"diorama" poems
it had to be ants.
the town turned out,
a pound a time,
to see the model railway
of dolgellau.
amazing as it was,
as you know i do like tiny things,
expecially trains.
more astonishing was the conversation,
face close, on ants that bit up his legs
at bingo, formic acid and calamine
explained in detail.
thre train went by, with tiny noise,
as he rolled up his trouser leg to show me.
the explaination as detailed
as the dioramal, on and on and on.
a nice man. my daughter saved me.
twice.
it was a good turnout, an excellent,
award winning model railway.
sbm.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
You said there would be a next time
and in that moment I wondered if there wouldn't be
and there wasn't
is that my doing
or was it all inevitable
did there have to be a next time
that wouldn't occur
it was never going to end easily
so what if it just never ended
what if by next time
you didn't mean next week
or next year
but sometime down the road
if there's always a next time
then nothings truly over right?
It's amazing the lack of finality in it all
I just can't let it end
I'm obsessed with writing story book endings
with characters I know all to well
Happily ever after isn't an ending
it's a cop out
nothing ever ends well
that doesn't make sense
if something was so great why should it end
which leaves two possibilites
A it was never that great to begin with
or
B it hasn't truly ended yet
My heart wishes it was B
but my mind knows it's A
which *****
it does
do you think the eiffel tower was the first thing the french came up with
there must have been other suggestions right?
other options
that didn't allude to that great big beautiful tower
i'm getting drawn into the abstract
but the point stands
the eiffel tower is an iconic message
but at a time it was nothing
just an idea behind an idea
maybe nothing is what we want it to be
maybe we build our own diorama's and view life how we see fit
it would make sense
you see what you want
but if you turn around you'll see the world for what it is
not the candy coated box where you dwell
but an open room where objects lay where they lay
for no other reason than that they lay
I'll never be perfect
I know that
but I think I'll always try to perfect my world
make it better... for me of course but the nobility is just in it's own right
you're too random
you don't fit the script
so maybe you should have never read lines
in the first place
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****
ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
~
*You're an island in the anodyne brisk.
You're a holm of lonesomeness.
Your divers in deep diorama
sink like boats.
There's coins and clothing
and troubling notes
left by a female passenger
imprisoned on watery shore.
Run aground,
you harbor regret,
and speak in tongues of folklore.
If I had an ocean I'd give you to it.*
~
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 10:15 AM UTC
rickety minutes twitch in wood stained cabinets;
mittens in a bin . birch tones postpone in mauve
twilight... an unfinished diorama.
clandestine. a small glitch in a good rain... cabbages
smitten in mist. a thirst groaning; long bones caw
fully reclined... as timeless Brahmans.
old beams of light stack like gold bricks in a humidor;
mittens in a bin. black birds comb rogue stones then.... [ pause ]
triffids... blemish barnacles.
crystalline. a ball of lint in a storm drain... vanishes -
bitten out of sight. at first, toning old gongs... wind
chimes... earth's most wanted.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
Resting on a stack of
original vinyl’s
a cowboy hat of black felt
the dresser was blonde with gold handles
a collection common in the 1960’s
a small turn table, red handkerchiefs
harmonica, guitar picks and cigarette papers
a diorama of his life
as kids, we would pull out the blue song folder
and sing Your Cheatin’ Heart
into an empty microphone stand
the aroma of rosin and pipe tobacco
guitar cases and Fender amps we dare not touch
when the babysitter’s boyfriend, one night
played Hey Good Lookin’ on the record player
I shot after him like a bear cub
my heart racing in my throat
saying I’m going to tell my Daddy!
a picture I drew found its place by
his fiddle, the one that
sits in my closet today, someday,
I will learn to play Lovesick Blues
because every time I hear that song
my dad is wearing his hat
tapping his feet
and singing like ol’ Hank Williams
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
The moon is shining,
Doing its utmost to raise werewolves
Fireflies are stuck up there too
Sometimes they flicker out
They begin to cry
Tears pouring down
And not man nor beast but wind howls now
My little slice of the world's diorama stage
Is full of drama and love and sorrow and beauty
- And here I am
Tasting other people's feelings.
Letting their honey drip and slide
As ecstasy through these veins
Positively high on the depth of these windows
I perve at lives that dance in poetic sentence
But they know the blinds are open
And sometimes, just sometimes,
They catch a glimpse through my own
Hearts full of same excitement
Curiosity
Satisfaction
As they flip through my pages
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
There is a certain elegance in lines,
a grace that attracts the eyes
to that which is cloaked within the
echoic mystery of an ever clever guise.
All that is knit
from the fabric
of a most frantic
illusion in space,
borrows movement
from a riddle,
poised in a mostly empty place.
It enchants the mind like a diorama
hung
upon the
fiber optic
sky,
with pictures of the thoughts behind
the artists telescopic ><><><><><>< eye.
Our surreal desires are drawn boldly
from the breathing palette
of a bright reality,
with living loving strokes
that portray our very substantiality:
and never will it betray
the flaws
in neither an other worldly
symmetry,
nor the immense complexity
of some alternate geometry.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
The first thing that happens
is the world collapses.
That is, it reduces down
but only I seem to notice.
Everything becomes flatter,
the depth stripped away
like rotted lumber,
like when they gut a building
but leave the historic facade,
and I feel like I'm limping
postcard to postcard
until eventually like I'm peering
into a discarded diorama,
where everything is smaller
than it should be,
the crudest copy of itself, and
everything is bounded
by shoebox limits
I can sense them everywhere.
The second thing that happens
is that I avoid everyone.
I avoid my mother on Christmas,
I can't look my therapist in her eye,
I cancel a date because
I can't handle the contact.
I touch my skin and it's like
touching paper that's been creased
hundreds of times -
old pulp that frays and splits.
The third thing that happens
is that I lose interest.
I put in whatever minimums
the day requires
and not a scratch more.
I put my mail aside
and watch crows
gather on the branch,
facing the valley,
black eye to black eye,
base wings folded against
the sleek unbearable body.
The last thing that happens
is that life cheapens.
It's hard not to notice,
since the papers and the news
and everybody's phone
blasts forth the parade of death.
No one is spared, children,
animals, the happy, the hale.
And soon these thoughts -
that life ends without reason,
that God has retreated from the world,
that no step is worthwhile -
begin to bleed in my head.
They lead to the paralysis
of a patient wrapped in gauze,
leaving only the eyes free to move
and notice the great black wing
that scythes into the valley,
feathers dark as stout,
the sun setting in its usual
incompetent way, the wing
so graceful that it might be
the only beautiful thing,
falling out of sight,
into nothingness,
down the slope
into the stale dusk,
into the exact center
of a limitless depression.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER
the fox pauses
a paw
left in mid air
resting upon
a clump of darkness
the fox listens intently
the countryside listens to the fox's
listening
a stillness fall
upon all
a snail stops mid wall
nothing moves
the fox's eye glistens
the world holds its breath
the fox trots
as if in a dream
across countryside that's never been
my face reflected
in the diorama
the museum closing for the night
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
You said there would be a next time
and in that moment I wondered if there wouldn't be
and there wasn't
is that my doing
or was it all inevitable
did there have to be a next time
that wouldn't occur
it was never going to end easily
so what if it just never ended
what if by next time
you didn't mean next week
or next year
but sometime down the road
if there's always a next time
then nothings truly over right?
It's amazing the lack of finality in it all
I just can't let it end
I'm obsessed with writing story book endings
with characters I know all to well
Happily ever after isn't an ending
it's a cop out
nothing ever ends well
that doesn't make sense
if something was so great why should it end
which leaves two possibilites
A it was never that great to begin with
or
B it hasn't truly ended yet
My heart wishes it was B
but my mind knows it's A
which *****
it does
do you think the eiffel tower was the first thing the french came up with
there must have been other suggestions right?
other options
that didn't allude to that great big beautiful tower
i'm getting drawn into the abstract
but the point stands
the eiffel tower is an iconic message
but at a time it was nothing
just an idea behind an idea
maybe nothing is what we want it to be
maybe we build our own diorama's and view life how we see fit
it would make sense
you see what you want
but if you turn around you'll see the world for what it is
not the candy coated box where you dwell
but an open room where objects lay where they lay
for no other reason than that they lay
I'll never be perfect
I know that
but I think I'll always try to perfect my world
make it better... for me of course but the nobility is just in it's own right
you're too random
you don't fit the script
so maybe you should have never read lines
in the first place
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
I don't know where to begin
To describe the pain I hold within
You,
And your magic
Have cursed me
Creating a diorama
Of longing and loss
Causing me to contemplate
Life's biggest decision
That is asked in a state of
Black and white
Yet you claim life isn't such:
It operates in shades of gray
We'll I have your shade
It numbers in 50
For all the ways I wish
To show you love
And compassion
Caring and acceptance
In an attempt to abolish
Your demons
So that you might sleep in peace
Knowing that no matter what
Happens, I will be there
To hold you as we fall
Off of your broomstick
3000 miles to the ground
With me in my blue jeans;
You the personification
Of euphoria
To the moment
We finally lock eyes
Sharing in the passion
Where two souls mates collide
And dispell the sorcery
Of the witch and her broomstick
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
Considerando en frío, imparcialmente,
que el hombre es triste, tose y, sin embargo,
se complace en su pecho colorado;
que lo único que hace es componerse
de días;
que es lóbrego mamífero y se peina...
Considerando
que el hombre procede suavemente del trabajo
y repercute jefe, suena subordinado;
que el diagrama del tiempo
es constante diorama en sus medallas
y, a medio abrir, sus ojos estudiaron,
desde lejanos tiempos,
su fórmula famélica de masa...
Comprendiendo sin esfuerzo
que el hombre se queda, a veces, pensando,
como queriendo llorar,
y, sujeto a tenderse como objeto,
se hace buen carpintero, suda, mata
y luego canta, almuerza, se abotona...
Considerando también
que el hombre es en verdad un animal
y, no obstante, al voltear, me da con su tristeza en la cabeza...
Examinando, en fin,
sus encontradas piezas, su retrete,
su desesperación, al terminar su día atroz,
borrándolo...
Comprendiendo
que él sabe que le quiero,
que le odio con afecto y me es, en suma, indiferente...
Considerando sus documentos generales
y mirando con lentes aquel certificado
que prueba que nació muy pequeñito...
le hago una seña,
viene,
y le doy un abrazo, emocionado.
¡Qué más da! Emocionado... Emocionado...
952
losing all
your will
your everything
until a shell
flat broke
with money
becomes of you
full of angry
frustrated
and raging
confusion
so now here I am
existing without enemy
and what's next...
is nothing special,
day in and day out
alone
empty
in a room
with battle trinkets
and more nothings
describing situations
long past
remembering awful things
in convoluted ways
dreaming of past missions
loves, friends and reasons
coloring in the edges
to make for a more
palatable being
to be remembered
with glee and reverence
in satisfaction...
but for long
it never lasts
and now all's collapsing
on all sides
losing structure
becoming distorted
leading to dilapidation
like an abandoned diorama
left to ruin
left to weather
left to be forgotten
my mother always said...
"memories cannot save themselves"
- grave yards are stupid
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
I am sorry for the way
I can’t look at you when I say
That I am sorry,
And I can’t give you anything back.
You built me up like
Your childhood diorama.
All cardboard, glitter
And clay figurines.
When you saw just how quickly
I could tear it all down,
When you realized
Just how crazy I could be -
I’m sorry.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
Lost in an insane asylum now i am riding into the abyss a tornado of darkness relapsed right before within hours it was broke smoking till I choke laughing at the burn my thoughts they steam they churn higher learning became erased and was wasted fully laced with shrooms in a vase growing beautifully in place then plucked like a rose but consumed like a banana all in down the hatch having to analyze the trip need a diorama, diagram, and some more RAM for this kid.
Memory
Take me to a place where I can live in the stars, jet black, burning lights is the essence that just begins a true memory in the cemetery of the dead the souls as they laugh and play lust in all ways, but the way I sway my words turn them to zombies cannibalizing each other, the strongest is the alpha that runs out and destroys the others in doing that the abomination becomes fat, erodes in its brutish nature, truly exposed
Wasted
As I drink the fifth, the Jin talks within the gin, truly a spin on words, but not really, cause most men will wish pleasures for there ***** but me that is far to silly. Billy Jean was not his girl, but he sure did **** her. Being poor is not that real to the rich man who have most man working for them at the age of 10 but then again is that 1% an exception that can only be seen in an inception, during a recession, in repentance from a resentful soul oh be
Gentle
They scream as he came and conquered
They scream as he saw that we have gone bonkers
He came to conquer
Like champagne and lobster, Cuban cigar in that mouth and herb in that pipe, whispering in his ear is the Willow with an appetite and he might and he did and he will and he rid in to conquer again to conquer
End
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
Sailing castle ships in huge silver tubs filled to the brim with warm, steaming water.
There are tiny dancing dolphins made of iridescent, billowing bubbles, swimming in the light breeze.
Their bond is like no other, tightly stuck together, sometimes letting go, only to return a split second later.
Building and feeding off of their kin, under the surface; leeching parasites. It’s suddenly clear, survival of the fittest applies even on the outer rims of Anywhere Land.
Our castles with cloud walls keep out all the horror, as our doors made of mackerel hides truth from our eyes. We don’t see beyond our diorama of guilt, portraits of heroes, or statues of flame, into beauty, simple and fair.
Not needing coins and stamps to be loved.
We sail these tubs of silver and steam, surprised by beauty no more. Expecting so much more.
Attached to our shimmering ship is a single green-glowing rowboat, with room just for one. When opportunity strikes and the wind’s at your back, do you dare grab the Mighty Oar of Freedom and sail steaming waves to the moon?
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
12 a.m.
the rain stutters against my window-- erratic, wild. the curtains are drawn, the lights extinguished, but to my eardrums, it's as if a symphony of heartbeats are thrumming in counterpoint to my own. the noise swells in my head, an unrelenting crescendo, ffff, the windows shivering. then is fades to white noise, a lullaby to lull me to restless sleep, haunted by a thousand heartbeats overwhelming the staccato in my chest.
7 a.m.
the sun is in a coffin of clouds. a cityscape bathed in the heavy blue of night swims before my eyes. we must still be locked in a moment before sunrise, before even last night's twilight. still, the rain drums around me. head cottony with sleep, it climbs up and up, inch by inch, drowning me in streets trapped in endless night.
4 p.m.
people say rain leaves the world clean and new. In the limbo between raindrops and clear skies, this city is grey. it's as if the clouds that papered the sky have fallen and blanketed building and sidewalks instead. colors are muted until my city is a palette of mud and smoke and watered down dust. i am a tissue-paper doll in this diorama of concrete and glass and steel. the rain has washed me away as well.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
A long, revived gaze trough little, tiny diorama.
I don’t remember the last time I saw such a glowing sky, crimson and mesmerizing above the roofs.
It must have been aeons ago.
A quite pleasant and the painful cleft that is increasingly spreading in the mind…
It is a long forgotten, abandoned and worn feeling. The marvelous sense of penetrating into my heart like the tide.
If only I could merge with the ground and dirt,
this ground flooded with dusk and covered with long shadows.
If only I could disappear.
Into the rivers and winds.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
you took me to the natural history museum
the one next to the flower garden
you didn't hold my hand
or you might have
my hair locked in an abrasive ponytail pulling at my ears everytime
the ceilings were like giants
making me feel meek and important
in a forgetful way
the way you don't think about the leaves coming back
in early March
one day they're just there and you're opening the windows again
the way you're meant to
you walked the spotless corridors and I trailed behind
always fearing the immense T-Rex at the front of the room
that followed you with its' eyes
one blink and the head could swivel
the knees would buckle and the colossus
could devour you in a dignified gulp
ending at the bottom of a salacious belly
full of tender body parts and terrifying things
like men pretending to be gods
trapped at the bottom of a well
no invention of fire could extinguish that darkness
reaching into my pocket for binoculars
when I finally look up you're gone past the ancient artifacts
there's a grin and a woman attached to it
and I can see that you're nervous because your feet are dancing back and forth
from their heels to their toes
and the laughter echoes through all the rooms
poignant and full
each room has a theme and I swim from
one diorama to the next alone
I can feel myself melting
with history sticking to my clothes like gum
cotton candy falling into a puddle
gone before you can even taste it
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 2:09 AM UTC