"eyeglass" poems
You tip my femininity when you scratch my back with your stubble before you shave in the mornings and it is so lovely to be near one who can cry.
You wear heavy boots with the tip of the steel toe showing to match the glint of mischief bouncing off your eyeglass frames and i stand on your toes to kiss you goodnight on my porch in the snow where you brought me oatmeal cookies to talk with you about foundations.
I don’t know if you needed help with that paper, but I certainly needed the cookies.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
A sigh signals some sort of disclosure.
– glancing over his eyeglass frames
at the slow downward tilt of her chest
her gingham blouse rises again
as she inhales energy for her words,
words intended to clarify or confuse,
he does not know.
His own exhale and a frowning brow
signal that he is listening-
to judge whether her statement
is real or fancy.
Her words a mercury for her mood
no gauge left as he guesses
seeking to understand her,
to crawl through her veins like a virus,
to know her every desire,
every expectation, even every fear.
He is adrift in his own flaws,
unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions.
His distrust is great whether of himself or of her.
Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled.
Gripping the arm of his chair,
muscles straining to lurch forward,
he escapes toward the door
leaving her words
to fill the hollow behind him.
Tomorrow he may choose valor,
today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Telescope
looks through the
distance
alights
on hope,
focuses.
Eyeglass,
I pass through the scope and
***** for the video switch
there's a hitch.
this is no prerecording
so I look back on in
to
the telescope
all hope gone,
dismal back on.
Binoculars are better
an 'i' is just
one letter.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.
You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!
you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes
fastened at my ankle and wrist,
******* up the biological breast.
You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.
Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.
I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.
Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.
I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.
But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.
Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.
Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.
Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.
Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.
O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.
I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide
with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die
to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.
2k
With her black eyeglass frames and sensible heels,
the psychiatrist is a contrived portrait of neutrality.
The timer on her desk ticks sickeningly,
counting off the missed opportunities for revelation
that pass with each minute.
I ask her if she has considered a Victorian fainting couch,
she does not smile.
I make cheap cracks about diet ads and the plight of the modern anorexic,
she scribbles something on a legal pad-
from where I sit, the only legible word is "questionable".
She is not describing herself,
yet I can think of nothing more dubious
than being paid to listen to another's tedium.
I spend one hour each week with my hired companion,
and she, in turn,
spends her time relaying information
to another army entirely,
sending reports to the other doctors,
leaking statements to my family.
She is the informant, and I,
the gullible sap who believes in
"conditional confidentiality".
I pretend I know nothing of the arrangement,
and try to speed time by imagining alternate realities.
I picture her as a talking doll-
A string protrudes from her back;
when pulled, a mechanical voice says
"I see", or occasionally,
"How do you feel about that?"
I stifle a laugh,
and glance over at her glazed expression-
there isn't much of a difference.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
In the eye where I am
where there's peace,(so to speak)
I take out the album which I carry in a telegram and in those few stunted phrases,
my heart again blazes with desire,full of fire and of want.
This is punishment for me and I see retribution in these lines,
times though be far are near as I wear out my eyeglass making pass after pass at the words on the clipped sheet in my hand,
telegram and the full of memory man and the eye carries me on to the storm that levels all in its path,
I shall weep for this no more,bring the winds and let them bore through me and the rains to swallow my tears unshed.
I am led like the goat to the pipers of Pan.
I am the telegram becoming the man and the album's a plan to destroy me,though the Devil employs many vices it seems that nothing is fixed and there's a swirling of voices which melt into one,(am i to be that one?)
This saxophonic cacophony within which I am caught teaches me, what once before I was taught,
I'm a prisoner in the dock and the black cap is on and the 'beak' up ahead says,'you're going to swing John'
And the beggars and tramps and those bums that you meet on the islands of midnight where the ne'er do well greets you with,'lend me a dime' all make some time to come to the show where I swing to and fro and...look at my face all bloated and blue,
(it's only make up,but what can I do,poor ******* I am)
and the eye winks at me,winks at me as if I could see the joke in this,it is funny though, that one feels so tall as the trapdoor opens and you begin the fall
but then it's snap, crackle and pop
full stop
dead end.
telegram sent,
I'm going home.
stop.
end.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
A white flower
wearing an eyeglass,
her eyelash rolled
Like calla lily,
her bright beautiful
sciera looks glassy
like, brown iris and
chocolate pupil rouned,
Stood up
her face
Brighten the Android
phone is softly touching,
when Funda closed the
shop door, she turn
her face to me
and she said
Goodnight
Beautiful
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 7:30 AM UTC
Your wrinkles turn you blue.
Your hair makes you mad.
Your dress grabs your time.
Your wall posts state you’re insecure.
Even your eyeglass won’t help you,
To clearly see the obvious
Just let your worries disappear.
And take a deep breath.
Turn your head at your side.
Look at me.
Right then, you’ll figure out.
LOVE is all that matters after all.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 8:50 AM UTC
dread he came upon them. the slow father; his shadow, ill. he came upon them, those girls, punching his daughter in the stomach. had a couple years on his daughter, and weight. it was not dark. school had been out an hour. he had taken a walk. had to drop his cigarette. had to pick it up. fixed on a point beyond him; his daughter’s eyes. ***** of paper not anymore burning. first girl had one earphone in, and one come loose; a string undressed of puppet. the song that was playing, he listened. he had the time to listen. mostly his daughter read books but she would sing and he would know she was alone. he counted. there were three. it took a long a time. he paused on ‘two’, good in his mouth. the earphone girl was holding his daughter from behind. his rock cleared her braces and she choked. the two, they kept at the belly. props of delay. he ****** once and pulled the light from his lips. ashed it under the right eyeglass of the skinny one. her body made off with her soul now less a window. fat girl chewed her gum and made like she could run. he dug the house key from his pocket and placed it like a second knuckle. heard the bones of small animals, crunch of hairspray, ‘fore the key notched the back of her neck. his right hand went numb as if he’d cupped the ***** of god. fat girl good part of her landed on his daughter. he pitched her with his foot but she didn’t go easily. when a bit of day could be seen from his sentence, he received a longhand letter from his daughter and among the common she also shared how the fatty eviscerated her by email.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
Magical movies 10+ trillion sold
Of war, love, and mysteries untold
Napoleon, Alexander, Abraham
Have your war stories right
While Adolf, Osama, and Ivan
Hold a darker light
Or maybe you want a fun family show
We have Albert, Ludwig, and Walt
To make your child's smile glow.
Or if you want ****** mystery
We have a man named Jack
He puts out misery
And could never be tracked
Or a comedy, who doesnt love those?
We have Salvador, Charlie, and Lupin
Men who laughed like pros
So come grab a fix of life
We captured each moment
Just for your delight
Their pain, their joy
You shall feel it all
We are the eyeglass
You are their soul
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
~~~
*someday soon gonna reread
the many poems over lifetime inked,
divvy them up by what's it about,
assemblage of the themes of me
review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
confessions*
~~~
blind all my life,
spent my capital human,
a life entire,
asking how, how does one see, ascertain an image's
veracity
guidance counselors counsel
see like me, but there was no guidance
in seeing whys through others eyes,
here now, creeping closer, and still unlearned
in the ways of vision visionary unique,
now the eyeglass case is closed,
that smack shut noise hearing,
and it occurs to me just now,
hearing my thoughts is a kind of seeing
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
FOR MY FRIEND CHARLIE
Why am I here… in this place… this room; sitting on this bed
What is this berth… how did I get here; shouldn’t I be home instead
That’s my hat upon my case, and it seems full… of what I wonder
Not my clothes I’ll bet… just filled with more confusion, I should ponder
The door is open… I could leave if I so choose; but do I dare
What am I sitting here for… to see someone; should I really care
I feel so old and tired… how did I become so old; and with this pain
Not just my body… but inside my head… my thoughts; am I insane
How can thoughts hurt… how can they instill this agony I feel
Is this where I should be; am I asleep… dreaming… is this real
I need to think… am I lost in some maze… have I tried to leave
Why can I not get up; just sadly clasp, my eyeglass case and grieve
Why this feeling of regret… do I lament something I have done
Why this sadness in my heart… is there nothing… is there no one
Am I alone… desolate; emptied of all my feelings… emotionless
Should I be sensing fear… rage… no, I yearn for life’s caress
Does someone love me… care about me… do I have a friend
Family… I must have someone… who would to me, his hand extend
Yet I sit alone… why… move… get up; go see beyond that open door
But no… not a sound do I hear… it’s never been, like this before
Why do I clench this eyeglass case; is there something there I treasure
Ah yes... the cross… from my wife’s rosary; it’s glued inside, for good measure
I have a wife… no… she died remember; that’s why the cross I glued in place
That’s why I hold it all the while; so each time I look at Jesus, I can see her face
I hold it like those kids their cell phones; in their hand, always at the ready
Kids…I have children… yes, I do; where are they, shouldn’t they be here already
No... they stopped coming… remember; they came at first… they come no more
I became… decrepit… tiresome… needy; to them, I became another… chore
…shush…someone’s coming………..
…. “HI DAD, HOW ARE YOU”
???Hello… should I know you…???
BOEMS BY JA 533
I must thank my wife for asking me, if I could write this piece.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:01 AM UTC
Dull dreams, dimmed down
Shadow behind my curtain, I am one with you
I've spent too long with you, now its been a time to part
We've driven through this same drive through too long
Its been time to part
Its been time to part
Dimmed down my eyeglass seeing through
I've found you, my reflection
My pride is there, a light in my mind
Do I deserve this kind
I will play patty cake with you
I will share my red hands with you
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Leslie Howard
as the Scarlet Pimpernel
is a pure joy
to watch,
all big-collared foppish
tight-trousered dandy
& dainty eyeglass
peering,
& there’s scheming
from the glum & slightly
hunch-backed Robespierre,
weeping aristocrats,
in tumbrils,
& innocent playing
children,
oh so-tailored families
all huge-coiffured hair,
cravats & handkerchiefs
& cocky young jackanapes
playing chess,
the cheering crowds
all coarse & ugly,
with knitting bonneted-crones
anticipating as the drums roll,
& the blade falls,
to a mighty
cheer,
we can see
our own bewitching
Marie Antoinette,
our own sly & whispering
Rasputin,
our gold-folly Sun King,
but I cannot say
I want Madame
La Guillotine
to be set up,
in the square
this time,
no …
no that,
but a victorious
cheering mob,
does sometimes
haunt my dreams,
I confess
to say.
“I send them to the guillotine for the future happiness of the human race, but I do not allow torture.”
Robespierre
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
With his tricorn hat
and his sea dog rats
he heads back to the high seas
Shouting, come on me laddies
picks up yer gears
we're going on a pillaging spree
Leaving Dover without a sound
they are to the Americas bound
Weeks did pass into months
with captain in cabin with the ****
then one day, shouts from crows nest
did say, Land ahoy.
Captain was on deck before you knew it
barking his orders so brave
his dogs barked and run around
his crew were nothing but slaves
gun ports open, loaded and ready to fire
no one could know, what would transpire
Then from the bay coming their way
was a sight so frightening to be seen
a massive metal beast all a gleam
through his eyeglass could see it's deck
and what a sight to see
Open mouthed he sighed, Metal birds there be.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
there’s a half-life to our interacting.
and I am a scientist, scrutinizing it.
a certain proximity, and I
am irradiated, by you, anew,
every time.
I am burned up.
frayed,
and right here, on display.
taking diligent notes on the fallout
today, in this wasteland.
I search the ground
with my hand and
an eyeglass.
I shouldn’t like what I find.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 11:41 AM UTC
Behind in my chores
Behind in my reading
Behind in my studies
My heart's bleeding
Lazy days and lazy nights
I just sleep, turn out the lights
Got to get busy! I've had enough!
I've had it hard, life's been rough
But the tough get going
When the going gets tough!
I've put life upon the shelf
Been feeling sorry for myself
Been in a web, severely caught
Sitting on the pity ***
I must give other folks more thought
I've been asleep, but on I plod
I must be closer to my God
Got to put on my eyeglass shoes
I've got the ain't been reading blues!
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
your chatter itself is like an old friend. the friend that i invited to dunkin donuts because dunkin donuts closes at ten. if we went to eat n park, we’d have never left the table again.
i knew this and i knew you.
the friend that i ended up telling too much to and you were getting on a plane so what else could we do?
i knew jet fuel would taste gross but i drank it anyway because i wanted the drama of waiting to see you again someday.
my eyeglass prescription changes every year but i still see the same things. every year i anticipate death and what my tax refund will bring.
my lungs fill with oxygen then flood the air with flames. the oceans i rarely get to swim in still ebb and flow the same.
i could search between the bindings of every book ever bound. the soles of my shoes could cover every inch of the ground.
i’d still be left without a dollar to my name because nothing on this earth has been as constant as your change.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
Blow backs left right,
flowing from the up-side
sphere of my down-facing
brain.
Cluttered pages of a book-mind,
the junk of thought-pages,
with doodles on the lined edges.
and the corners dog-eared.
Peering through the eyeglass
of the head, one finds a circus
of impulses, a parade of thought-beams
bouncing and pinging off the skull-wall.
Mindless and formless shapes,
of squares and circles, and
more strange formations begin
to come to a discombobulated life.
Shaped by stray desires,
and flaming envy-fires,
and raging dream-embers,
the circus is coming to town.
The clowns paint their faces,
the elephants don their dresses,
the trapezists prepare their rope,
the ringmasters ring their voice
the typewriters begin their dance.
The Parade of Impulses has commenced,
the ringing-pinging-tinging of the bells,
the clanging-banging-jangling of the drums,
the crashing-bashing-thrashing of the cymbals.
The Kingdom of Noise, of discordant sound,
and disjointed spasms proceeds, the
cats and rats and bats stepping out of tune,
the chairs, stairs, and the mares march
to the beat of a spastic, spastic thought-drum.
Gingerbread snaps skip the sweet fandango,
while tangerines and woodwinds play
their **** tunes and the dinosaurs of dixie
tap and sway from side to side.
Paperclips and staples sing Blue Velvet,
while the idol warbles with a Golden Flute,
and the bulldog grins widely and wildly,
playing his 8-bit accordion-tambourine.
Behold the procession of business-men
and cat-women as they are swept into
the noise-sounds, and the thought-images.
What draws them in? the feeling or the fire,
the lust or the raging desire?
The beat goes on, as does the noise,
the pitch rises on, as does the fervor,
soon the soundless static stacks,
buzzing-fuzzing-wuzzing slowly louder.
The marchers march, and the players play,
the steppers step, and the band bandies,
the parade parades, and the mind
snaps.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC