"hexagonal" poems
Banana splits lickedy his spican-and-span throbbing
peninsula clock jar.
The scar from his far faux **** ignited his beating
hexagonal calendar.
Which is used to peruse the jujubees metallic books in the public
libation crazy train station.
His ecstatic adulation exemplifies why diamonds are
a girl gorilla's favorite soap.
His floating cubed boat is on a remote desert
impala growling at the turquoise toilet.
But his spoiled toys are annoyed about the choice between life or
demonstrative sponsored concerts by budweiser.
Woeful razor beaked birds marvel at absurd his Salvador
Daoist Dharma surreal cereal caramel karma flakes.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Oh mighty powerhouse and largest gland
Snug in the abdominal cavity
Though few thy function fully understand
Should praise thee with the utmost gravity
Three pounds thy weight, but worth thy weight in gold
Four precious lobes through portal fissure fed
Tiny lobules in hexagonal mould
Each one formed by cuboidal cells widespread
Arranged in columns round a central aisle
Converting glucose into glycogen
Form plasma proteins and essential bile,
A, D, prothrombin and fibrinogen
De-aminates the protein that we eat
De-saturates the fat, produces heat
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
An irrefutable dream,
fulfilled tenfold in the illusion
made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion,
sought by the delver of selves.
Rejection of messengers,
the hive of deluded apathy
that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation
hexagonal compartmentalization,
sundering your cedar carapace,
which cancerous excess shatters,
and only cracks remain;
the afterthoughts of paradise
and undiscovered paths of depression,
an anxious exodus of life-force.
Part thine red sea,
lest plate tectonics make waves,
that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light,
the crimson tears of a soul,
sweeter than the lips coveted.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
pollen rots,
faintly wafts increasing death
in an otherwise vacant Spring breeze.
the memories of bees buzz.
melodramatically,
i add a spoon of honey to my coffee.
it isn't fair trade.
neither is the milk..fair trade milk?
40 multicultural minds
hexagonal attuned:
the IPI begins to gather
in consilience
some further future data,
worked together for a whole new picture-
target for debunkers touting
benefits of pesticides,
ultra-gene manipulation patenting,
cross-pollinating property.
i am a bland dismissal too,
not just touchy-feely rage at rampant death
upon death, on death, death after death..
for 'death has always been common' right...
as i sit here, sipping sweet and sour coffee
not quite awake
.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
If life were a wes Anderson movie
My wallpaper would be faded 70's vintage.
I would live a hard life and love an impossible woman
Who would shower me with misguided affection.
If life were a wes Anderson movie
I would have the knowledge to complete
Completely useless tasks
That would somehow be useful in any given situation,
Like chiseling a canoe out of a solid oak tree
Or weaving a hexagonal basket.
My eyes would constantly be filtered
With a color so vibrant my skin would glow chartreuse yellow.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
My happiness would exalt and spread to those around me.
My stories would fill pictures and paintings,
My walls covered in obscure posters and murals
that no one really knows the purpose of.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
Bill Murray would be my father,
Best friend,
And lover.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
Nobody would understand my purpose
But everyone would love my presence just the same.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
I would be king and crown those around me my subjects.
My crown would be encrusted with the Latin phrase,
sic transit gloria.
I would be king and grace my subjects with timeless tales of ages past,
of tear soaked laughter.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
I would be king.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
time runs backwards
what is fast is deemed slow i motion situs
mon river flow
out of notion soul
and into the empty pools
so shalt the water rise
deserts no more
but ponds o hexagonal 5 pouted stars
as universes collide
other must die
there is no choice but freedoms reins
ring those bells
the chichi tolls
on sacred soil they were built
and energetic pathways meet at meeting points no less
are the beggars than the high class hookers ( thieves)
smokes
from the cattiplliers lips are but clouds on distant horizons
jasmine juice
electronic sitar
to the waning moon glow
dip
hose
MUTHfuckin sails mate
where is the *** in my tummy tum tum
note please:
he french resistance
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
Patterns form across convex corneas
Geometric portraits of tangram animals
Hexagonal-faced lions
Triangular-trunked elephants
etc.
Tessellations of
anagrams
Draped over rods like Batik fabric smoothed over king-sized beds
Calculating Bayesian probability on fingertips
rote
styles
Whispering, "Carry the 1!" to columns of 100s
with a remainder? Try again.
Plot Cartesian coordinates with mechanical pencils
click! click! click!
Crying, "Awwwww.....
you
sunk
my
battleship!"
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I've been cracking my knuckles since I was six,
but back then my bones were still practically cartilage.
My mother could only make me stop during dinner.
Her brass voice echoed through the house,
like the trumpets in a marching band on the Fourth of July.
(Although not as patriotic.)
My mother didn't know about all the times I cracked
my knuckles when I was by myself.
Sweet sixteen and the joints between my fingers still
crunched secretly under my skin and between
what was now developed into hard white bone.
I've only broken one bone in my entire life.
It was my nose during my homecoming soccer game,
senior year, under the lights and across the street
from the stone-cold brick building that housed
my Catholic education.
Soccer ***** have hit my stomach and my chest countless times,
leaving hexagonal imprints in scratchy blotches of red
over an empty envelope of acid and oxygen.
This time it hit me and I fell to the cold and frozen dirt,
my jersey conforming to the brown-green of roughened grass
and the blood from my nose providing contrast
and complement all at once.
Someone picked me up and I became conscious and self-conscious
that someone’s hands could touch my skin and
that someone’s hands could feel my body.
My hands hung off the sides of the stretcher I didn't need
(I thought it was crazy, all this fuss over a broken nose)
and they swung as I was carried, bringing blood
to my knuckles so that they could swell and expand.
My mother tripped over her questions
when she asked if I could
breathe or eat or speak or if my choking was cause for concern.
“B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
I m-m-made rice and b-beans.
B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
I m-m-made your f-f-f-f-favorite.”
You tied me in a robe and stuck a tube down my throat.
B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
it’s your f-f-favorite.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
Mold me a helm of platinum.
Plate my neck in ornate roses
and arc both ******* in tongues of steel.
Spill an hourglass of silver sheets
to silhouette each torso curve.
Sculpt iron vines over each hip.
Caress my keep in chastened press;
form gold like liquid down my legs.
Engrave a crest of two joined doves
upon my hexagonal shield.
String leather sheathes with your golden hair.
Equip a morning star with spires
that mock the dullness at your rest,
yet forge my sword of diamond strength
formidable as your excited state.
Look on me where I stand armored.
Embrace away my fancied suit.
Please…
lay me down, Love, gently Love,
and place a flower in my hair.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
A composition, bordered by brown track, white shelter and
yellow line;
off-white, smear-windowed building (background)
hexagonal floors, brutalist mandala;
triangle across the frame, a ***** polluted structure
one half of a red cross logo, boarded windows
- chipboard, corrugation, MDF;
and Southern Rail green is grass in the lower foreground
arrows, words, people.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
I dedicate this poem to all my Friends here, as I narrate the interesting facts about Snowflakes,which is seen in abundance during this time of the year, as I wish them all A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR 2021. A Snowflake is a single ice crystal hardly visible to our naked eyes. During 1805, an American Wilson Bentley for the first time captured in his camera by magnifying them several time for us to see! Best Wishes from – Raj, New Delhi, on the New Year’s Eve of 31st December2020.
*VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR 2021 TO MY FRIENDS
WITH MY TRIBUTE TO SNOWFLAKES*
Composed By Raj Nandy
Deep within the snow covered landscape,
Lies a Symphony of Nature’s microscopic
beauty unseen!
Lying crystallized in a multitude of Snowflakes,
Like a vast hidden world of dreams!
Till young Wilson Bentley became the first,
To photograph the Snowflake’s hidden work
of Art!
These flakes are minute crystals of hexagonal
shapes,
Where no two flakes ever look the same!
Some are shaped like needles and dendrites,
While others like star crystals look bright.
Perhaps those Heavenly Stars from eons past,
Watching mankind that turns to dust,
With their petty quarrels and strife,
And with all their arrogance and pride,
Vainly trying to challenge God’s might;
So they shed their starry tears all through the
night!
Their tears float down as they waltz through
space,
Falling gently like some gossamer lace,
To get congealed into Snowflakes white,
Presenting in the morning a dazzling sight,
Like a drapery over Nature of dazzling white!
While all our impurities they cover and hide,
Those little Snowflakes of little pearly ice, -
Makes the Earth appear like Paradise!
Snowflakes are God’s unique work of art my
friends,
We humans cannot achieve His artistic level of
excellence!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi,
NOTES :-
It was young Wilson Bentley , who in 1805 , fitted a microscope
to his camera to take the first photographs of Snowflakes ! He
thereby exposed this hidden world of Art to our World ! Hexagonal in shape each snow crystal is made up of about 200 separate crystals with the bonding of hydrogen & oxygen atoms, – forming an infinite variety of patterns, where no two snowflakes look the same! Snow crystals grow faster near 5 degrees Fahrenheit , - falling on ground with temperature below freezing ! The 6 basic shapes of Snowflakes are; - Plate or Flat, Stars , Needles , Dendrite, and Capped column shape.
*ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY*
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
My mind buzzing in a kaleidoscope of hexagonal memories.
I am reminded of when I was a child
My mother and I would drive for a hour deep into the
Evergreen woods to a small cabin,
Where an old man lived.
He harvested honey.
The beekeeper man.
I never went inside with her when she would go to buy
A jar.
The car riding idle, shaking while I wait,
I hear the hum of a thousand bees in the distance.
I imagine the hexagonal honeycomb
Home to hundreds of bees
All working simultaneously to bring me
But a single drop of paradise.
When my mother returned to the car she would hand me a Ball mason jar
Full of the stickiness of my desires.
The label slightly gluey from the beekeeper’s hands closing the jar.
I can feel the warmness of the honey seeping onto my lap.
The inkiness of honey dripping
Down my wrist.
Sweet, savory,
The flavor thick in my mouth
Each drop of amber seeping into each
Taste bud.
I always noticed the picture of this face,
An older man smiling.
A full grey beard and mustache.
There on the label he became alive to me,
A picture of the bee keeper’s head attached to the body of a bee.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
In the time it took me to start over
I died by your side with closure
on my self-imposed solitude
from every soul in a fighting mood
with inherited axes to grind
in line
to use the men’s bathroom
during the last game,
immune to the toxic byproducts
of extended cab pick-up trucks
circling the drain of
made up
settling sentiment trickling
through the air connecting
you lungs with mine,
an irredeemable line
in the low tide sand
and
inescapable memory holes
fret the yet again brethren
sending their regards
while they take up arms
against mended fences
wrestling
with a cost,
the interest,
and late fees eternal
grown from the infernal
jest we let foment
into rent checks and
a stale hex
revealed next
to nothing
in a book I did not write
that you read all the same
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 12:14 AM UTC
You reach for your fifth sugar cube
To drop into your third cup of liquid gold
That holds more sugar and ice cubes
Than actual tea.
Tumbling cube after cube
-of sugar or ice I've lost track,-
You pause mid-tumble in contemplation
Then start to fidget with one,
Turning it over
In dry palms.
Neither hear the cacophony
Below our bubbled balcony.
My bluewhite, brown-streaked saucer
Is hopeful, and holds your gaze,
Its dripping brownstains braver than I in that.
My every clink-a-clink-a-clink
Of spoon on cupedge
breaks your concentration
And you have to start over
(With what, I'm not certain)
And we both know I'm clinking on purpose,
Counting beats with the cuckoo clock,
With a heart as full of hope
As your cup is with hexagonal once-cubes.
When you look up again,
I can feel inside me
The number of universes in the world
Double instantly,
and I wonder
Which one we're in--
Will you say what you want
Or what (you think) you should?
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
Three up-turned cups
pouring from the heavens.
The maidens bicker endlessly
up-heaved in mediocre tendencies.
They lap at the droplets
evaporating slowly from the floor
towards hexagonal prisms once more.
A haggard crone from the side
while heaving a sigh
split the silence with a deafening roar.
With her eyes open wide
she called to the tide,
the pounding fury amassed at the door.
A new-found sound
erupted from the ground
spurned by the demands of the space.
Patterns of speech crowned
as they echoed around
waking the knight who was resting in place.
He unsheathed his sword
and he grasped at the words
that flung tattered through empty heads and ears.
Their guidance ignored,
stunned tired and bored,
in unrestrained bounds they fled until no one was near.
The knight escaped after
driven by incessant chatter.
He vowed that he'd return with the proper words to say.
Chased until foreverafter
beyond scoffing and laughter:
"Be wary of the number of players cast in your play."
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
They decked their bodies on the hexagonal stairway,
That primed up into the heavens of boulders.
Decked boulders,
Eyes from the dead shoulders,
That ran the dust of time and concern,
With double ambiguity;
That ran the cobwebs of melodrama,
Of Purple voids
And dainty scars,
There were just blocks.
There was no God.
No Owl.
No leaflet or Foliage.
There was just a dainty scar
That cervically opened
Into a white expanse of rugged and dusty fieldstones;
With the waves expanding their circumference
It was hard to keep the shells afloat.
Rosebuds, it looked like,
The little ***** that dug out of dung holes,
Everywhere on the white crystalline beach;
Rose budded footprints of an animaline saint.
It might just not be the little *****
Then the dust rose up.
It amalgamated into the purple haze
That became the tender feet of cupids that embedded
Their rose-budded footprints along the shore of the sea
Sea that circumference the earth;
A Chinese fishnet flew out of the foliage
That, that is drugged in a an embrace
Gently over the ocean’s tiny footprints.
The fishnet was not targeted or focused on oars
But it was the Oars
That roared an echo
That conjured a Wraith
With Ate by its side;
They roared in unison
In a screaming echo of the overdue night before.
One with desperate fledging oars,
In a senseless sea
And,
In an endless churn;
Then the sky drifted apart
To clear the grey remains,
That of a nuclear battleground
Of the last world
It skid along a steep drift
And found a purple pathway.
The pathway took enough time to open them
The dingy awls of ancient machine plates.
Entwined and unforgotten,
These had made a rounder depth into its omnipotent boulders
Than the mongrel-ic infrastructure of the present world;
Mongrels of a primitive category of potential.
The wisdom that was as ****** as
A bloated hyacinth in its first blossom;
It took a speck of a quarter wink.
Chaos followed obstruction,
And the dust jostled out in the jiffiest.
It was a strange new octopi.
With blades for pearls.
With fangs for lustre
With gigantic dilation of a black void of pupil;
How could it run through?
It phantom-ed the serpent in one plunge;
And a single spasm.
Then it exploded.
A million nebulas bristling with a zillion kind of rainbows,
Rainbows of hydrangeas in elixiric daze at the tip of each finger.
And,
Starlets.
Then it was all purple.
Cosmotic falancho on a curly fledge.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Petals scatter with sweet honey from the hexagonal sun
And drip their nectar unto the heiress’s staff’s bun
Her lips shine with the yellow blood of her little wasp enemies
Disguised with a soft and young smile that’s hidden breathlessly
The young ruler’s snow hair dissolves into sweet sprinkles of canary
And her golden eyes shall unleash a sting into whoever she shall marry
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
my flow is pyroclastic
drop sticks hotter than acid
got witches flirting with hexagonal wargames
im bored
jeans from the icu
got everything but a tattoo
occasionally
i even go to the loo
ny bin
la thin
montreal win
oui
sick and free
ill and diet
don't joke
i'd eat coke
and drink butterflies
if they served it in the
store on the corner
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:11 PM UTC
stoking and stroking
very, very often, but not every day,
she wakes me with a tonguing
on my clean shaven heart,
I ask not why, lest it break the over ten year,
she be magic spelling, a hexagonal licking put on me
after
ten years she gets cat curiosity bitten,
asks me if I want to know the wherefore,
pretend not to hear, re-awarded with an elbow
between the ribs five and six, grunting me a ‘sure’
(that’s a surly unsurely, no - not really)
“you don’t take care anymore enough of the body I embrace,
so I am my own your health plan, licking your chest cavern,
one of a defensive medley of many medical techniques,
stroking the heartstrings vibrato, stoking the hearth fire,
purely selfish you see, all I ask is you purr as you do,
lay still, accept my pill of vitae min no-calorie surgery,
for ten more years, let your heart be stirred,
keep the bad stuff excised, and let the desire of returning fire
of your taste buds, be forever for me...”*
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
Hexagonal yet
fashioned into a pattern;
process of dying.
Sleepless before day.
"Sunlight"; a curse for vampires,
not wretched function.
-Not impurity,
the presumptuousness of
those who point at us
and call us sinners.
They pray and sacrifice their
children [pentagon].
-We preach free speech, but
stab the tongues of fascism
deliberately.
Gaslighted by a
genocidal culture, we
fight back [pentagram].
~
Carving sigils in
frantic vanity eating
death incarnate, whole.
Hell is paradise,
and here we relish the filth
built up in corners,
where history fears
to show it's face and be struck
back into darkness.
Back into process,
simple pattern of dying.
Machines that grind flesh.
War machines by name;
"Liberty", "Freedom", "Safety".
Sleep can be wicked.
Where it interprets
the death of the innocent
as "necessity",
or claims tradition
is inherently wisdom;
"That's just how it is".
~
Sleeplessly in night,
I tap my finger against
a cold damp window.
Mass paranoia
for doomsday ticking downward,
not to zero though.
We wait for midnight.
Perpetuation of fear
is hexagonal.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
i
half-hexagonal shape
of collected stones
walling the shore
flapless flight, a
white-belied eagle
spread against hill
brass lock gate,
a dark morning
to high tide din
gulls fish diving
arrows at twilight,
star-mobbed night
ii
waves swish above,
whip us a few feet,
push, crash, beat
perched on a rock,
soft airborne feet
part water again
an early morning
climb up a cliff,
as far as eyes
can see, the
endless hazy
ruptures of sea
iii
little fire with
wet matchsticks,
coconut husk,
scrap wood,
twigs, winter
grass residue
a confetti of
tales at tea,
she, he, me
quieter in our
rooms at dusk,
again adrift
iv
I sum up my
habits, their
relentless
obstinate
shore lash,
wasted years
here, once
aside from
the crowd
consider
my islands,
my inner seas
v
how demonic
to confront
oneself, for
once, let it be,
a calmness
settles like
residue, and
though youth
fades every
moment, I may
yet foray again,
again to meet
myself on a
salt breeze morn,
the tide, the beach
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 2:25 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
The face of the morning
that pulls the crazy out of things
unloved.
Sweetest rounds, some sort of grandeur
balancing on hexagonal perfection
--pulled by wanting inside a dead body's heart
waiting to wake up.
Before you extinguish, you must distinguish--that one day
when the royalty you pull joins the charge
and pulls the chair sat upon.
One day, that'll be of no use too.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Beyond the insect hives,
with crystal hearts in hexagonal designs.
Beyond the jeweled terraces
of fractured, shifting carapaces.
Inside the mind of time's design --
this fragmented mosaic of mine.
Inside the bedroom of she
whose sole desire's the end of me.
There is but a breeze bearing a curse;
the beginning of my thoughts, undone:
"The truth behind the universe?
One does not equal one."
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC