
I’m truly scared that this is my fate.
Sitting in front of my toilet,
Two fingers stuck down my throat—
It’s a good feeling,
All I can do is boast.
I haven’t eaten in weeks;
It’s not foreign.
Is this really my calling?
They always say to me,
“You need to eat.”
But I don’t want to indulge
Into any delicious treat.
It’s too fattening.
Fat.
It’s my biggest fear to gain those pounds.
It’s scary, so I won’t eat.
After a while I couldn’t eat,
And it led me to no sleep.
Keep.
It’s not hard to keep words like these a secret;
In this world, beauty is all I believe in.
Grievance.
I grieve for the old me,
The one who didn’t care about food troubles,
Or the fact that I want a McDouble.
But I can’t—
I truly can’t.
It’s a struggle to not eat.
I swear it’s killing me.
I can’t stomach it.
I’ll be like this forever...
Well, I’ll just have to dwell in it.
When instinct becomes
an educated guess
And improvisation
demands quick redress
Like thinking on one’s feet
if too drunk to stand
Be found all at sea
throwing up on dry land
Twisted situations
we find ourselves in
When bundles of joy
reek original sin
Smack on the butt
for showing a bit of cheek
Do everything perfect
be labelled a freak
Gestures, signals,
often appear to confuse
High five, fist bump
a sweaty handshake defused
One or two fingers:
the bird a sign of peace
Kneel with respect
submissive purr on a leash
Diversions, promises,
never black and white
Passive aggression
silent treatment for slight
Jack in the box, ripper
jumps out with a knife
Break a leg, for the
performance of his life
Police warning: never
mess around with guns
Gut reaction sparks a
stampede, or the runs
Playing it very cool,
whilst feeling much heat
Praying devoutly,
burnt at stake for deceit
Sticking out one’s tongue
in contempt, no a kiss!
Sigh of relief
they were just taking the piss
Such is living, such is death
come friend or foe
On second thoughts
syllabic verse, or sh!tshow
By David Kavanagh
hms
I found it curled in the shadow
of what used to be a hospital.
A slow hunch of fur,
the color of old bark—like the forest
had tried to grow itself a question.
It didn’t look surprised to see me.
Just blinked, as if measuring
whether I was worth the glance.
I sat cross-legged beside it,
tore foil from a protein bar—
offered the whole thing,
wrapper and all.
It took the crinkle in two fingers,
held it to the light. Didn’t eat it.
Just listened to the sound
plastic makes in a nuclear breeze.
It exhaled desert globemallow.
A whole Quaternary extinction
in a single breath.
I didn’t ask my question out loud,
but I think it heard anyway.
Do we stand a chance?
The sloth leaned its weight
across a rusted sign
that once read urgent care.
It didn’t speak, but something
about the pinch of its thick,
prehensile lip
said it knew what we’d done—
to the soil, to time, to ourselves.
It forgave none of it.
When it finally turned to leave,
I followed.
Not because I thought
it could save me,
but because it didn’t try to.
Today, choose according to your conscience
If there is no choice
Choose according to a thick envelope
Two fingers for welcoming heart
To keep the spirit collectively intact
Though sometimes late to thanks God
Helping people can be a heart warming
To alleviate loneliness and suffering
Good news tickles every ears
Good deeds is everyone's happiness.
I wish my sentences came with a receipt of words so I could take back what I said, I wasn’t being completely honest when I said I wasn’t scared of him.
Praying on the un-expecting innocent children. You spit out virginity, purity and safety.
How could I not believe in evil when you stood there tapping the knife between your two fingers, the sound of the blade scraping against the wall, the feel of your breath on my eight year old neck.
I could still feel that breath and I scrubbed my thighs until they were fire truck red, ripped the skin of my lips and let my soul leave the empty shell of my body so I’d never be able to feel that form of touch again.
Because who needs intimacy more than a broken man with a retched ego, a man with more victims than morals, a man whose blood is liquor and suffering.
he ran two fingers
down the arch of her throat
smooth and young
her skin felt
like a promise
resting in the hollow of her throat
her pulse felt like home
Uardian to us
Don't point; those two fingers now'
Signed your deeds, away..'
A lurching west
Peace before the sidings
Axis U N-powered
("Windhorse", 2023, original encaustic)
Riding a Wind Horse
Every time I sit, really just sit
I'm reminded that this
is enough
to let it go and just settle
without expectation
but alert awareness
here and now.
Enlightenment, liberation, grace, peace etc.
whatever we call it - the ideal we're aiming for -
isn't a matter of building or achieving
or a process of developing or becoming
it is instead what we naturally have
when we stop the building,
relax the grasping.
Yet it is easier said than done
especially when we're young
and our ability, our habit, our desire
to grasp is so strong.
And so we use that desire
homeopathically
to grasp and really hold
until exhaustion.
And then instead of holding such ideals
and concepts, and methods
so tightly
just let them go.
Or if we must
hold the concept like the reins of
a wind horse
gently, delicately between two fingers
ever ready to release
in this
complete moment.
And simply sit, just sit
and trust that that is enough.
(first published in my 2nd book, Little Pine, 2016)
Find xanthium' squeeze in a sigh
asking a righteous void, hear my entreat
hand to heart, in a beggar's sky
not just for myself,
not just for why...
Can a heart devoid of hope
seek to find salvation
from a Quentin Tarantino film
in a strange pulp voice
that sounded just like mine.
Your sin, my sins
vowed never relent..
nor let cementing cold take you
so don't despair..
Place two fingers, just beside your neck
feel it pulse?
it's you,
and you still care.
Search the world's underbelly
the meek and mild
little mouse infirm, the whooping crane strong, all us
no longer beguiled.
Roaming streets and back alleys
afraid to meet my neighbor's eye
I, the guilty
waiting a just reply.
It's a quarter past two,
last train leaves at three..
the sign at the platform's final end
stands glaring,
waiting a reprieve.
A proud primping Whooping crane calls out
'it's justice'..
All a lowly titmouse discerns,
'it's just us'.
dad could roll a cigarette
with just two fingers
and the tip of his tongue
i saw him do this once
in a wind storm
he would shave just close enough
to keep himself grizzled
he could dive into an engine
to wrench a rattle
and make it purr
he was an expert drinker
astounding all-comers
so
ever since
he took a Louisville Slugger
to moms head
the three of us
ma
he
and me
were all astounded
’Twas a drummer who drummed on his drum
using two fingers and his right thumb.
To an anapest’s ear,
it would sound pretty clear;
to the rest, lacked a certain aplomb.
----------
jumped off a read of Brian Strand's A Limerick Historique
He was circling her building, trying not to look at the curtains.
He knew them well. They were the peachy ones on the second floor.
Third window over from the edge of the building.
His bike was wobbly today, a reflection of his feelings.
Would she be looking out? Peeking behind those curtains?
Was there another guy in there, using his soap and his aftershave?
He decided to do another lap.
Maybe next time he would be able to look at that window.
He was not ready yet. The break up was too new.
“Jerod?”
He almost fell off his bike.
She was standing sixteen feet in front of him.
“When did you get back?”
His voice was not able to speak yet.
He held up two fingers.
She smiled, knowing him well.
“Did you want to come up and have a bit of tea?”
He nodded.
“You can bring the bike,” she said.
This was better than any scenario he had imagined.
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