"millimetres" poems - Hello Poetry

Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder, Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under. He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick, So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick". Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked, Died in flames, got a days pay docked. Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric, I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric. Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft, Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft. Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels, So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels. Never said a word, no shout or no fuss, Dennis died like he lived, just one of us. Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos, Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss, Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars, Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's. I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile, Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile. They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck, To mop up the blood, from a broken neck. Health and safety, if's and but's, Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts. We have no say, we try our best, Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests, Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's, Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.

0

Jan 31, 2016

Jan 31, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC

ap-staunton

Death of a Tradesman

Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder, Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under. He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick, So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick". Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked, Died in flames, got a days pay docked. Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric, I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric. Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft, Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft. Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels, So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels. Never said a word, no shout or no fuss, Dennis died like he lived, just one of us. Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos, Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss, Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars, Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's. I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile, Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile. They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck, To mop up the blood, from a broken neck. Health and safety, if's and but's, Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts. We have no say, we try our best, Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests, Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's, Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.

28

As he cried in to the wind snow flakes did descend each one unique like a t e a r d r o p s even though eyes black as coal it knew that these would only fall for a limited time. A child's innocence when given the joy of virtue, put on a hat of a cold little snowman. Yellow and black like a bubble bee had nestled on this cold but cheerful snowman's head. No smile was given, a work in progress as this little one was only 5 years old. But the next morning a carrot was perceived as a nose then little twigs not only one but two three and four where put in a pride of place. Now even though a creation of a thousand snow flakes balancing on the wishes of a child, this snow man gently erodes ever so slightly to where misplaced twigs perceive a smile. Running a child says "I love you cold Mr Fluff, Everyday he gets a little smaller only by millimetres as winters sun raises and falls and a little part of him now drips, , , , , , , in to a puddle of lost memories never captured again. But still there is a smile on the face that slowly one by one these twigs fall till only one s left then non at all. But then this little ones uses fingers and a new smile is etched deep in frozen snow. But on that faithful morning when all that was white is now green once more, and tears not of snow flakes, but emotions do fall. A father tells his little one. Even though Mr Snowman is gone, *"He always had a smile from his creation till he now is gone, and now he has evaporated look up see that cloud its smiling his memory still lives on,* The little one smiled and knew that even though not there, he was still smiling for the attention the little one had given. And that little cloud for a brief moment snowed upon his house and showed he appreciated what he had done.

0

Nov 23, 2016

Nov 23, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC

poetic-t

The Snowman & The Cloud

As he cried in to the wind snow flakes did descend each one unique like a t e a r d r o p s even though eyes black as coal it knew that these would only fall for a limited time. A child's innocence when given the joy of virtue, put on a hat of a cold little snowman. Yellow and black like a bubble bee had nestled on this cold but cheerful snowman's head. No smile was given, a work in progress as this little one was only 5 years old. But the next morning a carrot was perceived as a nose then little twigs not only one but two three and four where put in a pride of place. Now even though a creation of a thousand snow flakes balancing on the wishes of a child, this snow man gently erodes ever so slightly to where misplaced twigs perceive a smile. Running a child says "I love you cold Mr Fluff, Everyday he gets a little smaller only by millimetres as winters sun raises and falls and a little part of him now drips, , , , , , , in to a puddle of lost memories never captured again. But still there is a smile on the face that slowly one by one these twigs fall till only one s left then non at all. But then this little ones uses fingers and a new smile is etched deep in frozen snow. But on that faithful morning when all that was white is now green once more, and tears not of snow flakes, but emotions do fall. A father tells his little one. Even though Mr Snowman is gone, *"He always had a smile from his creation till he now is gone, and now he has evaporated look up see that cloud its smiling his memory still lives on,* The little one smiled and knew that even though not there, he was still smiling for the attention the little one had given. And that little cloud for a brief moment snowed upon his house and showed he appreciated what he had done.

48

The feet should descend towards the ground gently But not quite touch A few millimetres above will do nicely Proceed thus through these parts in the darkness. Here among the short grass blades, Among the busy beetles And the briefly alighting bees, The sensitivities bleat. Souls wounded, but still hanging on At once in repose and contemplative Rising soon, again, I'm sure, To coalesce into corporeal beings And to rage again toward the hills Where all manner of adventures await.

0

Jan 14, 2017

Jan 14, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC

ottaross

How To Walk Gently Through The Night

The feet should descend towards the ground gently But not quite touch A few millimetres above will do nicely Proceed thus through these parts in the darkness. Here among the short grass blades, Among the busy beetles And the briefly alighting bees, The sensitivities bleat. Souls wounded, but still hanging on At once in repose and contemplative Rising soon, again, I'm sure, To coalesce into corporeal beings And to rage again toward the hills Where all manner of adventures await.

14

Mmmmmmmascapone with sun drenched honeyed figs soaked in sweet wine I revel in your taste close my eyes your flavours divine You are worth every savoured minute as you pass through my lips that go straight to form extra millimetres of flesh on my hips.

0

Jun 26, 2014

Jun 26, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC

petal-pie

Mmmm

Mmmmmmmascapone with sun drenched honeyed figs soaked in sweet wine I revel in your taste close my eyes your flavours divine You are worth every savoured minute as you pass through my lips that go straight to form extra millimetres of flesh on my hips.

14

Trying to get up again Trying to start up again How many times, how many times yet Staring at the ceiling, trying to find the cracks The light creeps in, in millimetres towards the dank Of this floor, where I can see still the shadows of clothes you used to throw Hear still, the clicks of those red heels my ears long for The cracks, they’ve opened up again And in waves, you leap up again (and in waves, you leap up, sweep me in) Your dimpled pillow remembers yet the weight of your heavy eyes It breathes your share, recoils in your sighs In the air swirls your perfume again Like rain water whirling down a clogged drain Like smoke rising up from a just-snuffed flame Like my poems for you caught in endless refrains Again, and again and again and again Trying to get up Trying to start up Better brush my teeth and shave Get smart up again

0

Sep 4, 2012

Sep 4, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC

parveen-sagar

And then I knew you once again

Trying to get up again Trying to start up again How many times, how many times yet Staring at the ceiling, trying to find the cracks The light creeps in, in millimetres towards the dank Of this floor, where I can see still the shadows of clothes you used to throw Hear still, the clicks of those red heels my ears long for The cracks, they’ve opened up again And in waves, you leap up again (and in waves, you leap up, sweep me in) Your dimpled pillow remembers yet the weight of your heavy eyes It breathes your share, recoils in your sighs In the air swirls your perfume again Like rain water whirling down a clogged drain Like smoke rising up from a just-snuffed flame Like my poems for you caught in endless refrains Again, and again and again and again Trying to get up Trying to start up Better brush my teeth and shave Get smart up again

21

as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise. true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining... one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.

0

Oct 20, 2016

Oct 20, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

Time is not the essence of life.

as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise. true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining... one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.

2

Inches apart in our nylon skin, The distance electric. You shudder in the corner of my eye From centimetres to millimetres But yet we do not touch. A learning curve, A lesson in self control With no self involved. Summer seems intangible As if autumn’s been here for years. The season becomes me: A brown husk of what I used to be, Falling away from you Drifting gently downwards Whilst you stand tall and proud, An arching trunk. But inside you’re rotten. I think I always knew. I could slice into your chest And black would ooze Like the infected sap Of a diseased willow Bending under the strain Of your bitterness. Yet to the eye you’re pleasant. And your voice still rings the same As when it rang in my ear Under laboured breaths Of lusts and desires. I check myself again And count the distance between us Which spans across miles and eras While you’re seated by my side. Planes of existence Separate dimensions But somewhere the twain shall meet. And I know that. Sometimes I want to run. This closeness is too much distance For me to bear. The world is my playground But I only want your swing And the motion does not cease, I do not have the will to stop it. So I keep the same rhythm And maintain the distance Across the inches between Our nylon skin.

0

Jan 6, 2013

Jan 6, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC

grace-tahiti

Distance

Inches apart in our nylon skin, The distance electric. You shudder in the corner of my eye From centimetres to millimetres But yet we do not touch. A learning curve, A lesson in self control With no self involved. Summer seems intangible As if autumn’s been here for years. The season becomes me: A brown husk of what I used to be, Falling away from you Drifting gently downwards Whilst you stand tall and proud, An arching trunk. But inside you’re rotten. I think I always knew. I could slice into your chest And black would ooze Like the infected sap Of a diseased willow Bending under the strain Of your bitterness. Yet to the eye you’re pleasant. And your voice still rings the same As when it rang in my ear Under laboured breaths Of lusts and desires. I check myself again And count the distance between us Which spans across miles and eras While you’re seated by my side. Planes of existence Separate dimensions But somewhere the twain shall meet. And I know that. Sometimes I want to run. This closeness is too much distance For me to bear. The world is my playground But I only want your swing And the motion does not cease, I do not have the will to stop it. So I keep the same rhythm And maintain the distance Across the inches between Our nylon skin.

48

If we were a perfect hook and latch Where one fell for the other abruptly We would but miss our target catch A few millimetres out We clash quite brusquely

0

May 25, 2019

May 25, 2019 at 10:17 AM UTC

ASlowHeyoka

Remain Unlocked

If we were a perfect hook and latch Where one fell for the other abruptly We would but miss our target catch A few millimetres out We clash quite brusquely

5

Take the packet firmly in the hand, Peer at instructions, move closer White on red, red on white, A blur….. (Oh Parklife!) Eyes peer harder….. Memory grasps A distant image of mother making jelly Move packet further away, twist in the light, Little clues appear from the smudge One hundred millimetres or millilitres, cubes, cut, stir Or was it cubes, cut, stare…. **** these eyes, Yesterday they worked fine, When did I wake up so old? © Nick Strong 2014

0

Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC

nick-strong

How to make Jelly

Take the packet firmly in the hand, Peer at instructions, move closer White on red, red on white, A blur….. (Oh Parklife!) Eyes peer harder….. Memory grasps A distant image of mother making jelly Move packet further away, twist in the light, Little clues appear from the smudge One hundred millimetres or millilitres, cubes, cut, stir Or was it cubes, cut, stare…. **** these eyes, Yesterday they worked fine, When did I wake up so old? © Nick Strong 2014

14

social media haircut... it never felt so liberating having ****** off about 50 people from your life, then another 50... monday a head-banger Tuesday a punk... i might as well keep cutting off the mohikan to get a skinhead and heads toward below 100. i like Camden Road at 5a.m., reminds me of Hollywood Apocalypse; and i like keeping a village atmosphere.

0

May 27, 2016

May 27, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

a documentary of 98 millimetres

social media haircut... it never felt so liberating having ****** off about 50 people from your life, then another 50... monday a head-banger Tuesday a punk... i might as well keep cutting off the mohikan to get a skinhead and heads toward below 100. i like Camden Road at 5a.m., reminds me of Hollywood Apocalypse; and i like keeping a village atmosphere.

13

Vacant people with vacant peepers stare with them fixed on flickering screens. Monday morning's wide-eyed sleepers sit missing the window's passing scenes. Mere millimetres apart from each other, they drift in worlds a million miles away. Bodies so close, close enough to smother, as the train rumbles along, they sway.

0

Mar 7, 2016

Mar 7, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC

c-j-baxter

Monday's Commute

Vacant people with vacant peepers stare with them fixed on flickering screens. Monday morning's wide-eyed sleepers sit missing the window's passing scenes. Mere millimetres apart from each other, they drift in worlds a million miles away. Bodies so close, close enough to smother, as the train rumbles along, they sway.

8

Intangible perception of reflecting light, Electromagnetic radiation stimulating Mammalian photoreceptors, six million Cone cells densely packed, in a point three Millimetres area known, as the fovea centralis Residing at the core, of colour-grasping retinas. Red, green and blue, bases of interpretation, As all others can be matched with a combination Of the three, for trichromats to see, distinguish Energy of wavelengths to believe in deception, Think that colours do exist, a gift of pigments Inherited from early vertebrates, while fish And birds may see Ultraviolets, as they are given An extra one. Classification in categories, Yellow, orange, purple, indigo and many more, Associated with objects through wavelengths Of light reflecting from them depending on physical Properties deciding, whether to reflect specularly, Scatter or absorb. Objects thus have the colour Of the light leaving their surface, while rainbows Continue to enchant exquisitely, the eye of the Beholder struggling, to understand the physics Of such bewildering apparition. Waiting for evolution To give it a few pigments more, for it to see beyond.

0

Oct 23, 2017

Oct 23, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC

aurorakastanias

Wavelengths of light

Intangible perception of reflecting light, Electromagnetic radiation stimulating Mammalian photoreceptors, six million Cone cells densely packed, in a point three Millimetres area known, as the fovea centralis Residing at the core, of colour-grasping retinas. Red, green and blue, bases of interpretation, As all others can be matched with a combination Of the three, for trichromats to see, distinguish Energy of wavelengths to believe in deception, Think that colours do exist, a gift of pigments Inherited from early vertebrates, while fish And birds may see Ultraviolets, as they are given An extra one. Classification in categories, Yellow, orange, purple, indigo and many more, Associated with objects through wavelengths Of light reflecting from them depending on physical Properties deciding, whether to reflect specularly, Scatter or absorb. Objects thus have the colour Of the light leaving their surface, while rainbows Continue to enchant exquisitely, the eye of the Beholder struggling, to understand the physics Of such bewildering apparition. Waiting for evolution To give it a few pigments more, for it to see beyond.

24

The pause while passionate kissing is a painful one Millimetres away from your tongue Feeling your exhale on my lower lip Our tongues meet again Relief I'm all empty smoke packs while he's chain smoking without offering me a drag Nothing more than coffins French kiss Ignorance Bliss I told him I wanted to feel whole again I asked him to set me free Nothing louder than a whisper while he's fast asleep All I feel is pain No All I feel is nothing I'm left sitting in my room wondering who discovered attraction Who first felt the need to touch their lips against another's Who fumbled in the dark and discovered the power of naturally produced dopamine Will I ever escape his grasp? Will I ever feel whole without his lips no more than a millimetre away? I sit and I wonder This is a sickeness This is an obsession I've experimented with drugs but I've yet to find a rock that gets me this high nor has such confusingly addictive qualities Like the day after Molly depression I feel the weight of your absence Although I inhale it often Both your skin and these pills I will never be okay with the loneliness that I feel while away from both drugs and him I often picture myself at your front door Crying Screaming Begging for more My last relationship was no more than use and abuse And all I've ever wanted was calm and gentle touch He understands He understands so well Accepts my tears, indecisiveness, loud words and fear of physical contact while sober I can't do this alone I'm waiting in a line and I'm scared and I'm quiet I'm waiting for the next time you'll decide you're lonely and breath me in I'm waiting to hold your hand in public without fear of past lovers noticing Six months without talking or eye contact only proves that I'll always ******* wait for you I can't describe my love I want to write it all down But there is not any amount of words in Collins dictionary that could spell out my attraction to you I know I'm not what you want I know I'm what you need I know you are tired I feel the lack of love when you speak Hold me Set me free

0

May 13, 2015

May 13, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC

Ex-psycho

More Than A Millimetre

The pause while passionate kissing is a painful one Millimetres away from your tongue Feeling your exhale on my lower lip Our tongues meet again Relief I'm all empty smoke packs while he's chain smoking without offering me a drag Nothing more than coffins French kiss Ignorance Bliss I told him I wanted to feel whole again I asked him to set me free Nothing louder than a whisper while he's fast asleep All I feel is pain No All I feel is nothing I'm left sitting in my room wondering who discovered attraction Who first felt the need to touch their lips against another's Who fumbled in the dark and discovered the power of naturally produced dopamine Will I ever escape his grasp? Will I ever feel whole without his lips no more than a millimetre away? I sit and I wonder This is a sickeness This is an obsession I've experimented with drugs but I've yet to find a rock that gets me this high nor has such confusingly addictive qualities Like the day after Molly depression I feel the weight of your absence Although I inhale it often Both your skin and these pills I will never be okay with the loneliness that I feel while away from both drugs and him I often picture myself at your front door Crying Screaming Begging for more My last relationship was no more than use and abuse And all I've ever wanted was calm and gentle touch He understands He understands so well Accepts my tears, indecisiveness, loud words and fear of physical contact while sober I can't do this alone I'm waiting in a line and I'm scared and I'm quiet I'm waiting for the next time you'll decide you're lonely and breath me in I'm waiting to hold your hand in public without fear of past lovers noticing Six months without talking or eye contact only proves that I'll always ******* wait for you I can't describe my love I want to write it all down But there is not any amount of words in Collins dictionary that could spell out my attraction to you I know I'm not what you want I know I'm what you need I know you are tired I feel the lack of love when you speak Hold me Set me free

52

If you really don't like this give me an alternative, give me that, give me reasonable cause to live, give me proof of my existence and pay no mind to coffee spoons, measure me in millimetres, amphitheatres or a lions roar and keep score of my mistakes if what it takes is that.

0

Jul 30, 2017

Jul 30, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Invitational

If you really don't like this give me an alternative, give me that, give me reasonable cause to live, give me proof of my existence and pay no mind to coffee spoons, measure me in millimetres, amphitheatres or a lions roar and keep score of my mistakes if what it takes is that.

17