"aerodynamic" poems
my face shaped hearty
I only see you partly
as you join my nocturnal party
I heard you miles away
your sounds as clear as day
birds of a feather
I cannot figure whether
humans are trusty
when they ruin my forestry
swoop towards your arm
in dead silent charm
my evolutionary armory
are truly my 'viving beauty
I claw down my goal
in aerodynamic prowl
feasting on successive bowl
my ornithologic growl
is my greet to you any howl.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
A professor explained to me once
how there is a limited number
of possible designs for making
an arrow point function as intended.
You can't stick a round rock on a stick
and expect it to penetrate like a dart.
It has to be sharp and hard, yet light
to fly like a feather straight and true
to the heart. I said, you mean like love?
She said, yeah, like love, kinda like love.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
Where the church bell gapes
at its golden discs gain the airy steep.
Where the eagle deposits its
majestic soar, a mass of feather and
talon--Empyrean's doormat.
Where Icarus stroked wax wing
through the sepia ambiance of his
mind.
Where the hermit broke 'neath after
decade of reclusion.
Where star discloseth foci to
dime the dead of space.
Where striven peace's tangled root
whistles extolling.
Where an aerodynamic corpus
unsheathed horizon, parting palpebras....
surging the seen, unseen.
All's apparent aqua blue, transparent
***** outspread portent pregnant of
blessing.
O sky--every soul's once-over,
immaculate conceptions...ex nihilo.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
Before a Creole love call, and a curdled Cajun moon
the bay water laps about pierrot, bay grass, and wading egret knuckle
Treading through his mucky labyrinthine mistress, and wind-knitted mire
beak prods pock, and inundate in the same instant
silt gilds his bill as he finally snaps about scaly sustenance
Sated
Wings boom and beckon in the darkness
Lift
Scooped in pearl beam, he commands the aeriform
An ether opus bellows about his form
Drying silt disintegrates from aerodynamic bill
Dribbling about in a forgotten slant in the darkness
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
They swoon on behalf of the exalted one
Brandishing the sword of the spirit
Deliberately making a racket
Tremolo picking
******* on the man’s marrow
Sitting on a pick nick blanket
Kicking up new ground
You sure have a knack
This is the taste of terror
Remember what you have learned
For now, for when? Forever
Leave no stone unturned
Just wait your turn
A blind recommended private eye
Take into deep consideration
Deliver me from the life of a lemming
Diving off a cliff into a cesspool
Daunted, left helpless in the courtyard
Belated birthday gifts given so thoughtlessly
Nonchalant sarcasm afterward
They shall not speak henceforth
These are the days of madness
The sanity you’ll lose
The colorblind in glasses
Receiving Rubix Cubes
Tell me what’s the use?
Running across the T-ball field
Frightening a legion of geese
A teenage thrill only to realize
My shoes were covered in stool
The banshee so aerodynamic
Its yawp makes my head split
Calling collect just to say
Your virility is too impressionable
We were the living theater
From which your inspiration derived
The kettles of fish and cans of worms we opened
That we cannot deny
We will not lie
We are dead
From the neck up
From the neck up
From the neck up
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you.
Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake,
Wildwood Harbor rd,
The canopied trees
flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws
reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on.
Holding tight to your chiseled stomach,
hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets,
you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive,
garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration.
I would lean into your spine,
imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead,
each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality,
the living moment.
Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement,
riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs.
And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis,
each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes
transports me to lazy mornings-
Naked and alone in any way imaginable.
Purity and solitude,
truth, the end of it.
So I turned onto M-75
trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you,
and only remember the reasons I love it for me,
but couldn't find any worthy of space.
You made everything so memorable.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
The aerodynamic
spiraling of
cappuccino colors
and butterfly words,
churches divide
and coffee-shops
offer something
that equally
scolds impatient tongues.
Floodlights
liquidize in
the charcoal fog
and the girl in
the leather jacket
comes to life
beside the freeway.
Her shoes
are the ships
and her eyes
are the telescope,
but the streets become
the cement river
where the gasoline
creatures never stop.
This is where
they left her
to die,
this is where
they took
everything away.
She is nothing,
a mistake along
this highway,
but she was lucky
to be given
a name
that sounds good
on a tombstone.
Knowing this,
her pepper eyes
water and her body
collapses upon
brittle grass,
the Earth welcomes
her return.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
“Graceless Ravens Envy You,” by Eric Robert Nolan
Revel in apostasy.
You are the black dove, hovering
High in an inklike arc.
Blacker, even, than
coal-colored wolves in onyx lines seeking
quarry at starless midnight.
More ebon, even, than
narrow sable blacksnakes staying
cravenly in shade at noon.
Darker, even, than
murders of crows, newly legion at Autumn, amassing
among saw-wing martins at dusk.
You’re blacker, even, then the rooks.
Graceless ravens envy you.
Remember your rebirth?
The sun rose,
Your birdsong changed and then
the questions flew from your beak
faster even than the wrens?
Faster than you could fly?
For a moment, they rendered
all the world obsidian.
Remember your feathers burning?
Sunlight striking your wings and then
all the slow alabaster there
singing, quickening into
aerodynamic black?
Remember the flock’s suspicion?
Remember your siblings, the nest?
Remember when
all their pearl heads turned
their backlit crowns in morning sun
ringed so thinly in shining ivory?
Their song was interrupted,
Yours was made a query —
empiricism’s aria.
Flustered, they fluttered
at all the low notes.
There were all immaculate;
you were the color of night.
Now you arc alone —
soar and sin and sing,
unrepentant one.
Somewhere an ordinary dog,
awakening from shadow,
howls at the sun.
(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2015
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Through her eyes I see her soul,
And the sadness when they roll,
Her nose as black as coal,
Though sweet as a baby foal,
She has teeth like broken china,
And a tongue like a pink recliner,
Her face like a piece of art,
That was crafted from the heart,
She has ears like paper origami,
That could hear a foreign tsunami,
Her neck forms an arch,
Like a piece of twisted larch,
Her brisket is as deep as the sea,
And holds the lock to my key,
Her legs like a vintage chair,
That walks with grace and care,
She has a body built for speed,
When running she takes the lead,
Her heart races like a lambaguini,
Although It might seem quite teeny,
Her muscles tense like a fierce stallion,
Like an athlete ready to win a medallion,
Her body is so aerodynamic,
When she runs she makes the wind panic,
Her tail swooshes from side to side,
As she holds her head in great pride,
Her coat as black as leather,
And as soft as a ducks feather,
It shimmers like a stream,
When the sun makes it gleam,
Her little dashes of white,
Are oh so pure and bright,
Never will I feel of despair,
Cause I know my best friend is there!!!
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
the trees are rustling,
whispering welcome, aerodynamic
flutter shuddering leaves;
there is an insect
traversing my backpack,
up one strap, across,
down the
other; moss covered Buddha
staring serenely at me,
myself returning the favor and
silently scrutinizing him.
it is tranquility, dyed yellow and
dying leaves floating to cobblestone.
birds chirping: sonic reminiscence of
Migos songs played at too-high volume
in your car, riding shotgun,
screaming punchbuggy and
stealing kisses at stoplights.
my legs are folded like
a lotus, albeit less
colorful and more
awkward edges, bamboo
casting shadows beside
me. wait- was that thunder?
are those raindrops?
or perhaps a signal that
talking about you
and photodocumenting my life
aren't going to do any good.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
love is an ocean
and standing on a cliff
the wind begins to blow
before it has the chance
to push me into a fall
i dive
headlong
fingertips steepled
pressed together
outstretched
above my head
they direct me
toward that
sweet
crisp
splash
i hold
i am tight
smooth
aerodynamic
i hasten
my descent never pausing
never pining for the safety of the cliff
never looking back up
never checking
if the tide
is in
.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 3:50 AM UTC
A symphony
of harmonious flighted creatures
that sing
at the rising of the sun.
Ever changing
are the finite spirit forms,
gracefully gliding
through the sky and beyond.
In start
of every new beginning.
Clouded hues
segue into one another
as dawn
approaches the morning sky.
Eyes peer
through half opened lids
waking slowly
with the powerful stretch of
rejuvenated muscles
to honor the presence of another day.
Flighted creatures
make home in the tall
green bushes.
Together they greet the rising world.
Waving branches
bid 'good morning' to the passerby's,
in hope
that the earthlings below
take notice
of their majestic beauty.
Green hairs
blanket the moist earth
and intermingle
with fallen teardrops from nearby
tall bushes.
Forms without spirit dissolve into
chocolate sand,
that is food for the non-traveling
ground dwellers,
so the bushes may shade, house, and feed.
Deep breaths
are heard as the atmosphere exhales
fresh air
into the lungs of all nearby earthlings.
Tiny monsters
make home in the green covered
chocolate sand.
They crawl with many feet
through jungle
that is, to us, sprouting green hair.
Sky dwellers
have many feet, and many wings.
No feathers,
but tiny, contorted, aerodynamic bodies.
Wind gliding,
to travel far across the land
fulfilling destinies.
Sky dwellers
are food for the flighted creatures.
A cycle;
a synergistic food chain for all life.
Blissful beauty
in its absolute finest.
Formless spirits
serve as infinite energy for the finite
earthly masterpiece.
A world of divine forms,
living harmoniously
under the glee of the rising sun.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
**** I miss you.
My eyes are bending down into this face.
I was smiling, but now I stand on my head…
I don’t feel I’ll ever right myself.
I gossip about you to everyone.
You are a pillow cut open atop this twisted steel skyscraper,
loose the feather and no one can retrieve it.
We all watch you fade so slowly away on the wind.
We try so hard not to jump after you.
We are not as light, and less aerodynamic.
We would fall like stones,
and so
eyes misted with the dew of loss,
we watch you
fade away so slowly on the wind,
farther,
father,
until your point of brightest azurean love
is lost up in the deep glass sky.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 5:45 AM UTC
There is Icarus
Near death in the water.
Everyone laughs and jeers
to call him a fool
And his name becomes
A symbol
of Hubris.
But none of it changes
Icarus-
nearly dead and sunburned-
Smiling
After it all
Flying around
somehow with wax.
But the stars and planets
and even the sun
Are actually very beautiful.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 4:41 AM UTC
i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
to feign acrobatic mystery
through aerodynamic propensities -
is to let dramatic proclivities
start and stop the show.
the somersault
moronically learned;
while in an endless blur-
Displays the beauty
Truth's discerned
of who and what we were.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 9:51 PM UTC
A unit of measurement is a definite magnitude of a quantity,
used as a standard for measurement of the same kind of quantity. Any other quantity of that kind
can be expressed
as a multiple of the unit of measurement.
Length,
for example,
is a physical quantity.
Any value of a physical quantity is expressed
as a comparison to a unit of that quantity.
For example, the value of a physical quantity Z is expressed as the product of a unit [Z] and a numerical factor:
Z = n x [Z] = n[Z] So if we were to let Z be “2 antique sofas” then Z = 2[Z] = 2 antique sofas.
Fifteen hundred miles or so,
converts to roughly 7920000 feet
and 48 hours of land
across approximately 29 counties spread through 5 states
However,
in order to measure more abstract concepts,
different units of measurement are often adapted,
or hybridized, to fulfill ad-hoc need.
Coping,
for example,
is an abstract quantity
represented by
American Spirits:
(farenheit, inches, exhaled smoke as measured in cubic feet.)
Tears cried as designated driver
for termination
of unplanned pregnancy:
(miles, cost of service in U.S. Dollar, speed, tear volume in milliliters)
Furniture thrown:
Forces relevant to stable flight include a balance of
Propulsive ****** Lift,
created by the reaction
to an airflow
Drag, created by
aerodynamic friction
Weight,
created by gravity
Buoyancy, for lighter
than air flight
Holes in drywall:
(Inches in diameter and depth, potential bruises to be explained if the wall is ever further away than the human form in a darkened bedroom)
Unfortunately,
some concepts are still devoid of applicable units of measurement.
Take for example, the concept of Waiting.
As it has no defined beginning,
or end, and is malleable based on
external factors such as perceived value
and level of psychosocial dependency,
there appears to be no observable limit
regarding absolute human capacity capabilities.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
An angel fell because… (skip gender-”biased pronouns” here or anonymize with asterisk lunacy) wings were in conflict… the left one anxiously ***** equality, not knowing that would mean a lack of lift and loss of aerodynamic quality… the right one, weaponized, stiffly resolved, glides over the notion that all feathers should be attached talons, even though it doesn’t make sense to fight gravity with sharpness…
And so the angel split with Grace and tumbled… eventually lost the race to inertia… another force to add up to internal struggle and its intensifying pressures...
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
So what's it worth to you?
How much?
Put a price tag on it, if you feel the need
Lately, ochito has turned a new leaf when to comes to this whole business
An invisible juggernaut now is his reinforcement
Not knowing why or where this help has come
from, he braves his sanctified environment with a new spirit
This new ally is available to all viable members of the planet, I think
Then again it is quite possible that 'ol och has lost all
his marbles, but if you ask me(and I wouldn't lie to ya)
its better to have more free space upstairs anyway.
"Marble"-less
Its more aerodynamic
But anyway, let's return to the initial question
What is it worth you?
What is waking up in the morning?
As far as ochito is concerned, it's a gift
A divine present
The present that has no value.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Face stung by depersonalization, caked and gobbed
makeup so eyes of two can tower anonymous.
Round and round, makeup descended, blood runneth
cold...blood runneth warm.
Clown's base rigor mortis white contrasted by pools
of blood-red.
Upturned lips to smile, downturned eyes to cry.
Nose...of a consummate drunk, or irritated swell of
tissue-happy crying.
****** motion spent in a capering given to the clown's
colorful daemon.
Bloated aerodynamic garb giving the birthday-suit
room to free fall the roles it was cast in.
Clown...pinch...perfect...overdone, multicolored
burning bush wig at home...ever at home with clownish
head.
O clown--built by laughing tracks, and the hollow of
broken peanut shells.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
small pieces of paper stuck to her molars
she wasn’t from the country she said she was from
ex-PAT! her charming garbled R’s were
gone that one night.
we all said, J’ACCUSE! and she was like, what
because she wasn’t french.
she could’ve passed though,
if she kept her tongue quiet. I mean,
it moved the right way, at least.
and she was beautiful, if I may speak so plainly
and very susceptible to the cold—
blue-white hands tucked up into sleeves
when she sat hunched over with a hot tea listening
to a radio broadcast from 1970.
it was in san francisco that she fell in love
(not with anyone in particular, but that’s almost
always how it works, non?)
after 1970, but she hardly knew the difference
except that the cars were more aerodynamic
and all the boys had names like Blake and James
and Noah and it was harder to come by a bed for the night.
she had small lungs, the better for whispering, but she
felt like she was more grand than a whisper.
french girls could whisper and still be grand (ma chérie)
so when she packed up and erased the country, she took
a new name, more cosmopolitan, with her,
ma chérie.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
i hate to break it like this, it's not a metaphor's worth of sentence that could become a riddle: it's not exactly a - why is a raven like w riting desk? because you're hunched, sitting over it, and scribbling with a pen, like a raven might with its claw(s)?
i wish i could make the following observation into a similar
riddle, but i can't, simply because it's too obvious...
what bird, could possibly be a far removed cousin
of a sparrow?
i have two families of sparrows building
nests just outside my window...
so i notice the fidget and the "anxiety" of their
little bodies...
but the link is in their tails...
the tails aren't exactly like flowers blooming in spring,
opening like a peacock's tail for courtship...
nor like the raven's tail... nor like woodland pigeons' tail...
they're sharp, pointy... never unfolding,
simply because the sparrows are little spitfires...
they require a sharp tail that doesn't unfold, for greater speed,
like a shark's fin...
the natural aerodynamic addition to their little bodies...
so who could possibly be the sparrows' cousin?
answer? magpies!
and because of the longer sharp tail that doesn't unfold,
like the sparrows,
i dare say, i'll call magpies the aero resemblance to the their aqua
cousins that are, stingrays.
come on... we've differentiated far enough,
poetry can't differentiate... the "only" thing poetry can
do is integrate... to make language, so dismembered: a whole;
doubly stressed: it's about making associations...
not about making dissociations...
so yeah... sparrows... magpies... stingrays.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
You and I are opposed.
We are like disparate species,
Serving an inverse purpose.
Our strange essence seems
To set us on polar paths:
You are the flight-stream of "SHE".
I am the fight-stance of "HE".
You wing in the breeze,
Brilliant and inspiring,
As a Bird of Paradise!
Your feminine charisma
And intuitive self-expression
Looks to all the world
As an affirmation of freedom --
Freedom of voice, freedom of velocity,
Freedom of line and trajectory.
At once so sharp and aerodynamic
And again jubilantly hued!
A flash of sun-lit feathers,
Racing on the wind!
Your air-borne voice is a
Canto of melodious joy!
And your brilliant laugh…Ah!
In truth, I swoon to the
Hollo of your untethered
Celebration, connected, as you are,
To your clan of heart-wise purists!
Your levity (you levitate!),
Your choreographed costumes,
Your graceful pace,
Your soul-evanescence,
Your radiant face!
Yet...I stand opposed, it seems,
In my direction.
I am the Sentinel and I am at war.
I stand watch: raised up --
But by a wall atop, not by wings.
I see a world of trouble,
A world fearful in its enmity.
I look only to the perimeter,
Scanning for our enemy.
I cannot relent from the struggle.
I must stand vigilant as I have sworn
To protect you and all my tribe.
I fight to return to you –
To my friends,
To my family,
To my lovers,
To my neighbors –
A world inspired by hope;
One committed to the healing
Of our many wounds.
A world grounded in the
Recognition of our core
Dignity and our highest lights!
This charge keeps me on task,
Through the dark and cold
Silence, before the clash.
We see the world from opposing perspectives…but we are tethered
To each other by the chains of shared
Endeavor:
You, with your joy and brilliance,
Bringing happiness and creating
Family bonds -- bonds of friendship,
A shared sense of play and
The wonder of human beauty –
Me, in sober wariness,
Standing watch, atop the wall.
I look to the horizon to discover
A vision of lasting safety,
Justice and peace in our time.
It is my duty to serve our people,
To serve you, my love and
My friend.
I serve the hope of a
Purposed unity and work to
Build a shared prosperity,
For our tribe.
We are opposed but we also support
Each other, as we look above,
To and from
Our highest (deepest) selves.
We scan the heavens for the path
To an existence rich
In love, wisdom and harmony!
We stand together in search
Of a place
Where human joy
Is lived and expressed,
For all the world to see!
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC
You
are the airplane,
Traveling faster than the wreckage of noise
you leave behind,
You
Low-flying roar
Shaking the cores
of youths on rooftops
emptying beer bottles
into their bellies
Confusing birds,
******* on your territory,
an audio stream of noise pollution,
Claiming the sky as your own
You
The shining relic of the millennium,
An aerodynamic wonderamongst Midwest wheat,
The technological feat
of bored men with a hungry need to
prove themselves (W)right
The birds will not thank you
Neither will the families with
ticky tacky shelters plopped beside the tarmac
“Worse than living by the highway,” they say,
“I would live by the sea, if I could have it my way”
(a different kind of jet blue white noise)
The people you carry,
we are the only thankful souls
Being checked, scanned, and crammed
into tight places is
a preliminary condition I have lived with
You’re breaking the sky,
but you’re taking me places I could never be
otherwise
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC