"cubic" poems
a candle sat in an open field
with nothing but darkness up and round
a thousand cubic miles of night
and nothing weighs that candle down
the darkness chokes with all its might
yet the candle still endures
and if all the darkness in the world couldn't put out the candle's light
then what could put out yours
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
while there at 26 other people present in this room,
i feel alone;
or at least my mind has convinced me that i am.
either way,
it's nice i suppose.
and i can't really focus on anything
but do i really want to?
i could honestly not care less
whether Graph B
is steeper than Graph A
and how it has an equation of -2x-2.
i don't care if it's a
linear
quadratic
exponential
or cubic root equation
all i can seem to care about
at this moment in time
is you
you keep trying to bust your way
into my head
and make a reservation
like i have extra room.
NEWSFLASH:
i don't.
but somehow,
someway,
you have made your way in.
and i don't think you don't plan on leaving.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
Do you like me?
Or do you not like me?
You are such a cubic,
I have to play around for so long,
And when I think I've got it,
There's one ******* white block,
Trapped in the center of the **** reds.
Is there a hack way to work you out?
Do I have to pull out each block,
Pull them out one by one,
Until I accidentally break a piece?
Each time I lose my temper because of you,
I remind myself,
I remind myself that,
I need to be patient with you,
Because if I force you apart,
You'll break.
I swear,
You are such a cubic.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
This poem is composed by: a Nonet, a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Free verse part, a Terzanelle and another Free verse part:
In a juerga there’s nothing around
But voices, flamenco guitars ,
Dancing bodies in moonlight,
Vibrant gypsy dresses,
Passion, obsessions,
Bullfighter’s blades,
Silk shawls,
Dancers,
Capes.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Flamenco women to attract,
Like barks of olive trees in night.
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Girls have boot heels and huge roses,
Men clench their teeth , step opposes,
Hands clap and shout in a dance fight,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Guitars are beaten at high speeds,
Castanets scratch the music’s seeds,
Rhythmic fingers snap air to bite,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Old men have faces scorched and cracked,
Shirts dazzle white in the moonlight.
Hands becoming wings
In their shadows on the wall,
Red becoming black and
Black becoming white,
Motion vibrating the guitar's string,
Cubic movements of colors,
In their dance ,
Shadowy wings becoming scarfs,
Flamenco woman arching her body,
Showing her passion…
From the soul to dissolve
The dancing sounds detach
From the soul to dissolve
When the movement they catch,
They may change all around,
The dancing sounds detach.
Drums and tambourines’ sound,
Exotic wrists and swirls,
They may change all around.
The weightless grace makes girls
Steal treasures from the air,
Exotic wrists and swirls.
With beautiful black hair,
Rise like birds , fall like leaves.
Steal treasures from the air,
Having tricks up their sleeves,
From the soul to dissolve,
Rise like birds ,fall like leaves
From the soul to dissolve.
Spicy slippery steps
Waiting for a clue,
Picking up portions of pink
Of hyper-femininity ,
Overflowing screwy sounds
In heavy red chromesthesia,
Morphing themselves into glamorous ,
Red feminine movements,
Men looking like marble statues being alive,
Seemingly cracking.
Slowly diminishing their dancing rhythm,
Steps sickling sweet sounds
To hear the horn of some lost happiness.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
I'm disconnected from the world
I don't want to see the people on this earth in a swirl
I'm disconnected from my phone
I don't take calls no more I'm unbeknown
I'm disconnected from my music
I just can't hear no more in this cubic
I'm disconnected from my sweet love
I feel like an old unfit glove
I'm disconnected from my home
I don't want to live here no more I want to roam
I'm disconnected from reality
What Is real and what is fake maybe it's my mentality
I'm disconnected from my mind
The demons took their time
I wish I was plugged in
So I can live again
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC
Here lies a continuation of being.
View it as scenery indifferent to the weather channel.
A silent, exponential inverted sunshine euphoria
Warming the deepest letters of the soul:
U and I swaying outside linear cubic conventions corroded-
We sway like flowering Earth Resonance blooming as foreign
[Sensations]
A toe-curling in the chest stretched intimate at the highest hour
[Movement]
An unconditional syncopation of the heart and mind echoing a
Design as Liquid Resonance - I am that which you are.
“I could cry solid tears. Where have I been all these years,” says
You to reflected I rippling
[Perception]
Never spoken, only written as an abstract entity aware of vibrations
Tethered to timeless stories never read, only felt as I and U in
Reflected them, the missing strangers with a need to be found
[Immortalized]
Twisted eyes, encumbered lips, everflowing knitted letters stuttered. Kissed. Growing from itself a rehearsed mantra embroidered pattern discord. Mythical. The murmuration of a serenade’s evil dermis that feigns thick to tooth and claw, but silences to love as the overture.
Wide-eyed, you and I are a nascent reprise of words cloaked in inked pages turning in the billowing wind.
"Read them to me."
So I read in heavy rain.
From Monday to Sunday.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
A juerga with flamenco guitars,
With fires blooming like red flowers,
Corpses dancing in moonlight
The dance of wounded souls,
Vibrant red dresses
White shirts like birds,
Falling shawls,
Dancers,
Sky,
Claps,
Cubic
Movements of
Color, music's
Seeds, hands being wings
In shadows on the wall,
From soul detaching passion's
Lights, motion vibrating the string,
Resonance for a new dimension.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Girl, are you belong to
De Beers Premier Mine
Come to me, I preserve you
and make you mine
My love is like
Champagne diamond
I've somany colors to put
all your worries behind
Let me be a Wittelsbach
in your crown
So that I can smooch your forhead
Let me be a White diamond
in your ring
So that I can kiss your fingers
I'm sure, being with is like staying
in a Cubic zirconia
My love is more denser;
I will never let you hurt
Girl, you are a Koh-I-Noor;
everyone fights for your beauty
and value..
But I'm Robin hood;
I always fight for your good!
----de3pak
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
In geometry we learn how to measure the distance between things
The space between things
The empty space between lines
How long is the shadow cast by a branch on a tree if it is two o’clock and the branch is east facing and 7 feet above the ground
A train departed Madrid in rush hour at 5:40pm and arrived in Barcelona at 8:15pm it went 63mph for 50 minutes how fast did it go the rest of the way if it is 386 miles between the cities
A trove of treasure held 300 cubic inches of gold and had a six inch square face, how long was the box
If it takes 3 seconds for my phone to chime after you send a text message and it takes 2 seconds for my brain to recognize your name on my phone how long will my stomach flutter if I’ve loved you for a month
Assuming my stomach flutters for that long and you ended our burgeoning relationship yesterday to stay comfortable in your current surroundings and we both don’t want to give up how real it all feels, how much silly putty does it take to fill the empty space in my chest
If Wal-Mart sells silly putty for $1.36 per package and each package contains 4 oz. of silly putty and I work for $13.51 per hour and $13.30 of each hour’s wage goes towards bills and other essentials how long will I have to work in order to save enough money to buy all the silly putty required to fill my chest with it, assuming I live in Oregon where there is no sales tax and that I only drink one six pack at $8.99 a week
More importantly though
If I fill my chest with silly putty, will my heart bounce back after it’s dropped next time
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
He said its
complicated.
Uncomplicate it,
I told him.
Is it really
possible to get
beyond this complex
and difficult confusion.
It's all like
an amateur playing
the Cubic game.
As easy as it
seems to dance and
not forget the steps,
even so it is
to have a face
and still not well known.
The Excellence of the
Soul is Understanding,
for the Man
who Understands is
Conscious, devoted,
and already godlike.
Understanding the
complicated is not
that simple.
You need the mind
of a poet who
understands and interpret
what the mind sees
in the unconscious.
He will with ease
bring to the
conscious world all
the complicated complexities
for others to understand.
A poet dreams while awake,
and still awakens
within the dream to
uncomplicate the complicated.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
A storefront window
A wax figure
that shed its oily fingers one
by one to feel closer to its
yellow core. Moving meant
melting, and melting meant
a puddle of desperate,
flesh colored wax
separated from the summer
encased behind a pane of glass
melting was not an option
so motionless it remained
with an elastic smile
and immaculate hair
greeting guest, upon guest
with false love and
glazed marble eyes
gleaming like cubic zirconia
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
Tell me how,
One person can divide into
Three perfectly psychotic sentiments
While still appearing to be whole
Tell me how
Multiplying your kindness only
Creates a rift between myself and patience
And ends with nights of contemplation followed by tumultuous
Back-and-forths with imaginary numbers
For I am no mathematician
I cannot find a solution to every concrete problem
I do not bother with equations or substitutes
I only skim the symbol, rewrite questions and leave the answers hanging in the air
Tell me why,
Subtracting victims from my life
Only added a murderous sentiment
To every repeating decimal that couldn’t find its’ place
Tell me why,
The quadratic formula is emblazoned in my memory
But everyone keeps throwing opposites at me
So forgetting whether to add or to subtract becomes hazy
And the square root gets suspended until next class, so the
Four drops off the plane, two goes insane, and
Letters lose their fictitious meanings
For I am no mathematician
Archimedes is finding the constant of my triangular coffin
While Newton is rolling in his gravity
Carl Gauss is busy laughing his *** off with fundamentals in his eyes and
Descartes keeps whispering incoherent Latin, migraines sprinting towards me
As if in a race
So don’t ask me
Whether or not you should divide by zero
Or whether it requires sine, cosine, or a tangent
My logic will not tell you anything you want to hear
I am through trying to piece together this imaginary puzzle
And I’ve had enough of playing this never-ending game
Because I’ve been through two continents, and 4 different states
And I still don’t know the meaning of my name.
For I am no mathematician
The only pie charts I am fond of,
have to do with sugar and preheating an oven to 450 degrees
And with every cubic centimeter
I start thinking of cubes of cheddar cheese
For I am no mathematician
I can’t graph a simple line
I don’t understand the dimensions of the polygon shown above
And I’m tired of wasting precious time
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
I once kept some fish
I called one Pythagoras
He swam round and round the tank
And to be frank
I thought he was working out the cubic capacity.
To keep them fit
I fed them on flakes because that's all it takes
But he was a sod he took out a fishing rod
Caught all the others and ate all his brothers
I was a bit peeved but then I conceived
An idea..Oh lord what a killer.
In his tank I put a mirror
Well.
When he saw his reflection
Section by section he ate himself
And finished with his head.
Now Pythagoras is dead.
You didn't expect a happy ending did you?
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 10:11 AM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
I see straight lines
Binding giant rectangles to collapse
On the nature of what's below
Endless copies
Animals of asexual, mechanical, foreign disposition
I don't think I know what it means to be solid
To be perfect
But as much as I love almosts
and innocence
They're telling me to grow up now
To find a rectangle to waste away in
But my ghost wasn't meant to be form-fitted
I wasn't meant to be cubic.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
I write to you
when my poetry is rhyme.
I write to you
when my poetry is ill.
I write to you
in moments of style.
and in moments
when all style stands
still.
I write to you
on cubic balconies
dangling from loud
and misty skies
I write to you
from men-infested markets
buzzing with cumin,
toenails and flies
I write to you
before picking up my pen,
and after putting it down
for good
And in between these moments,
I feed these letters
to mad chimneys and
starving wood.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Two sides to where I stand
at the edge of a cubic earth
left, ocean and right, dark, furled
nowhere to go but the two worlds
two choices seem too many
to live with what I decide
unless I'm prepared to sleep
I can't discover the taste of cyanide
I refuse to breathe not being enlightened
so I choose the unknown prime
by untangling labyrinth I abide
and to my right, I eventually dive.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
Lilac moons still frolicking
In that meadow of your individuality
You smile to yourself your wolfish grin
Because no one else will ever get it...
That rainbow coursing through your veins...
The delicatessen within your mind
It doesn't matter Erin
Secrets for the privileged zombie muffins
Allow your splendid vortex to swirl
Don't keep the cubic wheels of your world from moving
Christmas tree cookie cutters...
Should only be used for baking
Not for defining the shape of humanity
Hatred should stay out of it
Indignation was called off today
You're too special...
And not in that little yellow bus way
You're always on that rocketship of wow
Don't fear the envy of all the others
For your soul burning so brightly within
It still shines throughout you
Just love it...
I watched you grow like a dandelion
But are you a flower or another garden ****
Make the decision on your own
It's all on you to choose your own adventure now
*Eines Tages wird die Welt dir zuhören...
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
slip your hands down my shoulders, and memorize the pattern of markings. press your soul in fingerprint markings down my calves, make me feel as if i take up space. i need to be reminded of my existence or it might fall away all together. spell your name onto my collarbone in swirling font and count the cubic inches i exhale.
take the mid night hours and spread them apart, find more time in-between and use it to write your animation onto a sheet of paper. drop your words into my mouth, feed me like a starving cub, my palate is dry without your recited weeping.
wind telephone wires around my hands, dig them into my wrists and leave indents not unlike sleep marks. those leave though. contour yourself around the bridge of my nose and seep carefully into my pores, it's refreshing. glide through my hollow middle and decorate my entity with your pretty, pretty being.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Upon blond stripes
Lie silken hooves
With ripe and gutted cherubs
Upon blond stripes
Rinse molten flecks
The Satan shakes of corporate vest
The cubic keys beneath beaten fingers and
Stinging needles in women painted
Upon blond stripes
Curls burning bible
Crestfallen to dust against a glistening tongue
Upon blond stripes
Belched mountain laughter
Shattered across
Surgical steel
Upon blond stripes
Children slept with sagging disaster and heaved
Trashcan embryos
In giggling rage
While
Under blond stripes
The lids close sewn
Deaf to the death of unbroken bones
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
...The thing with no name,
Surrounded by sadness,
That kind of sadness
Penetrating its silence,
That kind of silence
Searching the tears,
Those tears
Becoming cubes of light,
Those cubes wondering
On their situation of their becoming,
Being involved in a movement
Apparently anarchic,
Needing, ''a priori cognoscible'',
Synthetic truths
And empirical postulates
On the shape of their inner dislocation,
Their shear looping into unstable equilibrium,
Needing a stable equilibrium,
Becoming emblematic symbols
Of the diminishing boundary
Between real and unreal,
That cubic thing withdrawing itself,
Slowly becoming
Memory....
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:53 PM UTC
Little stars
Burning bright
How much helium
Did you make tonight?
From hydrogen to helium
A cubic centimeter
Will power an average city for a year.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
My hands have had it, I look at them now,
Holding a pencil, is like strangling a cow.
My thumb and forefinger, seize like a vice,
The other digits join in, they don't need to ask twice.
The scar on my palm was from Ninety-Four,
Club Hammer versus Chisel, lets call it a draw.
The **** on my thigh, shaped like an "M" for Mother,
From when I stepped through, a rusty manhole cover
Thirty stitches later, "Och, keep still Hen . . . . "
I never drank Whiskey on that Site again.
The pain in the elbows, from pushing a wheelbarrow,
Up Bostal Hill, Steyning, that was three foot too narrow,
To get a Dumper through, so we shifted it by hand,
Eight cubic metres of concrete, to the promised land.
The copper complexion, the grey in the hair,
Every crease, every wrinkle, shows the way that we wear.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 6:41 AM UTC
Cubic zirconium eyes, and a tip toe too far
that I'm tittering on the cusp of something
that is even remotely coherent.
I've been repeating sentences in my head,
over and over again so I'm not to forget it.
This waltz with reality is getting tiring,
and my wits are too dull to cut this rug.
I believe that there is an old saying about that
but I could be confused with something other then words.
I never did like the number seven
masquerading as cylindrical. Never the less,
there is just three more steps, and
a skipped heart beat, and then, and only
then I can finally come to my conclusion.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC