"TUMBLING." A New Poem About Life -- Here & There, Now & Then -- by Geoffrey Garwick.

                               TUMBLING 
                                           by Geoff Garwick
 
I.   The   Abs.
 
                     A breath—that’s short—bikini brief short.
                     Chest rises.  Chest Falls.   Then our scene ends.
                     It’s curtains for you.  A meteor is slower
                     When compared to a star’s orbit, 
                     Than human life’s flickering trends.
 
                     Air twisting gymnast soars wingless,
                     Dwarfed by the towering high bar.
                     Floating weightless in the giant’s
                     Apogee for shards of a second,
                     Where the flyer lives lighter than a star.
 
                     Leaves float for hours, days, years,
                     Compared to the human pause atop.
                     Brains and muscles flip us higher,
                     Brave, amazing aerial displays
                     But in wink’s time, we--still—must drop.
 

II.   The Skin and Drippy Nose.
 
                     In my  chameleon-weathered homeland
                     We are amazingly well-seasoned:
                     Oregano, ginger, chipotle and cumin
                     Have nothing on us at all.
                     But merely calling the plunge “autumn”
                     Won’t dull the pain when we hit bottom.   


III.   The Scapulae and Wishbone.
 
                         Watch that well-greased first step,
                         You who, soon a little lower than angels
                         Formerly looking up to you,
                         Now clutch wings requiring glue.
 
                         You’ll miss the feathers most, 
                         No longer a morning person,
                         Meteoring for uprushing
                         Ground, where, unfledged, you’ll be crushing
 
                         De-aeried favorite son,
                         Epaulets and pinions gone,
                         Blaze snuffed by exile’s pall
                         For long, lonely years you’ll fall.
 
                         Heaven’s best becomes its dreck
                         When the plucked throne hits the deck,
                         Now mortals must clean up the wreck
                         Of dull wings driven through your neck.
                  
IV.   The Rib and Teeth
    
                          Reptile.
                          Defile. 
                          Beguile.
 
                          No-no fruit:
                          Bitten cute.
                          Sharing loot.
 
                          PLUNGE FROM GRACE.
                          LOST OUR PLACE:
                          SWORD IN FACE.
 
                           The Eve of nude.
                           Sweat dropping, crude.
                           Birth pangs turn rude.
 
V.   The Pelvis  and the Femur                          
                         
                          How many light bulbs does it take
                          To help a crucial bone to break?
                          I hear it requires only one
                          If a ladder guarantees the fun.
 
                          If you’re not yet drooled or mumbling
                          Begin the collapse by stumbling.
                          In a fall from gravity’s grace,
                          Smash at least one  joint, then replace.
 
                          The down escalator’s rumbling
                          As you slouch toward  further crumbling.
                          When legs slither after  bones are burst
                          The crowd assumes your mental worst.
 
                          Abcess-minded bits of bumbling
                          Unleash mosquito stings of humbling,
                          In the mornings the geezer crawls
                          Until its damned London Bridge falls.
          
VI.   The  Midbrain and the Heart
 
                            Yearning and yearning, quasar-lashed,
                            Paired stars gyre about a new
                            Fulcrumed, formerly empty, point.
                            A jet of fusing synergy
                            Sweeps from the rotating partners.
 
                            Their center does not fold--
                            Not origami; tempered edge.
                            What chimera'ed beast measures self
                            By dear circumnavigations     
                            Of the incoiled, twined other?
 
                            WE, screaming “now”, dive into love,
                            Seals lost, beaks gaped, talons flared,
                            Tearing hungrily into our
                            Own deepest  viscera to feed
                            Ravening chicks of  hopeful melds.
 
                            Sloughing off  lost Jerusalems,
                            The universe drops pulled-out strings,
                            Which dared to exist outside of we --
                            Extruding what’s not Gemini,
                            The sad fey shadows beyond us.
 
VII.   The Wrist and Phalanges
          
                            Dice play at
                            Being divine.
                            Randomly crying.
                            Through infinite games.


© Copyright  Geoffrey Byron Garwick.  All Rights Reserved.

Special thanks to the good folks at Pixabay for access to their angelic images. Fallen Angel by Basker of Hyderabad. Sky Angel by extemp artist Sarah Richter of Germany. Vielen Dank, unsere neue geschickte Freundin...