"diagonally" poems
It streams down eye to eye
from the unseen but the all seeing.
Far from the Mars far from the Neptune
skipping all the planets hanging in space
only on the cheek of earth, a drop of tear fell.
Every angel in the heavens' shore
has heard of this lore.
It’s timeless long mesmerising beautiful.
Far from the blue yonder sky
hunky dory is delighting to the eyes
the stunner is made to measure.
A tear in the corner of the eye
as if it's diagonally weighed down
with the 360-degree open looking sky.
As close as within a fingertip comes the Moon
still, a sea is ahead forever untouchable!
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
My stiff arms hit the metal of the door as I force it open, against
the chilled fist of wind, pounding hard upon the glass
windows and then equally upon my face and forearms. It had to be
below 50 degrees, but I had hoped that the cold could help me
feel again. Feel something. Unfortunately,
this ice only froze my fingers, leaving
my body as numb as my mind.
Later, as I rid my machine of the cloth concealment, protecting
the scars laced into my skin. The water boils as I
examine my life-lines, these battle scars, in the mirror and
can only cringe in thought of the disappointment drowning
the faces of those I care about most: their eyes
drooping down with the weight of eyebrows, creased
diagonally, half shock and the other half burning
discontentment. They purse their lips and stab my eyes
with their daggers, when I chuckle nervously.
I shake my head of these thoughts from my speculation and
step into the steam, hoping the heat could help me
feel again. However, the fire does not scorch my
body, nor incinerate the emptiness, it only slides
down the marble sculpture my body feels to be
(equivalent to the concrete barrier that builds behind my eyes)
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Walk onto a stage called life
and take a look around.
There's much to be found in such a small space,
more to give and much to take
as the curtains called and you're pulled into this performance.
Stare into the audience and pray for applause
but what if you're met with silence?
Spotlight on you as your hopes are ejected
and you my friend have just been rejected
and that is a hard thing to take.
So take a seat, a rejection seat.
Front row to your failures as they come In-ter-view.
Call it the Dragons Den the Lions Pit
and yet they ask me what kind of animal i'll be
as i sit and daydream about Spiderman in a suit
listing qualities of make believe
as he's forced to fill in a CV just like me;
not that i'm a superhero,
i'm just saving face you see,
it's just an amusing thought to ease the anxiety.
And the voluntears they come in turn.
Call em that cause they come momentarily
to remind me involuntarily
that sometimes i do need help and not all things are easy,
not all things are meant to be.
So i take a seat, will you take one with me?
As you watch that relationship sail
and wonder how did it fail?
Bon voyAge is irrelevant.
Whether it be school crush folly to divorcee
it's a learning curve right?
Hard when it seems the only thing you taught me
is what it means to feel lonely.
It's cold in that place called the one way street,
so take a seat. Pull up a chair to something that's no longer there
and share in despair as you stare at your feet.
But you will raise your head eventually.
Adopt the thinkers pose, indulge in some feelosophy.
Cause a friend once said to me that rejection is a time for reflection
and i tend to agree.
So tell me, as i stare into the face of rejection
why is it that i see my own reflection?
Am i cursed to take this personally?
It's always the shoulda, woulda, couldas that get to me.
Do they get to you?
If so take a seat.
And are you sitting uncomfortably?
Cause you shouldn't be.
Take comfort as you stare along row upon row of chairs
that stretch along beyond you and me.
Side to side, across from and diagonally.
Filling the Feartre.
There's many to be found in such a small space,
more that give and much that take
and though this may be the closing scene
there's another show tomorrow
and you and I will receive our standing ovation,
just take my hand and stand with me.
Cause this seat was only ever meant to be temporary.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
I don’t understand how you could me mine.
(What does the proud oak want with the pine?)
I can’t imagine how my long, skeletal hands
are the ones yours long to hold.
I am tough and coarse, like a pine,
Ever-green, constant, covered in spines
and needles, unpleasant and sharp to the touch.
While you, my love, are an oak.
You are strong and beautiful. Your leaves change colors,
fiery or verdant, you are loud when all others
shrink from speech. You, love, are dynamic, intriguing,
a tree that inspires poetry.
Your roots hold you fast, they run deep and true,
while mine fan out, shallow. I fear with no roots
to hold me, the wind could take me away.
(The wind will tear me apart.)
You are the one tree that grows tall and straight
in a place where the wind, fed by anger and hate
forces others to bend, to grow crooked, they’re lost
and confused, with nothing to reach for.
My branches are short – I offer no comfort
(from lack of ability or knowledge, I’m not sure).
Your branches stretch wide, embracing with smooth bark,
But an oak cannot love a pine.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
My family eats dinner underwater.
We bounce between the seats of our chairs
and the bottom of the table,
we pass the stuffing
as it floats off the plate,
and no one seems to blink.
My parents just talk about how safe
it is, here,
below the surface.
No gay fiances
or athiests
or postmodernists
or liberal Christians.
I am the only one with an oxygen tank.
“I have never owned a tent that kept the rain out.”
My family camps with gear from the 80s.
We cook in bare aluminum
and eat with volatile plastics,
a crusty dining cloth pinned
to the warped picnic bench.
My feet and head push
through the tent wall
and into the rain fly.
I always wake up wet.
“I have never owned a bed that was long enough.”
In house 1 and 2,
my feet hang off the end
of the bed, circulation halted
at the ankles
by the wooden frame.
In dorm 1 and 2,
I lie diagonally on the bed,
my shoulder hitting the wall.
In dorm 3,
My feet are pressed
flat against the wardrobe.
I fall asleep not knowing
who I wake up for.
“I have never loved anyone I didn't have to.”
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
Desired to be more attuned with idols
Their private lives gleaned from
Stills and moving images cutting swaths across
Skyscraping billboards, TV screens
The sides of passing buses
Subway cars headed deeper in,
Further in, beneath
Magazine spreads pulled out for
ad-hoc posters taped and tacked across
the plaster-sputtering suburban drywall paths
Like screams in arctic winds
Many, the young mean-spirited things
Wanting kinship with these enemies
Trying to plot a course to
**** diagonally-up across
their strident wildlife scenes
Attuned with idols riding their
phantom wavelengths with the
maverick assistance of Reds and
water-cut pints of irish whiskey
Then Father comes in proclaiming
to have saved our democracy on
the whim of a lever-pull upon
a municipal voting machine
No interruptions now please
I will direct the favors of my unborn
I am honed in on what really matters:
Hemingway hedonism.
Getting dead with generations
slinking in and out of frame
from before and after
me
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
64 squares and 32 pieces
white and black or black and white
pending your thesis
whether your black or white
they all have the same features
8 pawns, simple creatures
8 x 2 is 16
infantry disguised as peasants
trying to get above the 7th
to the 8th and replace
their meager form for something more severe
2 rooks, sitting on the edge
2 crooks robbing everything perpendicular
to the perimeter provided the king
doesn't falter in his pledge
When the night rolls through,
the knights roll through.
Puffing green goo, these squares or cubes
will move an L make a 7 and ***** you.
The bishop will say a blessing
as he stumbles across the board.
Moving forward diagonally,
these drunken priests drink towards
a leader hung with dressings
The queen? That greedy broad
thinks everyone is a pawn.
constantly placing her place
in the face of those trying to take her place.
The king orchestrates the beat
carefully placing his feet before god.
His feat is living, no great givings,
giving up the wrong square will make his crown your treat
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
Polished black
granite floor,
like a man's
muscular ***
craves for you--
for the heat
your lotus feet
transmit on it.
Generous,
you gift
a linear array
of foot prints
diagonally
across it.
Following
close behind
I step aside
not to walk up on
your foot prints,
fearing diffusion
of the epigraphic
arrangement .
Inward curve of your feet
and shape of the toes
make vapor contoured imprints:
cryptic love messages
for my pining heart--
seeing the easy dance
of your feet ,
captured on the floor,
I imagine.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
diagonally
wet lines slice the dry summer
storm rages; sun rests
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 9:13 AM UTC
A man sits diagonally in front of me
to my left in the diner
Over his shoulder, I see
he’s navigating Facebook
on a cheap laptop
Behind him, I’m writing this poem
Every 13 seconds a notification rings
He has a Facebook message
The notifications are messages from a woman
She types heart shapes in place of words
It is the standard online flirtation
that has replaced real relationships
He is quite popular
as he eats toast with purple jelly
and sits alone
People once came to diners
to chain smoke cigarettes
and drink pots of coffee
and think
and talk
and read poetry
We didn’t have much
but we had each other
Now we’re individuals
who sit in silence
alone
Some of us get chat notifications
Some of us write poems
All of us still get the coffee
and the toast
with purple jelly
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
She sat across from me diagonally
The husky latina wearing clothes too
Tight
"Now you see here, 0=0 therefore the
Answer is undefined."
I couldn't focus on infinities
She sat staring with her head on folded arms
I couldn't stop watching her legs
They opened and closed slowly in a
Sensual rhythm
"Once you find X you can plug it into the original equation to find Y"
Why?
Her rhythm sped up and I watched
Her push her pelvis down into the
Hard blue metal desk chair
She was really working for it
Was anybody else seeing this?
The sun came in from the window
And laid on top of her
It's shine fell just outside of my reach
I could stretch my arms and touch it
If I wanted to
She stopped the smashing of her
Upper thighs
And began to rub herself back and forth into the uncomfortable chair
"And can anybody tell me WHY we are dividing both sides by 12X?"
I couldn't. I couldn't focus on parallels or horizons
She was going for infinity
She worked it harder and faster
Infinite. Infinite.INFINITE
she began to slow down
Stopped grinding and started the
Thigh smashing again
Slow.
Then she stopped and looked around the room
I looked away
She stood up and placed her purse
In front of her crotch
"The solution is somewhere between
Negative infinity and positive
Infinity."
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
The blind man slowly rises to his feet. Bending over and momentarily fumbling for his walking stick.Finding it propped against the flat topped boulder he uses as both a table top and chair. He takes the usual 27 steps to the mouth of the cave.Just before reaching the opening, he feels the slight breeze freshening his cheeks while gently tossing his beard about. As if nature were trying to comb his his coarse and weathered ****** hair.
At 28 steps, the sun greets his skin with an early morning warmth. A faint touch of dew washes through his nostrils, reminding him of the brief rain shower that woke him just before the break of day. Justifying the stiffness in his joints. Yes, best to sit a spell and allow the sun to warm the marrow. Perhaps keeping his movements spry and youthful for an hour or two. Carefully measured to a bit arduous after that.
Now, the morning unfolds before and below him in the high mountain meadow that provides him most of his meager needs. The stream to his left, babbling it's way across the rocks and tickling his ears. Then, rushing outward and downward, diagonally across the meadow. Slowing on the far right side before narrowing and winding it's way into the hardwoods. His memory still strong, long after his sight left him those..... how many years ago now?
The cry of an eagle pierces his ears. No doubt a rodent or rabbit is in peril shortly. Not a fish he ponders. Just across the stream,not too far, maybe forty to fifty feet, the sudden scraping of hooves against the small pebbled bottom of the stream. Preceded by the hollow plunk of the nervous steps of a fawn as she slowly lowers her head to quench her thirst before bedding down for the day. Doe is nearby watching her, listening intently for signs of danger to her young one. Yes,there it is, a rushed deep and anxious breath tells him so.
The old man ambles back into the cave to fetch his hat.
Now, tell me...Did you see what the blind man saw?
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
At twilight in the cave the bats gracefully emerge; sacrificing their lives to fly and play in the wind. Sweeping in diagonally perched on wooden posts the owls watch and wait for their prey. I marvel at gods game and sit in silence. karma pulls up and pulls out her self-division at the scene. I am magnetically drawn towards a single owl poised on a tree. I whisper to the creature, speak to me. The owl sings: puchu puchu! I sing back the crazy tune. The owl spots my red jacket nestled on my body and teaches me the blues. I come back a rainbow grounded on the green encased in a purple hue.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
8:30 A.M.
She wakes him up with breakfast
on the night stand.
Two eggs over-easy and lightly burnt
on the bottom so the yolks don't run,
two pieces of sourdough toast cut
diagonally, and a cup of coffee /
no sugar, no cream / brewed
at 8:15, two hours after
she got up to clean the house.
She mopped the floors twice,
tied the trash bags and set
them at the curb. She tested, dusted,
and retested the stagnant ceiling fans.
She vacuumed the rugs and wiped
down all wood, granite, and steel
surfaces.
She lemon Pledges allegiance to him.
While he's at work, she cleans his laundry.
She clean-presses his button-ups, making
sure to cut any stray threads and neatly
mend any loose seams. She irons a firm
crease in his pants and shines his all-black
wingtips. She doesn't use Kiwi. Something high-class
that I've never heard of.
When he comes home and sets his briefcase
near the furnace vent to sulk in his leather
chair, she consoles him. She pulls the lace hem
of her sundress to her waist and ***** his ****
until he comes to his senses.
*You look like a billion-dollar, gold-plated
monument feeding the world rosegold birdseed
from your immaculate palm binding my hair
like a Dutch Warmblood's tail, darling.*
She dabs the corners of her mouth trying
not to smudge her lipstick, straightens
her dress, and hurries off to wash
his car.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
There was a boy named Jack
who wanted to be an artist
but his parents wouldn't hear it
past their deluded visions of grandeur
doctors, lawyers, businessmen
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change
Jack made it through each bleary day
mixing paints from eggshells he found
outside the window in the hill
only he knew about
and when a smile flickered on
his face, it wasn't staying long
at least until once he's alone and he
can be himself, as if
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change
and while he grew he came to see
Jack as is would never free his
life-long dreams from in this cage
so Jack soon lost his hope to anger
within the pleasant walls because
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change
then the day Jack found a gun
lying on his pillow with a note
from an angel to let him know
he's holding up the party
and six minutes later the
walls were painted red with
Jack's new-found freedom in
joyous ******* slashed
diagonally across the
flower print
it was in the cards for Jack
had been since he was born
and the cards don't change
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
*The injustice of this bit deep
Into her consciousness
Quite illogical to be so disadvantaged
A rough night....
Another death
That spelt failure in another case
Stripped by the willow
Serene in her calling.....
Secure in her sanatorium
Her slumber were as troubled
As those of Shakespeare’s King Richard the third
The night before the battle of Bosworth Field ...
Night wore on
Noises died down
As she sought some sleep
Quite the sensation....
That came between
A perfect repose
Heaven only knew
Then near darkness
Other disturbance emanating
With no flashing lights
She was playing on the wing
She was sure about that now....
She was bolted into the room’
As the Taurus had been shot down
With her unborn child
Playing on her mind
Diagonally in the dark
Books were everywhere
Notebooks with meaning
Hearts of evil...
He must be very near!
Near in time
Near in distance
Ready comprehension
Was At hand ...
What did he have in mind?
Moving to Milan
The eternal city of life....
If Nero had lived here
The roof terrace
Would be burning ...
What revelations lie ahead?
To our damaged life
Poetic justice
one more time
somehow someway sometime...
Will she live or die?*
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
i get this sort of sickly feeling
every time july comes around
because with every summer day
that i realize that you’re
not here
comes the kind of sting that you feel
when you’re shaving your legs
and the blade nicks the thin layer of skin
on the back of your achille’s tendon.
you should be at my side
volunteering to herd the children
like cattle into the mess hall,
because you’re allergic to peanuts
and because i looked pretty.
you should be sitting across the
table from me at breakfast
not directly
diagonally; one seat to the right;
giving me a knowing smile every time you catch my eye.
you should be jokingly making fun of my
unshaved thighs
when really you don’t expect me to change them at all.
you should still be working with me
in the kitchen
doing trash rounds
in the garden, weeding in the blazing sun
while all of my insecurities drip down my skin
with the sweat beads that roll and race each other.
you should be trying to hold the camera steady
as your shoulders bounce lightly from your laughter,
deep chuckles and the occasional squeak due to a
voice crack
as i pick up chickens and sing to them,
and smile at the camera.
you should be apologizing to me
for your ex-girlfriend calling my phone
and requesting you,
even though it’s not your fault.
you should still be nestled against me,
your sad, fragile head resting in my lap,
as you ask me why you deserve what she does
and i tell you that you don’t
and gently rock your worries away.
you should be wrapping your arms around me,
not as a goodbye,
not as a hello,
not even as an i’ve missed you,
or an i’m sorry,
not as a martyr
or a lover,
but as the best friend you used to be.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Wash your hands.
Pick a couple of situations.
Peel away old memories.
Cut in half; what, no seeds?
Then cut first this way
And then that.
Don’t cry, my love, its just
Some bad chemistry!
Take some hot, acrid thoughts.
Core them; throw the seeds away.
Chop chop and chop.
Take a few sprigs of happiness
Finely slice them, diagonally.
In the hot wok of life,
Toss in a smile, couple of fights,
Some heartburn, some sweat,
Stir fry.
Come, my love, let’s eat!
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
At my best.
With a novel in hand,
and one just finished
placed diagonally over
a journal, I can breathe easy.
At my best.
I started drinking again.
It used to be whiskey.
But I've only started with beer
this time around.
The whiskey can wait
till December arrives.
At my best.
Two pills in the morning.
I gave you fair warning.
But you just smiled and
saw trial, not error.
At my best.
You ask me what I'm reading.
Best to be coy, "You've probably
never heard."
But you don't ask, "What's the
meaning of this word?"
At your best.
With me.
During a
transitional
period.
Each of us,
something
in comma.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
Carcass
****** carcass
Was this by my hands alone?
I can feel my gums peeling apart
And the secretion growing ever fiercer
Maybe it’ll happen when I’m in a peaceful slumber
The hairs on my arm won’t even prickle up to warn me
It’ll be as abrupt as
Deaths
Abruption
I’m not trying to be witty anymore
I’ll look into his cold grey eyes
And find nothing but white blankets of snow
Where no soul has ever walked
I won’t be the first
No I’ll just sit and remember
My belief in what was tangible
Sprit breaks apart
At first
Fierce like a Chinese dragon
Only to scamper away
Scared
Like a small bunny rabbit
Don’t take pity
**** me before I find myself comfortable
White picket fences won’t be able to contain my restless body
I’ll find myself leaping through every canyon’s crevice I can find
Or I’ll pass my time against Anytown’s alleyway walls
Bottle after bottle
Empty and obtuse
Resting diagonally against my pretzel stick legs
No I won’t give a ****
I’ll probably never love any human soul
I’m stumbling and spiraling and laughing and cursing
And through my kaleidoscope all I see is my own empty void
Black and eerie and foreboding
Coming to aid my crucifixion
Love
Love
Love
Love
I found it in the sewers
Where rats die and **** and **** flow seamlessly
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
It makes me go "Jesus Christ. Look at the view"
Middle of October, birthday,
Driving past Bantry bay
Treading boots on a carpet of brown
Leaves, the forest walk in Glengariff
I walk and wonder
Why the ivy leaves sprout from the mud
Scattering green shapes on the ground
Spread across the floor like mushrooms
I see the thin branches hold a preschool painting
A trillion burning instances of colour
And nothing is human here, but you
I am only the moss that clings to the trees
Like a pointilist masterpiece
The apple-green and autumn yellow spots
Gather in canopies above the rocks
While the white streaks and dots
Dance wildly in the black stream
And so
The orangeness, as I turn, flies diagonally,
Looking down across the dampened stones
The colour of fire paints the falling petals
That flip like red feathers
As the stream flows clear as molten glass
And the foam, so dove white on the surface
Bubbles against the edge of it
Splashing boulders,
Rinsing toes
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
She’s got a hole on the topside of her right Nike shoe
Pink, black, white patterns ruined by her bony toe
Does she know
She’s not wearing socks?
Hair callously thrown into a disgraceful bun
Wetted from sweat or shower
I’ll never know.
Screensaver sepia toned
And donned in the center
Is a lover, perhaps,
Kissing her laughing cheek.
She’s more organized than me,
Dutifully taking notes
And yearning, craving for the professors
Pleasant spew of factual ****
She records his words
I record my thoughts
Who’s the more selfish one?
This stranger sitting diagonally in front of me
With her pink ears and lightly freckled face,
Or myself
Because I don’t even want to know her name.
Her world will forever remain a place
Untainted by myself
(Lucky her).
She’ll remain a mystery, an enigma
Stories that define who she is
Left for assumption and infinity.
She’ll never know I’m thinking
Only of her
And for absolutely no purpose
Other than practicing
Observing the small glimpses
Of people’s lives they offer you
Unknowingly
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Imagine
a chimpish, greasy teenage boy sprawled out diagonally
on a boring
sea-foam living room couch,
And he’s just staring
at an old television set, trimmed with brown veneer.
The glossy bubble’s pixels don’t move, but their colors change
like a Chameleon, mixing in the infinite palette, creating the illusion of the program.
And the flat, piercing bad speakers,
from their machined gills are humming, whispering eternal frequencies
But he is staring,
just staring,
with blank eyes.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
I stop
as my thoughts spill out
onto the ground.
My halfway thoughts
are nails to step on
while the whole thoughts slip
and slide to the sky-
thought clouds
sitting on fireworks of blue.
I am half-full of half thoughts
and half-empty of hot air
and broken Barbie dolls.
I am halfway to becoming
a bestselling book,
an Egyptian goddess.
I stop
at a fork in the road
and go straight forward,
or sideways,
or diagonally.
My half thoughts are half-bricks
not enough to be a wall,
but enough to be sandbags
on a hot air balloon-
also known as me, or myself,
or I.
Myself does not agree with Me
while Me endorses I
and I hates me and Myself both
for they are altogether
too self-centered.
I stop to collect my nails
at the side of a broken road,
though my hammers
are thought clouds,
my sideways, half-filled air balloon
is filled with bricks,
and Me, Myself, and I
are fighting to the death.
It’s a wonder
I’m still halfway there.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC