"oblongs" poems
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Round about she goes
spinning circles, oblongs, ovals, and eggs.
Sure as the bite the cold wind blows
The circles must be spun
Lying in bed
a picture of dreamy isolation and tranquility
but without a doubt within her head
the circles must be spun
Her breath is steady
But her mind racing with today, tomorrow, occasionally yesterday
Why can’t I just sleep already!
The circles must be spun
Her patience runs thin
An awakened mind does little for a slowed body
Nails digging into skin
The circles must be spun
Red lines focus the mind
Pulling it away from the insistent circles
But short lived is relief of this kind
The circles must be spun
Other remedies have their ways
Turning the circles into two points connected
But tonight there shall be no such daze
The circles must be spun
So round about she must turn
Allowing the circles to turn, grow, and consume
Slowly they become cause for concern
The circles must be spun
To her never ending surprise
the spinning has slowed and the world blurred
The faithless sun begins to rise
The circles have be spun
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
THE PEACE of great doors be for you.
Wait at the knobs, at the panel oblongs.
Wait for the great hinges.
The peace of great churches be for you,
Where the players of loft pipe organs
Practice old lovely fragments, alone.
The peace of great books be for you,
Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages,
Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
The peace of great prairies be for you.
Listen among windplayers in cornfields,
The wind learning over its oldest music
The peace of great seas be for you.
Wait on a hook of land, a rock footing
For you, wait in the salt wash.
The peace of great mountains be for you,
The sleep and the eyesight of eagles,
Sheet mist shadows and the long look across.
The peace of great hearts be for you,
Valves of the blood of the sun,
Pumps of the strongest wants we cry.
The peace of great silhouettes be for you,
Shadow dancers alive in your blood now,
Alive and crying, "Let us out, let us out."
The peace of great changes be for you.
Whisper, Oh beginners in the hills.
Tumble, Oh cubs-to-morrow belongs to you.
The peace of great loves be for you.
Rain, soak these roots; wind, shatter the dry rot.
Bars of sunlight, grips of the earth, hug these.
The peace of great ghosts be for you,
Phantoms of night-gray eyes, ready to go
To the fog-star dumps, to the fire-white doors.
Yes, the peace of great phantoms be for you,
Phantom iron men, mothers of bronze,
Keepers of the lean clean breeds.
1.8k
FROM his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;
But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.
1.8k
there upon the antique mahogany dresser
sit crystal bottles in every shape
squares, oblongs, round, rectangles
filled with liquid of ambers
greens yellows and clear
intoxicating fragrances
of musks lilies and jasmine
clearing the passageways
evoking a stupor of exhilarating senses
heightened to ecstasy
he presses his lips behind her ears
she is all woman
she is his.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 10:15 AM UTC
You’d think that demons and devils don’t exist
And that humans, once passed, would lay asleep
You can come to my office and see for yourself
But, my patients love visitors that they can keep
I don’t want to alarm you, but it is true
These patients crave souls, not pills
I can’t get them to swallow chemicals in oblongs
They can’t be satisfied with just prescription refills
You might think I’m doing honorable work
Maybe not, but at least I can deal with them
So you don’t have to,
That sort of behavior, I always condemn
Who were you wanting to visit again?
Oh, I forgot, you were the one with symptoms.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
For a long time I’d been
straddling a high peak,
One foot on solid ground, the other
bare and slipping on the opposite slope.
But lately I've had both feet
on the slippery side,
hands firmly grasping the peak,
feet spread out below me
spinning and churning, unable
to gather a foothold.
Though I believe I could hold on forever
I fear of eternity in this state.
I wonder what's the point?
Perhaps to not hurt those who
would be hurt by my letting go.
Or perhaps the hope that
all will be well in due time,
I’ve been trained to believe it.
*30 years of scored and numbered ovals and oblongs,
constantly enumerated and venerated,
my little saints are prayers on a candied rosary.
30 years aware of where they are and
when they'd be mine.
No rest with or without.
Nothing will quiet their screaming.*
so I walk
and walk some more
at all hours of the night.
The neighborhood dogs know me well,
they no longer bark at me for
I am one of them now,
resigned to pacing fence lines in the dark.
Back home at 3am I stare at the ceiling,
legs spinning and churning,
clawing for the high peak.
When will it pass?
When will it pass?
Tennyson wrote, "It is better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all",
though I don't think he actually believed it
and neither do I.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC