"isochronal" poems - Hello Poetry

The blue pales white above the echoing horizon Seen fourth times, edifice, sea, wire, sky Venture, traveller, approach him at last The air blazes all approaching, stabbing the sense Palpable is none among you, gliding through The streets, the cars, those striking titans lining The eclipse, shivering white cloud on cemented bone Lackadaisical walk, breezed by wind into drowning Dusk, when the aching red pours, staining blue, lost Our sky vibrates, oscillating, drums on sea Vision blurred, though it seems natural, myopia Taken by the Pan, made real on nature Isochronal to all around, who watch in vivid gawp Neither spectacle, sight nor sear, means much to other The world breathes, not to ignore, or worry As clouds drift on, through the rose-bleach The animal clings into itself, all moves toward Horizon, a carnival to unknown spots beyond sky Denizens to the untouchable, we onlookers know

0

Apr 18, 2013

Apr 18, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC

stephen-taylor

Shore's epitaph

The blue pales white above the echoing horizon Seen fourth times, edifice, sea, wire, sky Venture, traveller, approach him at last The air blazes all approaching, stabbing the sense Palpable is none among you, gliding through The streets, the cars, those striking titans lining The eclipse, shivering white cloud on cemented bone Lackadaisical walk, breezed by wind into drowning Dusk, when the aching red pours, staining blue, lost Our sky vibrates, oscillating, drums on sea Vision blurred, though it seems natural, myopia Taken by the Pan, made real on nature Isochronal to all around, who watch in vivid gawp Neither spectacle, sight nor sear, means much to other The world breathes, not to ignore, or worry As clouds drift on, through the rose-bleach The animal clings into itself, all moves toward Horizon, a carnival to unknown spots beyond sky Denizens to the untouchable, we onlookers know

19

the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.

0

Jan 16, 2014

Jan 16, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC

barton-d-smock

isochronal character

the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.

2

With closed eyes, I inwardly spy on the enormously arbitrary stockpile. Her picture drifts by, escorted by a brisk convoy of memory - those strikingly timeworn matrices of hoary but lasting stories from her youth, then from the wrong side of forty… and now about the beginning of wrinkles on her rickety little fingers – feeble and gentle. There she is…smiling unconditionally at me, not concerned with my status or money, or, for that matter, my other silly intimacies that keep waxing and waning like an isochronal scream. With all her warmth and affection – unqualified and plenary she waits at the doorway…across time…ever-ready to accept me for whatever I was, am and may continue to become. While I have ignorantly swerved this way and the other erring, straying, scouring the world over, she has been invariably there - my unabridged blessing, my true well-wisher. My mother, any mother – The best girl-friend ever.

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Dec 1, 2019

Dec 1, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC

csbhatnagar

The Best Girlfriend

With closed eyes, I inwardly spy on the enormously arbitrary stockpile. Her picture drifts by, escorted by a brisk convoy of memory - those strikingly timeworn matrices of hoary but lasting stories from her youth, then from the wrong side of forty… and now about the beginning of wrinkles on her rickety little fingers – feeble and gentle. There she is…smiling unconditionally at me, not concerned with my status or money, or, for that matter, my other silly intimacies that keep waxing and waning like an isochronal scream. With all her warmth and affection – unqualified and plenary she waits at the doorway…across time…ever-ready to accept me for whatever I was, am and may continue to become. While I have ignorantly swerved this way and the other erring, straying, scouring the world over, she has been invariably there - my unabridged blessing, my true well-wisher. My mother, any mother – The best girl-friend ever.

16

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014) (available on Lulu) duologue we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute. isochronal character the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming. impossible beast the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

0

Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

(lack)

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014) (available on Lulu) duologue we’ll start here, turtle. this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to. the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement is life during wartime. I conceive of a dropper but hold it empty above my eye. because it is the one word without a beginning suffering because it is the one word without a beginning is not limited by its vocabulary. we wanted a sophisticated god but in immediate unison called it god. this is the grey cream that gives her privacy. I am drawn to a sort of journalism by association, a campestral formlessness attached for example to the term carpet bombing. how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn she is not ahead of? she has to stop, turtle. to declaw an electrocuted kitten she didn’t electrocute. isochronal character the theme of this person-to-be is footprint. for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected. I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots. for a fee one told me I was fleeting. the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama. we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember. the theme of this person-as-is is mouthpiece. her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming. impossible beast the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

41