"gyroscope" poems
A sigh is a barebacked rider, soundless along a sandy coast,
A candle tipped with starlight, wheeling in a cosmos of smoke,
A firefly floating on the ruins of the wind like a winged gyroscope,
A skull in the stomach whose teeth are my own and breathes
With Babel’s thousand tongues telling fragrant untruths.
Feb 6, 2022
Feb 6, 2022 at 8:44 PM UTC
Dean and I loitered on iron horseback
Flaked with nuances and peppered with a keen stutter
Our jokes had weight
Weight creates a gravitational pull
Our jokes had a gravitational pull
My clone emerged in the rearview mirror with his girlfriend
Dean and I thought that was funny
They were attracted to us, for once
We got a bite to eat, my head, like a gyroscope
Universal karma
Revolving, self-stabilization
Into the palm of reconciliation
Forced by nature
With interdependence
A means to measure
And counter each sentence
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
I endured spiritual time dilation in life's stasis field,
held to a course you unwittingly set for us 40 years ago.
Back then, I knew instictively you were my beacon,
never doubted I should follow blindly, without question,
even when I lost sight and only drifted the cosmos,
always the gyroscope spinning in my head
whispered, She's still out there, leading.
So, I absorbed whatever light filtered in,
performing some manner of karmic photosynthesis,
noxious vapors escaping, replaced by vital oxygen,
a mere algae amongst humanities' phytoplankton.
And when the time-space coordinates aligned,
you re-materialized, as you'd always been there,
my sister, my spirit-guide, my love.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
“you should watch for what’s good and say so, watch for what’s bad and say that,
and be afraid of neither observation.
If you lose your temper, lose it; if you find yourself unexpectedly moved, admit it.
Keep your tools, compass and gyroscope,
clean, dry and level.”
Peggy Noonan,
columnist, author
<•>
good
Christmas Eve advice
getting harder to find,
wheat from chaff, and all that,
what’s sensible,
what’s defensible,
and what actually feels
A~ok!
as in
perhaps, it actually could be,
pause to think,
correct?
and:or:heck,
even right
so if you read the above ,
take it from a couple of senior geezers,
you just got a holiday freebie!
yeah, yeah, keep your powder dry,
just ain’t the same, sorry…
we talking tools and fools here,
them that keep you
on a course
of your owned free choice,
with an assist,
to know your position & to
never to lose your balance
when everybody is
instantly
telling you what to think,
take that long pause,
use your tools,
to pick the problem up,
Rubik’s cube it,
twist and shout,
when the
solution emerges
‘tis the season for
preaching and overreaching,
but use this quietime pause,
look internal,
and keep your instinct and
inside tools oiled,
and mind open, clarified
wish you then, clear eyes, open ears & love;
wisdom, that’s up to you,
but, you’re a billionaire for sure,
use the grey cells you were given
thoughtfully & well,
and keep on looking for
‘what’s a good way,’
which is always an
everlasting work
nat lipstadt
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 11:24 AM UTC
me grandad was a ******
he had an old ships gyroscope
that he would spin up
and set in the palm
of his open hand
dis ere has seen every dock
an point inbetween
dis world has to find
he would say
a mantra maybe
then he would sit it upon
the tip of my trembling
outstretched finger
holding my wrist
proving his point
steeling the tremble
balance in all things
he would say
to my mesmerised
widened whitened
crying out to be wisened eyes
and let go
balance
then he would set it atilt
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
Nestled
in a gyroscope
of allotment, haybail and heath
is the scenery of
my solemn country.
The skyrise, hollows. the
dripping
fat of the land.
The cities have boomed
and they're beautiful.
Like open roses they're
garlands of wire,
pylons and street-lights.
A thorny crown
on a girl in a nightclub. They're
blistering
they drink, kiss and drink.
And all the while
we live with whispers
splashed like
blood in a gutter.
As murmurs
pumped
through the strip-lit veins
of an office block.
Its a life where
prayers
are mist on train windows.
When we walk
we check our
reflection in car windows
and we're beautiful
we run
our hands
through our hair
knowing
we were babies born with
horns for this.
When we ride
its over
railroad boneyards,
the sleepers are
metal teeth locked in
asymmetrical laughter
at everything
at everyone
at nothing.
The skies are a
psychosis of sunlight, clouds,
vapour trails,
it's heaven
and
we're bent at the alter,
our shadow on
the crypt
has horns.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
I want to dance with you again,
Before the light descends;
Dance, the troubadour sang:
Dance me to the end of love.
Place yours in mine,
We'll wind with time;
Repose your head, close your eyes,
I'll hear you breathe another goodbye.
Can't you dance with me again.
I'm spinning off this elliptic world;
Holding the dark side of my moon,
Orbiting 'round this star lit room.
Waxing on the upbeat,
Waning on the down,
Dancing on a gyroscope,
Through phases round and round.
I awaken, tapping toes,
And humming in the after glow.
Yes, I danced with you!
Did I dance with you?
I didn't dance with you.
And never will again.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 7:47 AM UTC
Her honey'd hole a wet, wet dream,
her liquid gold a silky stream where
sliding thrusts were mounted, hot,
and arching bodies dared not stop;
where moments flowed into the next
and both were drowned in comfort ***
and eyes were riding each one's soul:
his quest for freedom her only goal
And rather than come up for air
this fiery passion sank them there,
(as both an anchor, 'twined like rope,
and locked in pelvic gyroscope)
her swollen thighs around his waist,
her nails embedded, tongues embraced
and fishing for that final taste
with every touch, in every place
Fused as one with melting cores,
(her curling toes demanding more)
his urgent need to plunge her rightly
sealed them closed with hearts bound tight, and
all around them
walls of water washed their sins
in quickening waves that locked them in
with swats and spanks
and gentle yanks and saucy stares
while skin to skin and hand to soaking hair
Like rolling tide to rocky shore,
(her legs thrown wide, his pelvis sore)
the crash and grind of karmic ties
were deep explored and fast revived
- with whispered greed they came alive -
awash with ***** un-restraint and
thrived, un-reined, with fate to blame,
their pulsing needs through every vein,
infused as one and charged by same:
her wild release on which he came
an ocean, calling out her name
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
You’re swimming, okay,
And the Bible suddenly opens up.
Not many people are faced with this,
Except you: you’re an exception.
How do you take it?
Barely, would the sublime horror of communion pass on your lips
Once the ocean take its Leviathan form, and it opens its mouth to speak.
Its oratory becomes very clear in the maelstroms of countless gallons
Rushing blue cannibalizes itself before you; you have no time to think of death
When the salt’s burning your eyes and you’ve finally figured
How useful a gyroscope can be.
Too soon, three darknesses will emerge from the desolate homily
Taught not to discriminate in thought or action: the backs of your eyes
Straining against the buoyancy, the restfulness of not seeing a bottom,
And the path Jonah’s bones took, the disbeliever.
Mostly, you’ll want to congratulate yourself like a legend,
You wonderful piece of **** when you come in crashing on the waves.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
from the inside
I look out of,
the frosted windows
of my eyes
I'm swimming
in my own skin.
in the same way one
might swim in a shirt
three sizes too large
I'm cold but,
I don't seem to care.
actually I do,
it sparks curiosity in me,
my own discomfort
comforts me
I'm more interested
in the sensation of the smooth glass
underneath my fingertips
than the discussion around me
I'm calm. movement
makes me sad.
I'm content just not moving,
my back bent and
frozen against the cold metal
of the locker,
my foot falling asleep
from the awkward bend of my leg,
my *** quickly losing
sensation, unnerves me
I'm not happy and
I don't know why.
I'm disconnected from the world
but I have not retreated into a fantasy.
still half asleep
but not yet dreaming.
an observer to my own body,
my sensations and the world around me
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:13 AM UTC
Your bow is all elbow,
a flank of forearm that is
supporting and simply cradling
my imagination
where a dozen or so
lifeboats hang off starboard
in case things get too much
I, captained by your sturdy arms,
nip up to the crow’s nest
for a sip of spiced ***
for a bit of warmth and
perhaps more—
a full beard that reminds
me so much of Darwin
I feel certain I am on the Beagle
and hungry to shoot some
lame birds one by one!
Your shoulder
where I can sleep forever—
come sharks and eat my catch
while I whisper poetry,
summon ghosts and
**** off Hemingway,
whose macho act was betrayed
by his pain-filled eyes
and sensitively painted
one-word skies
You, my aching hull
in human form,
rocking gently as the sea
slows our progress
knowing we are
wishing away time too often
the working of the gyro
prevents my seasick blushes
we do not yet know each other
that well but all is fine as I see it,
your arms really are made of
shipworthy wood and
beneath deck, where I will sleep
tonight above Atlantis’s cesspit,
we just bounce off each wave,
getting closer and closer to the moon
but not yet arrived,
has sleep come too soon for me tonight?
I’ll rest and stretch and groan
like weary ****** do
once Surya helps me turn out the light
—Yes, once my ship did start to sink. I called until my throat was gone and ended up swimming a good distance until crucially a boat came by and pulled me out of the sea. I remember thinking: I should feel more grateful to be alive. I went back to where it sank and retrieved a few personal items, then I sat on the beach a wept as if the whole thing had just hit me.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
I am not a charity case.
I will not be liked or loved
Because I am so weak.
So weak, that I make you,
The martyr who bears me,
Feel strong. That I give you purpose.
I refuse, to let my table be supported
By you and your makeshift table leg.
If anything, I pride myself as an individual.
I am strong.
I am independent.
My happiness, not unlike
The spinning center of a gyroscope,
Is existent entirely independent
Of your influence.
I don't need you.
I want you.
I want you because you are kind.
You are genuine, you understand.
I want you because you are comforting,
You give me that which no other can.
I wouldn't want you,
If the motives for what you do,
Were different than what I'd hoped.
Altogether disillusioned.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Whatever hand swirled
In the cosmic bucket,
Continues to stir the stars.
Keep swirling them
Across my sky.
In daylight I know
There's work afoot
Maintaining the equilibrium
Of the gyroscope;
But remove it,
And we're feeding oats
To the horsemen's rides.
The stars will fall in upon themselves;
And me,
And you.
Digits of chance, luck, chaos and coincidence,
And the thumb of phenomena
Move through the infinite waters,
Clockwise,
One second at a time,
Swirling, swirling, swirling,
Like the snail on a rock.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
The change in his habits was hard to define,
He thought, getting older, had shortened his time,
Less time to waste sleeping, for rest or respite,
From eight hours to six hours, to four hours at night.
He’d sit up late working, and not watch the clock
At midnight he’d vaguely hear something tick-tock,
But still would sit up with his eyes full of rue
And not get to bed until one, maybe two.
Awake before dawn he would feel some relief,
That death had not squandered his life in his sleep,
And though he was tiring, he wouldn’t give in,
Began to see sleeping as some kind of sin.
Then down to an hour, and then to a half
He ended up napping short time by the hearth,
Five minutes would pass, he’d be fully awake
When under his chair he would feel the earth quake.
And when his eyes opened and looked to the skies
He’d see giant gimbals above the sunrise,
That held the earth spinning in place like a top
A gyroscope, seeming it never would stop.
Then in the dark hours when all were asleep,
He’d see all the monsters come out for a peep,
Come out from their hidings in forest and glen
Whenever they hadn’t to fear meeting men.
They’d play in the shallows, they’d play in the streams,
They’d dash in and out of the sleeping mens dreams,
They’d laugh and they’d frolic up high in the trees,
And wave in the branches with every slight breeze.
And sometimes they’d argue, and sometimes they’d fight,
Hip-hopping from one to the other all night,
They’d not see the watcher, awake in his den
For monsters see horrors in all kinds of men.
The world would return to the way it had been
Before men came begging, and made it unclean,
With meadows and grotto’s and magical spells,
And hedgerows and sedge rows and woods of bluebells.
He sat there in wonder, and watched the full flight
Of worlds unimagined that came out each night,
And suddenly death was the least he would fear
If death would come dreaming and carry him here.
The watcher relaxed and he fell sound asleep
He slept for eight hours with never a peep,
And when he awoke with the rise of the sun,
He wept in his sorrow, what sleep had undone.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
It felt like my brain had been in a gyroscope;
my eyes were screaming and getting
****** by lasers, and my body was going
inside out.
I jumped out of bed, and into the bathroom
slamming one hand on the kitchen sink
and holding the door handle with the other,
then purging the food/poison. Four Times.
My head went from a concrete block to a balloon.
Thick chunks of hamburger meat
like a great serpent flowing from my
gut, outward.
I lied down on the floor for a second;
it was the first time I'd vomited since elementary.
Bukowski would have been proud;
I didn't miss the toilet. Of all the things I'm
bad at, and I still purge like a professional.
All the **** I can't do,
yet I didn't miss.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Present and accounted for is your head,
Splayed raw on the pillow:
A bowling ball of led.
Eyes shuttered
mind can’t help but think how opening them will sound:
A screeching nails on chock board wail echoing through the empty grotto of your right eye.
Not to mention the rusty needle digging out
a radioactive maggot through your right ear: slowly
Boiling simmering festering carelessly twisting on the way out.
The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Present and accounted for is your head,
One was all it wanted.
One beat to go through the skin of the drum
Until you realize the drum is your heart and still: you see a pierced drum and
Its pain becomes your pain. a violently pierced drum and again
The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Present and accounted for is your head,
A led balloon gyroscope looking down at the bathroom sink.
No, I don’t think I have a migraine today.
Nothing a pare of The darkest cheep sunglasses,
Six or eight pills of whatever,
And a couple of cigarettes can’t put a dent into.
The drums sound,
They thunder off a roll call.
Sound off, left (left first because it hurts less) right. Left,
Right, left
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
Think about re-entry,
holding that stick steady,
feeling your bottom heating up,
mad violent spinning
& hearing gyroscope-warning-noises.
Think about your daily thoughts,
your crazy-fears,
the kinds that feel like
your losing control
on re-entry,
not.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Sequestered hominid,
a temporary waning of saturation
a flurry of cigarettes and hot words
a tangle just around the core
as my world struggles to straddle
its wobbling gyroscope.
I've got a
Chip on my shoulder
But relentless peaks draw up the sallow vestiges of pride
As the ego tolls again and again
I am happy with what I am
Yet I feel forced to "survive"
Looking back at who I was
Speaks volumes for our culture
The sequestered hominid rotates hues, asleep
He dreams
Of painting his image into history
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
A packed house as she commence a teacher
in marking hearsay with her titillation of 1000 young minds
while little criminals that burden this structure with tax
and find her discriminating as a lawyer with vibes that well
as her gyroscope always suit with measure of twittering yet pair
of aces does her most thrifty a year again. Alas!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
She just sat there.
Her eyes glassy,
that condition you get from staring for long.
She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek,
her beautiful brown cheeks,
beautiful!
Good God,
she was beautiful.
Something about her vulnerability that struck me,
I enjoyed looking at her while she starred into nothingness.
My mind oscillated between what she must be thinking
and how she must be feeling about what she must be thinking about.
My mind,
a gyroscope spinning in orbit,
dizzy i realized,
i was she.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
When I heard your voice, I smiled,
you were telling me that you were mine;
my heart was comforted and warmed,
outside it rained, but also, sun did shine.
Sunshine in the rain, is rare and lovely,
both reflect the nature of one's life;
without rain, we've no flowers,
without sun, there's always strife.
Your my balance in this old world,
the gyroscope that rights my way;
the special one my heart is drawn to,
that highlights, my ordinary day.
When I heard your voice, I smiled,
you were telling me you loved me so;
my soul was touched and satisfied,
because your love, it makes me whole.
When I heard your voice, I smiled,
you laughed and told me foolish things;
the crazy way that people fall in love,
the crazy glue that true love brings.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 9:36 PM UTC
Watch me
and I am a wheel -
always finding a way
to spin anything into gold.
But given just the right moment,
and just the right rush of speed,
you will see me as I truly am:
A gyroscope,
my angular momentum
keeping me upright.
And you -
You are always the right rush of speed,
And it is always the right moment.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
TIME OR ENDLESS SPACE ?
So great is life if it's like space,
No years to count time's nervous pace,
No dates to sever people's lives,
But space to join as it contrives.
That man lived hundreds years ago,
And this, years later time did throw.
They are joined on one land and earth.
Why should time sever them by birth ?
How great is life in boundless scope,
With no days tied to gyroscope,
But just an endless view where all
Are joined in space outside time's rule.
We live with all those whom we love
And share the rule of space above.
All joined in one group with no years
To bind us with time and its fears.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
____________________________________
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 7:23 AM UTC