Crappy, crepey skin
What a shape I'm in
Is it inherited though
Watch out daughters for
The warning signs or
It will slip up on you so
Fast as speeding car
Superman by far
Get on it keep it at bay
Whom am I kidding
There is no ridding
Age comes and steals youth away
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread,
sexually inviting.
The cello drums her,
blind angels
gyrate in a deep darkness.
The cellos voice is her own,
her body sings through
one hollowing mouth.
I am mesmerized by her closed eyes,
her moon drenched emotions.
The bow is low
it nudges me somewhere,
there is no name for that place,
it is somewhere inside a sadness,
a cavern of fading echoes
where joy waits
to be noticed.
We're born; we live-we take-we give.
We knead love while churning hate.
Love comes through the curtain unabated.
Then leaves with a clack, like the song of a raven.
We sashay into open hearts...
Unleashing a maelstrom of fiery darts.
God prunes the root of our pain.
Balms the burning in the brain...
In return we curse his blessed name.
We rage -we rejoice-aging ungracefully.
Every breath is a gilded blessing...I think.
The sundial is cranked up to full speed.
My circle shrinks into a salty singularity.
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken.
Do I lean into the cello
or her?
A deep ewer of sound
pours from deft palpating fingers,
while her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from blood and lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am bound to the music in her,
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders,
the cantabile purse
of her parted lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice
but whose voice?
My bare skull drums
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow,
one that for a long moment
we both share.
Skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread
inviting.
Between those limbs, chords darken
where pale angels go blind.
A deep ewer of sound
pours from palpating fingers.
While her other hand
strokes the pulse of a
sonorant beast
carved from lava.
Her body croons
wrists cuffed to the music,
closed eyes
bathe naked in dark pools.
A depth climbs to a tree top
yet the music
is still the lowest place on earth.
I am nudged into her
by the sweep of her arm,
the weeping intensity
of her shoulders.
The cantabile purse
of her open lips.
There is no place to be
other than inside
the voice of her cello,
skull drumming
to a spiccato cadence,
as her bow softly taps
on the strung spine
of a bruised sorrow.
Going back home is a sad thing
Everyone is aging ungracefully
the family dog is long dead
they saved her purple collar
the one with the tiny bell
that's still ringing in everyone's head.
Weeds and devil's claw creeping
silently around the periphery
of a worn-out property
old bitters bursting out
so easily-so violently.
It used to be refreshing to visit
now I can't wait to leave.
Going back home
used to be a spray of
minty green.
Now it's a withered-up
gray thing waiting for the end.
~~A chess match is an opaque mirror into societal clash.
Slippery rules and taboos playing upon a checkered past.
Balcony kings and queens glaring down on the lower caste.
Ramparts buttressing crooked flanks, serfs in the murky front.
Devouring dirt, taking the brunt of many skirmishes to come.
Senators riding sky horses, gliding so high above the fight.
Neighing nonsense -fanning their brand of hellfire lies.
Speedy-tongued bishops blitzing on the slanted slide.
In our faces, showcasing only the wrongs of our lives.
Black and white toppling ungracefully to the side.
Flimsy smiles and flint handshakes without dialogue.
Another fiery stalemate on the blazing horizon.
The cello is between her legs,
skirt hiked up
legs ungracefully spread.
sexually inviting.
The cello drums her
Thrums her darkness
Into blind angels
The cellos voice is her voice
Her body sings through it
Or is the cello making love to her,
making her body sing
into its hollow mouth?
I am mesmerized by her closed eyes
behind those eyelids the music runs naked.
The bow and her hands weave
moon drenched emotions
The bow is low
it nudges my body sideways into a place
where souls go to weep and rejoice
in the same instant;
there is no name for that place,
it is somewhere inside the cello
where her soul sings.
Invisible predators steal my soul
taking me to a bowl of stale potato chips
dunking me down beneath the cigarette butts
That were not ever well-hidden in the bottom
Plunking me down firmly with their beady
little hands and their alien eyes. Laughing maniacally
while I thrash around, trying to get free
Then they grab me up having a better idea
And plunk me face down, bound but not gagged,
Which would have been invariably better,
into a smallish bowl of cold, half-eaten oatmeal.
I die ungracefully, and irritated.
~Be Dazzling~
Who wants to grow old?
Shivering alone, in the cold,
Beneath an old oak tree?
Not my bag of tea.
Refusing to age, so ungracefully,
Don shoes, gold,with straps,
A beautiful magenta dress, perhaps?
Sparkling jade necklaces that glitter.
Auburn tresses that equally shimmer.
Setting a man's soul...aquiver!
Panagiota Romios
4/5/2019
10 lines, 5 words, Rhyme Iii Contest
Sponsor: Laura Loo
You are angst poetry
played on the strings
of an untuned guitar
A smokers cough cord
that grinds like grit in a turbine
Clumsy fingers that slip
ungracefully on the flimsy stretched nylon
A coffee percolating flow
of words I do not know
A language of sophisticated agony
the core of your existence
is wretched from your gut
through the microphone
when my sense are filled with the crudity of your song,
I can feel the pain,
more than words,
you are the poetry that you perform
(my fashionably late xmas greeting
could long foster for this century 21 a meeting
of thee poetic minds pleasantry sent once
boot not worth reap peat ting).
up in the air
mine barrel sized girth
sloshes with cheap beer
wishing many strangers
happy holidays and good cheer
making me suitable
as santa claus and his team of rein deer
chewing gum to avoid
popping in both left and right ear
yet the rickety sleigh
may not become air borne I fear
landing ungracefully
scattering presents and gear
if wooden contraption alights,
a horrendous crash many will hear
no doubt instigating
children and adults to jeer
comparing this jolly fellow to king lear
yet running for the hills
as this mad man gets considerably near
the madding crowd,
who expected a more
healthy saint nick to a pear
with healthy physique
instead of the trademark outsize rear
which cause for observers
to guffaw and sneer
whereby my trademark suit
will seemingly tear
and reveal that this clown
wears frilly under wear
prompting me to avoid
accepting this role for next year.
Shadows seeking solitude
sunlight filters fleeting dream
soft endless kisses
are more real than they seem
Awake but still in the stillness
missing moments long past
through stained glass windows
smiles seldom forever last
Dusty records skipping with
every floor board squeak
dancing my way ever closer
nearer your soul to peek
In bits of laughter loved
from the orchard dripped
ripe hints of heaven
I ungracefully tripped
Broken arrows slightly felt
but deflected just enough
where pain laid low
magically I remained tough
Lost and found but still around
hidden in the lyrics down low
under guise of star struck eyes
the whispers still somehow show
Dusty records skipping with
every floor board squeak
dancing my way ever closer
nearer your soul to peek
Falling in deep a sweet melody
when you're ready I'll be
awaiting upon your dance floor
for you to fall into me
Waltzing slowly
uninterrupted
just you
just me
A mess inside out
From head to toe
Her boat, afloat
But refuses to go
A dime piece if she tries
But prep, a bore
Hops in the car
Her purse by the door
Cruising the highway
Radio blaring
Singing ungracefully
People staring
Can't paint a picture
Or tie a decent bow
But something about literature
Gives her a glow
She will write about the moon
And it's many craters
From midnight till noon
A word generator
Painting pictures with words
Building bridges with thought
Most remain unheard
For listeners, she's sought
It doesn't pay the mortgage
Or dress the table
But it gives her an edge
And she is mentally able
God gave her this passion
There must be reason
So she'll use her ration
And wait for her season
A hazy sunshine fills the empty room
The light creating a mixture of
serene fog and dancing rays
A figure forms in the haze
floating on air
and holding a staff with a golden head
It waves the fog around into
rainbow-coloured circles
Some small, some big
All concentric
and encasing two shapes
They radiate a lenitive breeze
and the scent of roses
I hear a slight rhythm
emanating from its edges
consuming all air in the room
My lips fall dry,
then moisten
with a cinnamon taste
My body quakes
My teeth beat together
ungracefully
Stricken by terror and
expectance at once
I can feel the tightness around my waist
as the two shapes embrace
as if caught in the hollow warmth
between them
Trickles of sweat
run between my eyes
severing the rays
Bird calls ring through
and start lining into inaudible verses
My heart races and I start to quiver
I’m blind, and deaf
and covered by a warm sheath
Tell me, my love
Do you feel it too?
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