"geometrically" poems
Glistening golden cells
Geometrically stacked
Decanting crystalline ambrosia
Sweet and sticky
One step from the Sun
Dripping, oozing from on high
From its mathematic matrix
Millimeter by millimeter
Into my mouth
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
Women bent over in a circle
A quilt is being born
Created with precision
of structure, harmony
Geometrically perfect
wedding band,log cabin.
The men are far away
fishing, hunting bisons
A dying fire, logs glowing
Icy winds wisttle under the door
back out through the chimney flue
Strong women, used to dangers
hunger, incertitude
marauding Indians
hidding out in the woods
Tighten up your circle
warm up your fingers
the quilt must be ready
For the new bride of spring
Colette Anne Naegle
copyrights 2009
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
I am the pinnacle of controversy
Some say murder-my middle name
And still to others I represent freedom,
I am the pointed pentagram of blame.
Almost mothers spread cold-feet
Where I scrape and claw/vacuum aspirate eat.
From open, porous, space-between-legs
My Gnashing teeth-grind out the would be meat.
I am the noise that is never forgotten
Detaching zygotes from walls of womb
I am the reality of ****** indiscretion- the tomb
I do my job- do I play “God” ?
For the ****** behind doors
Carrying secrets & dreams of more
They leave one less-plus future full-term
slide up their stockings & hope not to return
I’m the last to see the mothers-to-be
Before they change- rearranged
I see geometrically: each.separate.part:
Chalk eyes never wet just hurt
Lips-lined straight with shame
chins that never wobble- 50/50 tipped to pray
& feet with nowhere to fall, they walk away
I am the pin-cushion point of pain
To what the picketing protesters agenda is aimed
I am where pro-life and pro-choice meet
The executioner of straight to heavens unborn elite
I am the buzzing abortion machine.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
how does a dreamcatcher know which
dreams to catch?
what if it
swallows the good ones
and sneaks them off to another
reality?
what if it
holds the bad hostage
to share at the most dreadful
time?
what is time to a dream?
but just look at how it twists
and ties itself in knots so
beautifully
a community of individuality
cinching simplicity together to form
brilliance
a spiderweb of spirit trapped between threads
strung tight like the ties of
fate
showing me reality
far beyond
what we blindly
see
inspiration
appreciation
absorbing the vibes reflecting off
questions of whether a second
is time to a dream?
unrecognized reality
mind outside of body
sensory
overload
a breath of fresh
light
a taste of foreign
thoughts
the touch of a
music note
and a vision of
love
trickling quiet
tears down the
face of
time...to a dream
truth
can dance on the
edge of reality
so when i wake up screaming open my eyes and
see
my mind momentarily remains
tangled in a realm of
reality once removed
feathers floating softly
through worlds yet to be
unfurled
but shadows through breezy windows left ajar
blow my thoughts back to
now
and the sounds
and sliences
and the colors
and expressions
of my mind
are altered
by a bombardment
of influences
out of control
reality
can be difficult to
embrace
now and
again
we must
escape
to a dream
to contemplate the
impossibly
intertwined strings of
eternity
that
spiral
through
and through
tossing and
turning new leaves
as the seasons cycle
time remains immeasurable
lest by our mere
thoughts and ideas
so we
create
a geometrically
stunning display
of unspoken hope
to catch
a dream
and it hangs by the window
and if the
truth
teetering on a tightrope
between worlds
could speak it
would tell of
endless
possible
imagination
where
dreams
are
reality
and there is
no such thing as
time
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
Fashionable entourage
people dance in step
to the beat of hidden
native rituals
Hidden here and there
seeing a pair clad up to the hilt
with colored shades
cool as mountain glades
that never
shakes or simmers
on fire
a real deep desirous searching soul
Rapping about nothing
even though
face to face
words bounce off expressions
as cool as mountain glades
that soon melt-fade
into the distance
Rap, tap, clap
never nap
the cannibus-filled room
embellished by flashing lights
on nights
that take spatial flights
into another world that enters upon
lounging everywhere
people lost in space,
in time,
in androgynous acts
In vogue, you speak to me
about fashions
that dazzle, frazzel, razzle,
and lip curl
and eye twinkle
me to you,
in real
but unreal
cannibus-sweet-dusky-dreamy-rooms
MTV blotched, bleached
Sergio Valente dungarees,
then a real feeling child cries
in the background
and is soon hustled off to bed
And never a hurt we laugh
and smile
and smile
A frozen smile grin;
take it on the chin sport
Keep up the good front
Keep up the grinning fort sport
A sported fort fortified Disneyland
and life's forever
carousel ride
and sweep the dirt under the carpet
A speak about profits
And speak about"ME" yuppie things;
about golden rings
that wrap around ears, around wrists, and cattle noses
Seek time entwined
to search geometrically
the advertisements
that lead you
and nobody but you to you
A love ballad between
one and no one but you
You and you
and you
and you
Being good you
you being good to you,
Being good to nar-sa-see-you
you being good to only you,
to yoou
to yoou
to yoooooooooou
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
i read that astronauts
can tell from outer
space which cities are
newly built because
electricians are making
streetlights out of
sodium vapor now as
opposed to mercury,
so now road outlines
glow orange
and newer cities tend
to be more geometrically
planned, all straight
edges and such, while
older cities are made up
of frantic curves and
corners
and i wonder if i look
to you like i have been
worn and used, am i
frenzied and dull, or
am i new? maybe my
jagged lines have
been sanded and smoothed
maybe
i still
glow
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
The significance of the number three
Is everywhere
In religion and life
but the number three
Has a deeper meaning to me
Three sisters
Two green eyed
One brown
We are forever bound
Together
A tripod of love
Two would not do
Three is geometrically stable
The Love we share
I am eternally grateful
Sisters only we truly understand each other
because we all come from the same place
We all have been running the same crazy race
As different as we are the same
Saying things at the same time
Finishing each others sentences
As if we can read each others mind
Keeper of all my secrets
Loving me despite all my weakness
Laughter through tears
and tears through laughter
Help wipe away the tears thereafter
We will always be Sisters and Best Friends
but more importantly
We are Survivors
We can do anything
if we have each other to lean on
Our own Tripod of Love
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
I'm the worm
On the sidewalk dying
Starving
I crave the *****
Like an apple core
In the trash can
Postmortem
I split my cocoon
Tasting with my tongue
Her Sweet smeared pollinated petal
Eyelashes like monster claws between the closet door crack
Skin pale perfect corpse
A form of higher evolution
Curves geometrically perfect
Dramatacized in black and white
I put up a good fight
Slice me apart with my own strengths
A slip of the tounge against my weakness
She told me
"Never."
She gives no satisfaction
Gone before the streetlights
Turn off
I don't want you
To leave again
Stay awhile
Stick your fingers in my bullet wounds
Whisper in my ear
Your fears
So I can play with them
Evacuate
Her particles slipping through the air vents
Dancing in the silllia of my lungs
The star in her belly
I warm my hands near the flame
Playing her game
Until I'm burnt
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
**Ugh
Not again
You have that pensive look
the slurred algebraic expression
that algorithmic stench
Molten into confusing matrix
Geometrically weirdly shaped**
*Please shut up
I can't take it anymore
Your meagerly written poems
the frustrating metaphors
baked with suffocating syllables
dude, what the heck is a pensive look*
**There's a huge probability it won't
delve out any logical statistics.
the equations alone will alienate you
the calculus involved is far ahead of your time
just stick with trigonometric thoughts
C'mon you already know the plane of your thighs are sophisticated**
*is that a compliment
Painting splendid imagery
that nobody else understands
a poet lurking in words
always writing
Unfiltered intricately worded poems*
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:27 AM UTC
Have you ever looked through frosted glass,
and tried, with futility, to define
the outlines of a distant subject?
All my life I have done so.
My eyes are the icy glass of isolation:
They awaken me to empty human shells that,
Despite their sharp scents of smiles and summer,
Are uncoloured with a vague sense of fogginess.
For if you thought them geometrically similar,
Outwardly identical and biologically matching as I:
Just as you would not expect one to talk to animals,
I find myself equally inadequate and
isolated.
I yearn to smash: first, this glass I look through.
Then, the shells of the first body I find.
In hope that, the blood of non-isolation,
Of non-emptiness can wash and flood,
Drown and dissolve the despair
Of an inability to reach across,
Of living behind a glass,
Of fading
away.
All your life you have looked through this glass, and
All your life you have lived in this claustrophobia,
Smashing futilely.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:16 AM UTC
I am a student in Paris, a med-school freshman, one of the crowd.
This week is all introductions, orientation functions and instructions.
“Settle in, get your books, parking passes and find your classes.”
I got my ID - I’m a Vip in the bourgeoisie - does that look like me?
Freshmen join a ‘buddy program’ so things seem less hostile
I met my buddy last week, she’s the consummate boss - effortlessly busy.
She’s got my folder (oh my), full of check-lists. I’ve yet to see her smile.
She’s a third year, from Chamonix, a town in the jagged Alps, near Italy.
If you want me, right after classes, I’ll be at Les Deux Parisiens,
a shaded coffee shop across from school that feels like a garden.
They have everything - from coffee to pizza and martinis - it’s awesome.
For 17€ : try the ‘La Campione,’ pizza with beef and chorizo (sausage)
I am a student in the misty rain, stepping carefully on cobblestones
- they pool water geometrically - I’m heading home (6 Av.) walking alone.
Nothing’s still, classes end at noon - it’s the city, sidewalk’s are full, Ubers uber, mopeds mope, bikers bike, people scatter, umbrellaless commuters.
I haven’t made any new friends yet - I’m not worried - I’m just beginning.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Café Europa by Quadro Nuevo
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone [E]
Robinson Crusoe by Art of Noise
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 7:39 PM UTC
a shape with three sides is a triangle
a useful way to represent the plane
geometrically, at least, besides
a lie is method of deceipt
but transistors can decide
based on where they feel the heat
that strange silicon carbide
makes circuitry complete
a puzzle is a truth that you untangle
a useful way to escape the mundane
a triangle is a shape with three sides
yours, mine, and the truth
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
“Thy people shall be my people”
-Ruth 1:16
Smoke rises here from foul Gehenna’s fires
Fires set by souls twisted like cold barbed wire
Sole argument of ideologies
Strung geometrically from hate to hate
Smoke rises here; soft ashes fall as death
Torah, Mishnah, and Gemera – and us
For without the Word and the People Israel
We are but wraiths, and darkly blown about
O Israel!
You are the broom tree in the wilderness
The Tree of Life who shelters all with love
You are the tent of Sarah and Abraham
And we are blessed who find refuge in you
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
I'm digging your geometry
All of your beautiful asymmetry
Measuring out all of your curves
You are more then I deserve
Obtuse, acute and right
You are stunning tonight
Your perpetually moving lines
In the moonlight; you shine
Your an ever changing equation
I wish to find your every unknown variable
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
"you don speek my languish"
"I'm learning. Learning takes time so leave it to me."
"I'll wait anoth ur 150 yeers, if you are not fluid it is good see yeah."
"'Goodbye.' You don't speak my language either."
"you don speek my languish."
waiting politely, Tinkerbell glow fading curiously into the overheat overwhelm of city neon and street lights, Soul's glazed eyes of hypnotic intuition begin to close.
"150 yeers. meet me everywhere."
Fading into a geometrically dark centre (dark as in far too bright, similar to when one stares incessantly at anything at all and the peripheral begins to fade into whatever greater colour scheme the senses have meshed into a Rorschach blot you've been asked to interpret), Soul fleets a smile (you feel Soul's smile, as Soul has no real face- Soul has all faces and hence none).
"Goodbye. You will find me when you find yourself."
"You do speak my language."
"I do." Soul whispered back, adding--
"It is you who doesn't."
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
Goodbyes are so hard;
Sticking needles into my eyes--that kind of hard.
I want to hang on in desperation,
Dragging you through the slow, thick water of my love.
But you are quick silver, and have no taste for my molasses rich love.
How easily you slipped through my fingers!
Scuttling off with your geometrically perfect form,
Scattering my dreams like billiard ***** struck hard
By the cue stick of 'this is all too real'.
Oh love, you gathered the shattered pieces of my heart
And blew them into the wind.
While all along, I had been lost in the notion
That you would meld me back together with bits and pieces of yourself.
Oh love, Oh dearest!
I had thought you would last forever.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
I have enjoyed a full six weeks since I last saw her, some very fine weeks. And two days: six weeks and two days since. I’m checking into a nice New Jersey motel.
What a fine room I’ve been given! See the bed wrapped in sheets, sitting stately like a throne.
Shapes of flowers are scattered geometrically across the surface of the sheets, patterned to please.
After I have spent a few good minutes petting the bed and pressing the flowers, I can breathe deep, free and independent in my grand indent of a room—
The air’s a bit stale. Ah, but there the closet in the corner, tucked so slyly into the corner, into the wall!
A perfect closet, I have to say; a clean cube with a proud hanging rack, made of imitation…is it oak? (the plastic much more stable than wood, of course)
It’s a fine time to get settled, so I’ll arrange my closet-things: the jacket and pants on the left, a shirt and jeans on the right.
The shirt has a pale stain at the bottom, the stain must be wine, the stain must be from some dinner we… I really don’t know how to remember I don’t know it’s just another stain.
That stain is red, like lipstick.
Well! The windows are nice and what curtains! Tall, beige and dotted with beach scenes—very picturesque. There, right there in front of me, on the curtain, sweet babes build a sandcastle, and build it so well!
Past the babes and through the window I see the parking lot—better not look there…it’s got scraggly weeds yawning through the pavement, and the road beyond leads to the city, like all roads.
What else there must be something else—there, the standing lamp in the corner. I’ll turn it on now, as its getting dark.
I need help describing it, the lamp. Only the words ‘straight,’ ‘thin,’ and ‘lost’ come to mind. In my travel thesaurus I find:
‘Spindly,’ and
‘wistful,’ ‘withdrawn.’ It is, I guess, observant and alone, that should do for now.
Here I am, laying in bed, reaching to turn down the lamp, and I realize with admiration
How wonderfully exact a copy the room’s second bed is of my own bed—starched stiff and neatly tucked at the corners, this one with a pattern of swans swimming laid across its sheets.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
Don't second guess the heart of holy ghosts. Don't recommend the books that seek your skin and heathen bones. Don't fall guilty of happiness and fraud or life or experience or jargon, or unlucky fines of brute crest mammals herding north. It's all in my head, tell me again.
Pointed knuckles seek the throne, seek help. Empty plastic bags bland the glit of coming phosphors, heat the shining thumbs of forty men. It's all in my head! I didn't see them work themselves to death, fall out hurtless among the chips ahoy box, resting empty on my carpet! Eat the herbs, taste the body, sing through nostrils geometrically still. Stare at your future, a grey dust bit, breezing circles on the window sill.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
i'm dead serious about conceptualising a su doku...
i'm on the basis of fractions...
praxis 9
/ 4
optical coordination of stressors of furthered insertion
for some reason i cited:
9 x 6 = 51
and then 9 x 9 = 81...
**** 1 is such a difficult number to muster /
master in a goemetric class...
1 isn't exactly geometrically "sound" -
hello φoνoς -
alternatively, when you're doing a really hard su doku,
quote this quasi-copernican interpretation,
i.e. doing the puzzle "lying down"...
i dunno(h)... when complexity arises
numbers "lying down" makes perfect sense...
su doku?
it's like onomatopoeia in terms of arrangement...
81? and it's still a perfect square?!
o.k. o.k. (leo getz style),
ω
3 ß
m
what the **** was alternative to the said?
u p
d
o
w
n p
u
d o w n
by now you're ****** kidding...
M
3 Σ
W my name's matthew,
so you can imagine why i get all hot and bothered
about this variation.
now for some dead etymology (i,e,
i don't give a **** where the words came from,
i just like the way they sound) -
poligon,
okop.
all, if any, emotional intelligence equates
itself toward an intensity status...
i.e. the more you feel, the more
your emotional competence...
for sure... apathy is the "placebo" guarantee
cure for any type of pathos -
or the λoγoς of guaranteed explanations.
to be honest?
λoγoς has been reduced to a suffix status
with that basic "accomplishment" of -ology.
another "funny" word... by was of saying:
it's actually a city...
Płock -
Łódz*,
alternatively? let's juggle
ò (grave) & ó (acute)....
now i see the funny side of the tetragrammaton
concept... it really is omnipresent...
between ò & ó
you want the sort of incisor that's basically |
straight...
something that really might **** off god
once and for all...
with nietzsche it didn't really happen...
i mean an |
o
that would get rid of god in
the classical roman sense of: oh...
and return to the omicron basis
for having revealed a phonetic encoding
that's simply O... and that means doing away with
the god's portion of a hammer (H) -
or the second syllable of the name:
η - weh...
eta weh...
i'd start translation phonetic encoding if i were you...
that variant stated? eta?
it's also called: a short e....
the opposite like loki to thor?
epsilon... and it's called the long e...
in greek it's ε, in latin it's the basis for avoiding
diacritical confrontation / application...
i.e. ee in the word keep, e.g.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
wahid. don't spread yourself between my thighs, and expect my breath to come in gasps because i forgot your name. sprawl on a bed and weep for nothing, i won't wipe your tears.
ith-nain. jilted lovers are the worst kind, don't tell me about the romance of a broken heart when you don't have one to break. don't spin beautiful tales with perfect grammar that follow a flaxen haired princess from a tower into the jaws of a dragon.
thalatha. a cocked hat, painted coal black, some unidentifiable baseball team inscribed on the the front with mercerized cotton.
arba'a. don't take your ears in my hands and close my mouth slowly, i want my words to leak all down your clothes and stain your skin and carve me into every pore, microscopically and geometrically. i want to **** your soul to a hell that doesn't exist, slice your anima into three point five inch wide pieces and strew them across my palm, counting your molecules of existence with glee, don't stop me.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
I can feel them slipping from my mind,
The colors, the voices, dulling to mute,
Leaving me in darkness, with only echoes to find.
I was once abstract, now an astute,
My once random splashes of warring colors,
Now caged and barred by lines, grids, of refute.
My masterpiece! Destroyed, and overcast by pallor,
Of sickeningly straight, geometrically perfect lines,
Now lays in tatters, a ghost of my creative power.
This is a plead, from my heart which still pines,
Don't let yourself go, don't let yourself hide,
Don't ever, let them restrict you with their lines.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
Transient action
I wonder if he wanted to
Geometrically pinpoint constellations
Pastel hues in a camouflage fashion
Springtime daisy blooms
What wicked way comes
If she thought she could auto not
It was a choir singing harpsichord
In street trash gutter subterfuge
The tops of trees swayed in the winds
With the gated cage striations
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
how many stories can we pour into our
summertime beer steins
how much before the foam spills over
into real-time
there’s no numerical answer to that, let’s state plainly
bubbles geometrically become one another, shrink
and multiply and turn amber-red in the august nightshade
and dogs skitter under basketball hoops, couples play in shadow
fathers sneeze and industry marches on
under our noses, outside our windows, between our ribs
how many stories can we swallow
before we’re drunk on the skyline and the view to the next
does it matter?
that one brew is for sale only in midtown
and sometime I might go back, drink it with you not there
watch the spinning hexagon floor tiles
and I’ll write you that I had it, and it was
all right
how many stories can we fit into the new year
stuff into the hamper, hide in creases of the couch
like quarters
like hands on knees, yours, yeah, the soft elegant spider-hands I
wanted on my knees since the first day—
two perfect hands
how many stories can we write on our palms
as reminders, how many can we fit between appointments
the ending’s not so important, is it—
bubbles join together, multiply, change shape
go hexagonal, spin
touch, remember, forget, divide
always even numbers
just shy of eleven
shy of prime
but amber-red in august
like that first time
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Please excuse my dear aunt sally
cause mathematically
how geometrically in reality the measurements accurately
shadow me
actually
my aunt manufactured me
multiply
my design
then divide by zero
it would be undefined
my existence is geometry
any form an shape symmetry
symmetrically an entity
whos positively unbalanced to negativity
cause negatively im positively magnetically
my well being makes me an mathematician
using mathemically the principles to define my existence
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
A window, left open for the breeze
A passage for air, sight and sound.
Window originating from the Old Norse 'vindauga', from 'vindr – wind' and 'auga – eye', i.e., wind eye,
and what the wind sees through our many windows
would cause a chill not stopped by the closing of the Window.
Let's take a look at what the wind sees, and hears through our
open, inviting hole in the wall.
The Gothic inviting rainbow of sights,
the sumptuous smells and desirous sounds.
The sound of love, of desire, the moan and groan of fulfilment.
The sound of hate, the dull punch, the whip crack of a slap.
The sight of happiness, contentment and peace.
The sight of sadness in all its forms, bereavement, pain,
beatings, abuse, of riches and poverty.
Drunks, mothers, fathers, children and babes, lovers and haters.
The dying the dead. The hiding the found.
Those filled with dread and not bread.
The wind's oculus is many shaped.
Geometrically placed for a view to be true.
Yet, reflected in that view is an honesty that the wind carries away.
The wind has learnt to howl, to gust and bluster,
and all we do is try and obscure it's view.
We take no heed of it's keening through the lands.
We are all veiled by curtains and blinds,
but, we are not obscured from the wind's all seeing eye.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC