"gridded" poems
Pastel paint down a gridded terrain,
square indentation in a porous grain,
snow atop the mountain melts away,
floods the chasm to crumble today,
gone in a flash, its been known,
short-lived is my ice cream cone.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 2:36 AM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.
Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.
Oh, what a dreadful sight!
Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.
Not milky bones with calcium-love..
A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.
Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.
Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?
Every star mocks,
Every beam scoffs
and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.
A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.
Oh how we are dusty and unsure!
Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.
Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Oceans fish stars, that are overhead, swimming;
those dying masses of sun, looking the night sky
to pieces. Silver dots barely skimming
deep dwelling currents that invisibly ply sky
netting that makes the sea’s mirror, a gridded
field filled with shoals of stars setting small fires
that out last the jettings of Amber Jack and squid
around a sea turtle who they easily tire.
Filled with eggs, ready to be this moon’s batch
on a brief beach made white by the nights contrast.
Not all turtles will inevitably hatch.
Those who will, will live if lucky and fast.
The stars, that insignificantly wink,
ride the currents that rise and sink
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
There is a blue stain from my pajamas blotched upon the white wall from where you pushed me up against. From when your hips gridded against my thighs, a graph with linear equations that doubled and doubled and tripled. From when your fingers found the furrows inside my skin, planting seeds I am eager yet scared to see blossom.
There is a blue stain from my pajamas specked upon the wall, from when our hunger was too ravenous for even the wolves I tried to suppress. From the sweat I licked off and tasted sweeter than gumdrops coated with honey. From when my legs found your waist, squeezing, Medua’s hair demolishing a man too good, too tasty. From where your palms collided with my wrists, blacks and blues and yellows shooting through closely knit pores.
There is a blue stain from my pajamas splattered upon the wall, and I pass it with a smirk, feeling the presence of you. What will be our next victim, I wonder
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
I remember how that Puxatony dirt
felt between my fingers. Gritty
and cold – the earth that covers graves.
Falling from my palm, landing at his paws,
he curled around my leg, shivering.
Against my ankle, he rested his long ears.
Polaroids of a mothers chew-toy earrings;
memories of March spent playing in *****
backyards, forests, and playgrounds. We shivered
together, in the heat of Spring, with gritty
rock-filled driveways underneath our paws.
Lives, those playful daisies sprouting from gravel,
that we ate day by day; pushing graves
down out of mind, but spilling from our ears.
The summer wrought steel cages to grip awe,
with training meant, bent to destroy dirt
kept caked on worn-out sandals. Grits
scooped off a breakfast plate to a shivering
dachshund. His collar jingled, shimmering
as it clashed against his bowl. Cold gravy
and dry cat food, with textured scents. Gritty,
furry, and harsh. Ears dipped in water bowls
finding the only bath of the month, clearing dirt
from a death in the family. Soft, unknowing paws
treaded with grace, and a parentless pause
as we crumbled. Directionless grief shivered
the big men with their shrunken hearts, *****
from a three-hour drenching sob at the grave.
But love is not measured by the size of loss -
it is made of highs and lows; rough and gritty.
Seven pounds of compassion weighs with gridded
precision on my chest. Those tiny paws,
batting at my heart. Soft, two-times-too-large ears
crying with us and pleading through shivers
to enjoy everything. Now your graves are dug
together - between you only a foot of dirt.
Gritty reality seeps in from shivering
fiction. Your paws on your own grave,
I place my ear to the dirt, and whimper.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 11:24 AM UTC
I still can't go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn't trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of maintenance
I can't look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn't
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it's insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can't have that
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
I am addicted to peace, but it always seems to fall away from me.
Down in the depths that ring hollow, the material never seems real.
Something about a feeling, resonates on the only currency I care to perceive.
Like falling upwards, and watching the ground recede beneath.
These gridded blocks like bars, that keep me from being free.
Discarding dog tags, and gnawing through the leash,
That keep me tethered, to the hands controlling my belief.
All these passing smiles wreak of resignation.
Fabricated happiness, sows the seeds, of roots that clasp your feet;
Ensuring, you never leave the places,
That you never chose to be.
Jul 14, 2021
Jul 14, 2021 at 6:33 PM UTC
Life is Sew Amazing!
Once I was lost without a pattern to follow.
I discovered the Bible with its many golden threads.
Each verse was like a seam ripper, the words began to rip and open
the tightly woven seams of my heart.
The seams had been stitched with the cares of life.
Each stitch told the story of disappointment, pain, rejection, problems and strife.
Life is Sew Amazing!
Once a sinner now a new beginner.
I am a new creation a beautiful work of art sewed by the master seamstress.
There are no longer pins to ***** my heart only the love of a forgiving God.
The Holy Spirit’s scissors cut the old fabric pieces and stitched new ones into God’s design and plan.
He took His marking pencil and marked the lines I needed to trace.
I truly know that I am here because of HIS grace.
Life is Sew Amazing!
The Bible is like a seam gauge, measuring tape or clear gridded ruler which instructs me in ways to measure up.
I am thankful for all the living appliques, which are examples of God’s handiwork.
Sometimes I’m stretched like a piece of elastic, under the weight of life’s pressure foot but He provides the interfacing to strengthen me.
He provides a thimble to protect me from the ****** of life’s transitions.
He is my loving pin cushion holding all the pins and needles
regardless of my condition.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
sometimes I wonder
like a clock-worker, twitching gears and springs
why we are programmed to fight for each other's survival
I watched my sister wrinkle;
crumple in place over problems for which she
lived and for which she cried
for those she could never stitch back whole.
what is it
when self-programming is charted and mapped,
through simple fixes like plants and a weekend spent painting
empty gridded sketchbooks and hand-picked
letter combinations,
that makes us turn to those who fall apart in our laps over the inability to place
into the proper places their springs and gears
I'd like to spend summer making you look at the sky and realize it's blue because
you woke up this morning and noticed it
but maybe I will stay here protecting
my plants and my paintings from uncertain puzzles,
wrinkling puzzles and springs
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
fall back into the midnight grass
where are you?....... it doesn't matter
lie still as your luminescent irises reflect
glittering pinpoints in the night sky
graph them all in your gridded mind
a glorious correlation of novas and dark mist
calculations in the cold
PAIN as a star explodes spontaneously
light years away, undetectable
to most
but PAIN ONLY PAIN as your lungs…
they explode inside you
an unpredictable gone unmeasured.
your frozen head falls
90 degrees
shattered cochlea inches off of holy ground
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
It’s fifteen below
And a fat buck lurches,
Spindle legged, four pointed,
And cardinal -
Fishtail and brake.
I don’t trust this road.
I don’t trust these tires.
I don’t trust these ditches,
Smoothed and driven with snow.
I’m a six-layered pig at the wheel -
Unsleek unchic -
But I’m warm, **** I’m warm,
And the road slides like pinstripe
On white gabardine.
And the waning moon,
The waning moon,
Low in the rise,
Gibbous and garish,
Scabbing a cloud,
Spills the whole thing blue.
I don’t trust the red eyes of mailboxes,
Always willing to dive the grill.
I don’t trust the farmer
That lives on the hill,
Behind the blue spruce line,
Behind the blue flickered window,
Counting on futures,
Clumsy as mittens,
Still as the finger drift
Thudding the glide
Like dull scissors
Snagged in gridded giftwrap guides.
I still taste the coffee
Down under the tar.
I trust my smokes.
Yes, I trust my smokes.
I trust my hat. I trust my boots.
I trust I’ll never find my roots.
I trust the jumpers, there in the trunk.
I trust every single roadkill thunk.
I trust every knuckled ill-advised ride
To tell me yes, oh yes, I'm alive, I’m alive.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
“i missed you”
you only say this because i was there next to you.
i smelled like apples and you had forgotten my long hair.
you only say this because the music gridded into us, and the
fog intertwined through our pores.
you only say you miss me when i’m close enough to miss.
you only say this because you took something of mine
i can never take back.
in a month,
maybe
a
week,
you’ll miss me, but not so frequently.
that ache in your heart will subside for a while.
you’ll forget the crisp smell, the touch of silk.
until next time,
until next time.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
Bliss
I remember the glass paneled door of that house
gridded off by cheap, cracking wood bars,
the coffee stained carpet, edges chewed frizzy by rats.
I remember my dog, eight weeks old,
blurry and black as she was thrown against that door
and fell,
quivering and jumpy, to the floor.
She was too young, untrained, but
that didn’t matter to my father.
The carpet was ruined, he said,
no fixing it now, she knew what she was doing.
So she fell to that blue-patterned carpet,
lost in the dark of my father looming above,
still red in the face, still
shaking a fist.
I watched from behind, wide
unblinking eyes, sister by my side, back
against a wall.
Neither able to understand why
he’d do this to one so young.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
The young warriors gridded lions, For this hand in the endless apocalyptic fight.
Amongst the brave a maiden,
Her beauty beheld by an Angle. Valiant in her efforts to in lighten her protectors,
Her ending result faired well. "Oath bound are we the mass, Evolution transcends, as the Angel's pride fills her Holy knight. I her "Seto Cross Bow; The Dragon Sword of Chaos and Wrath."
In all her gracious bliss,
The endurance of my love.
Has shattered the binds that created our lust upon my own battle field.
Your touch brings warmth to my non existent agony.
As I long for the invigoration of adrenaline.
"Each moment we spend within the shadows holding each other in a tainted embrace.. Replaces this absent hole."
The war of beasts begin.
Ripple the strands of time,
Her turmoil becoming peril.
The stress of loosing her Gordian, The Black Rose Cross...
Her strength to preserve the last of her heart as she watches him go.
"The Bone of her sword Revolted as life became apparent."
As the new profound master of combat.
Armed up for his opportunity,
His mine eased by the time spent in the presence of his Guardian Angle.
His ultimate drive found as he slips away...
Deep down into the struggle of man where men find their Truth. The warrior took his final stand, and found eternal youth.
Now begins my struggle back home.
I'm Coming Angle!!!
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
Searching for a Lost Jungle in the City
The city is mysterious, a grid
Of paths, most of them laid wonderfully straight
Upon which brave explorers roam, well-armed
Against the strange and hostile denizens
How curious to leave a jungle known
And go in search of a jungle not known
Predicated upon legends and yarns
Lost forever in a tangle of dreams
Among the still uncharted traffic lights
In a gridded city of mystery
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC