"idles" poems
Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness
one where I try to pretend I don't notice
but have you noticed how difficult it is
when outside idles but inside there's a race
to views like you leaning side to side
on the motorcycle ride slot machine
driving my eyes to sly around your slides
taking them wide as when I was eighteen
I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end
give out stares and start to take in scenes
of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade
around and around the circuit you rode
I was lapping up your every move
sneaking a view through the coin drop
peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who
prying open the photo booth curtain gap
faux testing the mallet with your strength
playing air hockey with my thoughts
were your short chic bangs a wig?
they sit so still I long for the straights
then swing to one side with a leg
tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends
ironing out where the centre line is damp
polishing the dashing leather saddle
vibrating with wrist twist contempt
loveliness revving up to red line
exploding in my face with daring
this bike crash heart of mine
please forgive not stopping staring
a race course habit never outgrown
I go too fast and of course I fall
in love as bad as deeply madly
but the fact that it's with you.. well
I have to forgive myself this malady
I'm a side-road heading for a spin
on ways to tell you you're beautiful
dangerously close I risk self harm
imagining that colour of pink and pale
the flush u-turn will be a charm
If I can get you climbing off
hot and flustered
I’ll have done my pit stop job
at once a chance encounter
and a fateful winning score
to let you know you've entered
into being my prize draw
I'll walk away but don't be sore
it's up to you to take it further
but just know one thing more
that if you call me to confirm
and tell me that I’m worth it
I would turn around so fast
the world would gearshift
and wait
but not in neutral
for us
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
Cellophane wings beating
against the heavy summer air,
back and forth, all day long,
the blue dragonflies
chase one another across the pond-
their tails turned up
like neon scimitars
poised for a ******
that never seems to come.
Occasionally, a truce is called,
and they settle into place
on opposite sides of the reeds,
momentarily oblivious to their war.
Twice their size,
the red dragonfly idles in the sun.
From time to time it leaves its perch
to challenge the silhouette
hanging from the iris blade,
its spent skin,
as if it were a bad memory
rising from the green depths of the pond.
Below the surface,
the fish school together- a current of gold
slipping between the lily pads,
each aware of its place in the stream.
My reflection circles them all.
Drawn to the water
that both mirrors and obscures
I lose my place for a moment-
hovering between obligations and idleness
on cellophane wings.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
buzzzzzzz
The bus engine idles
Intensifying the hammering of little gnomes
On my skull
Their tin mallets **** dinking* incessantly
Throbbing
Painful numb as waves crash to escape
The confines of my head
A small clownfish throwing his tiny body
Against the walls again
And again
And again
ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump
The bus hits three large bumps in a row
Jostling and jolting me into excruciating confusion
So tired and so alert
Drifting off to consciousness
I have got to escape this headache...
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
"Have you talked to dad,
since you've been at school?"
"Nope."
"Are you coming home
for thanksgiving?"
"I don't know."
Josephina
breathes in a crackle
over the phone.
New York,
a cacophony
in the background.
A background of cold,
and
people talking
while walking
while hailing a yellowcab with a left
and slow-rolling heads locked
onto the phones in their right.
These people enter taxis,
not knowing if they're ever
going to reach home,
or the airport,
or union square,
just going
on the promise
that they won't become
road-kill.
I can't feel it in my yellow apartment.
If anything,
my yellowcab
idles.
Through the receiver
A squad car
rings nervously,
then
after a lungful
of garbage-smelling air,
it becomes a full blare.
A pause
of
noise
always ensues,
just for a second,
the entire corner
becomes a silent silo
of human beings.
"How's new york?"
"you know,
dad called me
and asked about
how to get on a diet,
can you believe that?"
Yes,
I can
dad is a fat ****
a pink, white belly
of a man. And a few
sandbags for chins.
"That's good."
"So I'm not going to see you?"
"Probably not."
"Well, you should call dad,
talk to him,
he loves
you."
Some conversations,
acheive nothing.
The same
tired, dead things
get run over.
Road-kill.
Josephina believes she is the spatula
that will bring back
pancake squirrels
and
pancake relationships.
As much as you don't know
about me and dad's relationship,
I can give you a kodak moment.
A snapshot,
of a hovering man,
pointing at his son's neck,
searching for the misplaced vertebrae,
the lack
of fear for the world
--"the right kind of fear,
the fear a man
should have
of himself"--
and a son,
hunched,
small hands in fists,
a heavy haul of muscles
pulled into a dark brow
right over black eyes.
This picture
will suffice.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.
"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.
"Is she eating?" my mother asks.
"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.
My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.
Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.
"I forgot my trunks."
"That's no excuse."
I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.
In the living room.
While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.
Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:
"All roads lead to me."
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.
Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.
Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Humanity has no support to duty
Both contrary in dealing and punctuality:
Non-the-less deny each claims still their validity
Former needs emotional skip where later regularity!
Humanity is a thing roundly soul concern
Fancies of many idles, despotic and obligated.
Estimate not to beautify active approach return;
Deserve aid remarkable quiet pleasing black arts.
Duty declares the deed must accomplish statutable,
Gratitude, greed and gratification are sub-judice here-of:
A crazy caution compel to foil inapplicable
Yonker's pride, old hand cultivated doctrinal of.
Certain condition humanity plays role of pre-eminence
Duty looks wanting help out of heels,
Depending on probation passion of sincerity convince,
Rejecting deep binder satisfactorily set aside exceeds.
If stands duty and humanity both together,
Glorifies the spirit immortal as His name
And also deal showing clean impersonality further,
None appeal to mercy could not dare blame.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
silky slow summer
idles away the hours
caught in a cosmic barbecue
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
shuffling papers together into a pile,
you look like you’ve run a mile.
in such a hurry of what you’re looking for
that you forget what you’re pushing ashore.
papers strewn across the table
gathered in a fit of labor;
you’re in a hurry to chase the next high
but are you really? or are you really just chasing flies?
i am the paper that slips out of your grip.
i am the paper that hangs off the tip.
the floor beckons my fall,
the drop becomes a call.
a call for help, yet a call ignored
as you left me on the side as though i am nothing more.
(maybe its because i mention death like a prayer.)
i am the paper that idles by.
i am the paper that was hung out to dry.
you’ve purposely left me behind.
you’ve shoved me aside blind.
i trusted in you therefore i am blind.
when you confided in me, i was kind.
(maybe you were hurt by my actions.)
i am the paper sitting silently.
i am the paper binging on anxiety.
pick me up again and i’d be useful.
use me again although it may be cruel.
i don’t like the feeling of being abandoned.
it makes me feel like i’m a loose cannon.
(maybe your dead stares makes me ill.)
i am the paper that flew with the wind
i am the paper you seem to have skimmed
i am an afterthought, i think to myself a lot.
i am being overlooked like a blind spot.
i am forgotten just as easily.
you’ve gotten rid of me, finally!
(maybe i should scratch until i bleed today.)
i am the paper that is facing down.
i am the paper that is close to breaking down.
i wear a mask that is always cracking.
because i am done pretending.
pretending that everything is okay.
pretending that i am sane when i’m being put on display.
(maybe i should be punished for thinking this way.)
i am the paper that flew into the mud.
i am the paper that is drenched in my own blood.
i am weak but i am not.
i am strong but i think not.
i am tired but i am trying.
i am trying but i am dying.
(maybe my death will prove that i am right.)
i am an afterthought that is being forgotten
and i know its a lot for you
but if you ever think me rotten,
tell me now because i am not willing to be the paper
that was made out of spun cotton:
valuable until deemed unimportant,
helpful until easily forgotten.
(maybe I can finally sleep tonight.)
i am an afterthought that is being forgotten
and i know its a lot for you
but its a lot for me too.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
Venomous retina
Attracted me like a trap
Brillo copper in the glass
Seventeen on the couch
Call my best friend
Share the minds thoughts
Curiosity got the best of me
And the trust
I put into my idles hands
Heart beat
Vanes thumping
Down down down
Mind is up
Thinking what the ****
This is my life now
Future you crying
Hanging his head low
Cooks up rocks in the *** death reborn
Resurrection of death
Being cloned over and over again
Yellow cake on the menu
As the flame kisses the pan
Ain't supposed to be done
But not for the father
Not not for a mother brother sister or son
*********** smoke
Heart dancin
Tunnel vision
Two steppin
Jaw gliched like a movie disc
Crack walk
Leg locked in this ****** house
Home is if this is where the cake is...
Home is if this is where the cake is...
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
in the darkest part of my mind,
the dingy loony bus idles.
curiosity has foggied up my gray cells.
leftover bits, orange scented peels,
many questions i've left unanswered,
hide in bleak obscurity.
in the darkest part of my mind,
urges to be the me i’m not,
whisper their desires for freedom,
into the static air,
while lighthearted memories of kisses ago,
crumble under the weight of worry.
in the darkest part of my mind,
I cower in the shadows of intimidation,
over papers due in the morning.
bites and fights drown in an overflow of sweet burning,
with discarded pencils and bottlecaps,
and memories lost in laundry.
in the darkest part of my mind ,
the logical makes no sense.
swirls of confusion, reason,
love and distress,
faded memories seeping through gaping cracks,
hair strands sleeping amid teeth.
in the darkest part of my mind,
chewed and smoked tobacco leaves,
taunt their slaving victims,
as cherry blossoms fall from their branches.
empty words twitter back and forth,
hovering between the breezes.
in the darkest part of my mind,
the heart I adore and adore and love,
sours before I know it.
touches have lost their savour.
words and their meanings duck and hide,
the novel falls open to a new page.
in the darkest part of my mind,
friends laugh their laughs and dance.
mom screams at broken dishes,
dad sings his song his song his… tale,
and I write my soul away.
02.2010
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
I drive away
From the front porch
Of my life
And I look back
Across the almost grey
Dying grass of that lawn
And I can't believe
That I ever stood there
Imagining myself in your place
But as my car
Idles in that driveway
Failing to reverse
Out of that old stretch
Of black pavement
Which used to lead to home
I picture myself
I'm walking across
That raggedy carpet;
Stepping across
That white tiled floor;
Opening up that fridge
And sitting at the dinner table,
Drinking red wine
But then
The gears shift
And I'm turning away
From the only house
You could afford
After your greatest lie
Became a truth
And now
I'm looking towards
A grey horizon:
My life an impossible pattern
Of re-occurring themes:
Yellow lines passing me by,
Stolen grey sweatshirts
Leading me home
And everything
Leading me towards
An uncertain variation
Of present blue
But the road is a loop
And soon
I'm back where I started-
Right back with you
Idling in that driveway
And wondering
How come I couldn't
Have just let
That glass of red wine
Be my last
Sighing slowly I walk
Back into your home
And I lie to you
Like you lied to us because
Across our generations
Lies an entirely
Too plausible
Palindrome
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
There is a place
In evergreen wiles
A permanent perfect
of boundless dimension,
I tarry untrying in idles of hours
Lost in the halls of this subtle domain
Walk with me there
To where willows thirst
On the banks by the bridge
Where cowslip with meadowsweet
Polka the pasture to pepper
The evening with notes of the rain
Gather me in-
-There,hold me in harvests
Of memory loved,- as when
You turned your face
To the lights on the water
and smiled the glory of day into shame.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
First sound before first sight
is the spit and howl of windy sleet.
first sight the pearly water
dribbles down the hopeless window
and Cold sneaks in to hug your bones.
up into the shivering morning
two bodies leap
one earthy flesh one gossamer wisp
the faintest touch of silk
up a backbone a thousand small soldiers
stand to attention
of the coldest kiss
next and suddenly
brisk warmth over rubbed skin
static woollen heat
the whisper of a touch
up a backbone a thousand small soldiers
slump from duty
and Cold slips and idles away
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
Petals diving through my spine
A wind of intoxication
Idles in my bones
When I'm with you I'm not distressed
Plunging away at the sun
Jasmine climbing the vines
I Gorge on the essence of you
The flesh of your fingers provoking conviction
The frenzy tangled into our core
I want to be sunk inside of you
Floating to get a authentic glimpse
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
The days pass, the hours -
but it's each moment that lingers,
defiant.
They are like dreams: the ones that seem endless.
The ones that consume and crush you,
and make your body hum as the blood pumps throughout.
They keep you asleep, but alive. Working.
And when it's over - when you awaken and you're
forced to see and think and feel,
the reality of it all ignites your soul.
The way that hot ashes travel with the wind like whispers,
is the way your memory idles around me.
Silent, but bold, you remain -
the perpetual scar on my heart.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
Though we bleed the same,
We are torn by miles of indifference,
More of pain.
In a brief respite from terror,
My mind escapes this squalor,
This harsh reality;
And I become you.
Clean. Clothed. Cool.
Glossed lips pursed
In idle chatter
Between blissful sips of Chai.
Pristine cheeks caressed
By pillows, silky smooth.
Alexa idles on the dresser.
Samsungs recharge on the floor.
Come dawn,
Which suit to wear
Is my biggest worry.
Being late for work,
My worst fear.
O! To be free
Of war and tyranny.
To be you!
Perhaps someday
You’ll think of me.
Or send me a note
To spark a ray of hope
Into my God-forsaken space,
Where bombs reign daily
By the ton,
And blood spills a river
From Aleppo
To Armageddon.
As the world turns
To the next virtual meme;
And waves of refugees
Fill a desperate tide
Over the Western Sea.
Though we bleed the same,
We are torn by miles of indifference,
More of pain.
~ P
#A_Dream_From_Aleppo
01/26/2017
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
Four am.
A time…;
When the world is complete.
Moonlight, now, fades
Onto… a new-day’s fog.
Salty, …shabby wooden planks;
Silent,… serene boardwalk;
My delight…
Such haze holds the stage;
Now, to walk
The idles of time.
Foggy mist
Seeps… onto the rise.
Water reaches
Then… clings upon moist wet sand.
Useless…
The struggle; The pull.
A resigning white line
Bubbles
Caressing mist …tingles the flesh.
A pervading heart
Beats.
My… thoughts of you;
Such breath gives me
Flight.
Soothing breeze… lifts tattered wings.
To raise above nature’s silent kiss
To reach… beyond endless sky.
Ascend… above our sea
Beloved; Beyond all;
Beyond
Space;
Time;
Shadow.
To you…
Where I fly
… free
Freedom,
Freedom, once more
To feel;
Oh, my love
… to feel
Once more.
Beauty;
Memory;
Your arms.
The rapture’s of your heart.
The touch of your love,
The beat …of your heart
To fly…,
Free,
Freedom
You
Beyond…
Reach …
Your reach;
Your heart;
Two hearts
Where,
No echo… exist.
Desire
Longing
Mist
Reaching
Reaching
Reaching
Beyond…
But…;
Gulls cry!
Sunlight
Misty fog
… burns away
Clarity
A new day
…wakes
Once more silence
A heart
Beats…
Alone.
Gulls hover
… to feast
Once more
On time’s tide.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
*The grand wind blows as it hums along –
This dark and grey velvet morning - the sun barely risen.
A well dressed classy drunk smears her finger across
The doorman’s lips and whispers, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
She stumbles along while someone in her way curses -
A garbage truck outside stops and reverses -
– beep – beep – beep.
Standing there in her favorite long coat
The desk clerk seems to gloat -
Gloat over every marvelous thing she ever wanted.
In this, the one day when she is thinner -
Outside a siren shrieks repeating the tormented,
Is she a saint or a sinner?
Finally the quiet idles up there eternal
Inside her blessed Penthouse suite.
From her barred window she watches a crosswalk signal
Still standing in her long winter coat.
Across the alley she sees someone on a fire escape,
As they wrap around and disappear down the funnel.
In the serenity of the street below a Cupid like boy
Salutes his mother at the bus stop.
The mother stoops to pat him on his noggin.
Then mommy makes a sculpture of her packages,
As the boy salutes again.
Up there behind her bars the drunk thinks she is different somehow.
Taking off her coat she opens a book entitled “Value”
Finding a written sentence that ends with “come back to me now.”
She gives her legacy a second look
And thinks how absolutely - positively - wondrously dear -
If only she could believe what she had just read -
And then she disappears.*
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
the end of
a process is
known as outcome..
our outcomes formed
in planning and visions..
all ends embedded
in those beginnings..
but a danger lurks
when our awareness
of process idles..
process is struggle
mitigated by joy
living this moment
crying out Now..
vital experience between
departure and arrival
stimulates both
beginning and end..
when process forgotten
dogma and fundamentalism
these cousins loom...
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Think it best today to jump page
Says the inner sage, wild man escapes
Headline banner, fear campaign
Mister misinformation, propaganda minister
Save face by way of erasing occupied space
Grace diminished vehemently as secrets leak persistently
Honor bound gentlemen hound wolfishly at the unseen
What revelry, in snow toned detection
Earth spotted idles of another prayer
Looking like this one is satiated, mistaken vision
The over crowded barge, sinking half way back to Cuba
Now they owe what they never before had owned
From the get go, loaned out credit levies buckle heavily
Mass selective gravity magnified their electricity
Grave deep run lines of inter-connectivity
******* summer of next celebratory existence
Excluding the pack of wicked sack-happy vandals
Hunger groans honestly, with choir hymns preaching holy honesty
I am a dumb spectator with a gun.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
You take a picture
of a woman taking a picture
of the view
you can see,
the pastel tones sloshing
into one another,
synchronised just right tonight.
Steel blue that gives way
to tufts of lilac,
to a pink grapefruit wave,
the reflection glazed
to the glass beside you.
Slurry of chat in the air,
tourists and locals
hugged by coats,
sharing the same space,
silver breath that idles
before it scarpers.
Minute cubes of light
**** out across the water,
your city painted
in beautiful shades.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
Who are we if not free?
Propagized by our parents, the media
Spoon-fed and indoctrinated,
No truth here just facts, manipulated and coerced,
We the idles of society, too afraid to stand out with our opinions,
Opinions of righteousness,
We deserve knowledge,
We crave for a free society,
But atlas do we deserve such an entity?
Wake up!
Too scared to speak, to scarce to form
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC