"ovals" poems
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
14.7k
In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full
Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and *****
Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes
Of turtle-dark green.
Chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,
Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :
Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,
Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.
Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds
To strew like confetti
Under the feet of
This market of melon-eating
Fiesta-goers.
5.7k
I used to think they were harmless,
I was so naïve.
The variety in my house;
a never ending rainbow.
white ovals
multicolored capsules
muddy orange circles.
A plethora of every imaginable combination,
right at my fingertips.
Ive followed in my mother's footsteps
no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.
No longer innocent
I am tainted in sin
Shape doesn't worry me
size and color don't either
some went with headaches
some for concentration
some for depression
they couldn't ever make the suffering go away
it lingers within me
no matter how hard I try
to
rid
of
the
pain
I cry out
Why?
Oh god,
why?
Do you really
hate
me?
What is this
Hell
I live in?
I popped another;
I just couldn't resist the
bittersweet taste
the coating leaves in my mouth.
Swallowed it whole
no water
because
I am a pro.
Maybe a few.
3 more
then 5
only 1 more
well 2 couldn't hurt
Lost my count by now.
This time i'm not in pain
I just want the fog to cover me
and to once again not
feel
or
show
anything
Nothing
at all
For I go numb once again
as I swallow
another
pill
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
The clock was set back,
and now night rots
away the afternoon.
Gray light spills,
slouches, sloughs
into my hair,
my hands, across
all these strangers.
Ovals of alcohol
keep the rain away.
My life is moving
stave by stave.
I used to go to school,
have a social circle,
idle through hobbies,
new days, new days.
What the hell happened?
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
I wear a shroud.
A shroud made of prescription slips.
A shroud of little orange bottles.
A shroud of oddly shaped pills, circles, ovals, capsules.
I wear this shroud to conceal my demon, my curse, and some say a blessing.
Without this cloak I'm a monster.
As a child I didn't have this cloak and I was seen as what I am, a monster.
Pointed at and whispered about.
Given sideway glances.
I was angry, angry at me for being me and others seeing me for being me.
This anger spread.
No longer directed at those who hurt me but abroad.
I was a child.
Mad at the world.
At age 5-7 I dawned my cloak.
At first it took getting used too.
I was told that I need fixing.
I was sent to a psychiatrist who taught me "How to be normal."
I abided my parents wishes and thought it was for the best.
I got older, and the cloak didn't work as well.
In middle school my cloak was transparent.
I had to deal with school now more than previously.
The stress wore my cloak thin and I was a ticking time bomb going off when something caught fire too close to me.
Then, after fights, meltdowns, tears, the tears of my parents, school stress, their stress things began to get better.
Things got better in school but not among people.
I still felt rejected, judged for my weirdness in the past.
Maybe it was guilt for the things I had done wrong.
Maybe fear, no it was fear.
Then I began to wonder.
I had asked myself this before but never paid much attention.
Was I afraid of what was under my cloak?
I was born without pills in my system.
The un medicated me is the real me.
I was never born with pills in my hand ready to be popped into my mouth.
But the real me scares people.
It scares me.
I twitch.
I fidget.
I can't sit still.
I look around all the time.
I get laughed at.
I get made fun of.
Or I did...Till I dawned my cloak....To hide from myself.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
Pencil lapsed over paper, strokes struck blank.
Curves raced up and down the stairs, lines longed to curve.
Loops eloped to a wedding
Spirals sprung out,
Dashes dashed,
Crosses squares with circles
Triangles jumped over rectangles
Ovals wove throughout
Dot was left to point out
The empty blank around him
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:34 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
Something so little can hold my life
An orange cylinder, the size of my palm.
A bunch of mini ovals that can make me sleep in no time
A handful of them, going down my throbbing throat, have never made me so calm.
Oh, how I wished I could change my mind
But this sad life of mine is something I can not bare.
Oh, how I wish I could give myself some more time
But this woe is all I am in this air.
And here I lay in tight space filled with water
My arms numbed with red
Finally I’ll be depression’s martyr.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
aristotle and plato were convinced that the circle was the heavenliest shape in all of creation. it was eternal. but, see, the ellipse is that much better. the oval is the imperfect circle, the imperfect shape that instead of having one heart has two, the sound of an open mouth as you gasp, the shape of fingerprint bruises.
the earth moves in an ellipse. all of the planets do. as we spin around the sun, you and i are planets. no wonder when i see you from afar, i can't breathe; we're just in space.
you are neptune. you are deep blue and stormy sea clouds that look like sweat and work, but you are mysterious and beautiful and so far away. when you are neptune, i am uranus, being pulled by the way you move.
sometimes i am saturn. i am swollen with the dust and dirt that make up my outsides. when i am saturn, you are jupiter: a friend who is bigger than i am.
we're space stations and metal, too cold to touch until we get hot from the movement of each other. we're satellites and moons and space-time fabric.
aristotle and plato were convinced that the circle was the heavenliest shape in all of creation. i think that they're so wrong. the shape of your hips, your words, your kindness, your taste, your mouth, your body, your creativity, your sweetness all end up tasting like eternity and heaven.
my heart beats in circles sometimes. but, when i look at you, my heart beats like you and i and ovals.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
black satin sheets
warmed with our body heat
jazz music with deep beats
under a high ceiling
were fantasy and reality meet
Luna's glow peeks in for a greet
through the glass above
ten times two feet
the moon reflects
from ovals so exotic
that your glitter and shine
force time to be static
diligent and still, Luna and I
await your surrender
like addicts to their narcotics
so come! allow me to inject you
with pleasures of the ******
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 1:00 PM UTC
Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles
Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider
Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent
To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies
Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval
Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
I have been bright, hovering for weeks with the edges of ovals I so narrowly believed to be bicycle wheels,
discovering good friends in places right under the windowsill, freshening up the roses
in the pots I'd forgotten about on the back porch.
and there's you, a dream perhaps,
a sliver of pecan pie left over from the holidays but increasingly fresh
I'd like to twinge the tremors in your body that make you hum
and satiate pulsing bodies in flat, parallel lines of desire and decisiveness
I'd like to be the twisting ivy on the brimming edges of tentative youth,
to scale your walls and snuggle in the safety of wonderment and lack of knowing,
any better.
I'd like to make the bluebirds sing with throats of slim-cut rubies,
to have contentment and a battle born, hand held, period of time in which
I can enjoy a piece of dessert, well deserved
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
I saw a sticker on a car coming home from work this afternoon.
One of those "international ovals" that used to indicate a foreign country
like France, Switzerland or, if you believe the TV commercials,
Detroit.
Now they stand for everything from the local swim team
to the driver's favorite species of dog
although pinning it on the driver might be unfair
probably better to say the owner.
The sticker I saw today, and it was a sticker not a magnet,
it was stuck on the window,
was OLF and it made me miss mom more than yesterday,
Mother's Day, did.
OLF stands for Our Lady of Fatima, the local Catholic Church
and it was adorning an SUV of appropriate size and sticker price for these parts.
Mom always called Fatima, Saint Olaf's because everyone around here calls it OLF
so it wasn't her fault.
Every time I, or my wife, politely corrected her she'd reply,
"I know" and then promptly call it Olaf's ten minutes later.
So today waiting for the green light on the way home
a little sadness as St. Olaf's SUV reminded me of mom.
and
I laughed.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Standing, soaked, out in a storm, gusts of wind whipping my hair around wildly
Unruly strands sway with the song of chaos, pulling at my scalp, snapping, lashing at my face
My existence is all reality as this whirlwind tempest frantically thrashes about my flesh
In the complex puzzles and foolish games, a simple madness lives, and therein lies my freedom
My tongue and lips sometimes flap boisterously from their spot on my face
And the noises risen up from my throat, and passed through my mouth are meaningless blubberings
Involuntarily, I grin, tasting the nonsense's unique sweetness, and I swallow
My laughter rings out, a vociferous and untameable sound; humor, the voice of a crazy woman
And I spin! Oh, I spin and spin and spin, savagely, in ellipses, ovals, and circle shapes
I've no shame, and this dance is all mine, so I maniacally fling my arms through the air
And as my body makes its revolutions, a fierce smile curves the shape of my lips, wrinkles the corners of my eyes
Inside my mind, wandering - wondering if there's any real difference between elated insanity and that which I crave...
Some people might use words such as eccentric, strange, whimsical, and peculiar for what they cannot understand
So very often I hear these such words being used from those who speak of me
But it is them whom I perceive as being rather off, so habitual and boring, living like routine enslaved, joyless zombies
So unfathomable to me, why most everyone seems to desire nothing beyond a passionless, hollow schedule to, every day, just repeat
Me... I'll race barefoot down a gravel path, through lightning, thunder, and rain, only to feel my hair being twisted and tangled up in the wind
I'll jabber absurdities, laugh like a loon, all while I spin contentedly around and around, until, stupidly dizzy, I crash and fall
Madness pays little mind, stands without worries or concerns, because it believes - it knows, most nothing matters
This is my freedom, freedom that cannot be shared, for what it is, is something that's only freeing for me...
~A. D. Smithson MARCH 2013
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
He loved her more than he ever had.
More than morning coffee, or the Sun at midday, or the first inhale of a new pack of cigarettes.
She couldn't help but hate him.
Couldn't stop from spiking her words with poison,
Laying him down on a bed laced with daggers,
Hiding snakes in his closet, and scorpions in his shoes.
They were the perfect couple,
And oh how he loved her!
And the pancakes she made him,
Of shards of glass,
Her own blood spilled into the batter
And her new perfume of Carbon Monoxide,
She pulled him in close,
"Breathe deeply dear, deeply"
And the way he was never quite sure
his car brakes would still be functional in the morning.
She made "Wanted" posters with his face,
"Dead" they read, neglecting "or alive."
He picked out the tiny blue pills from his muesli,
The circular ones from his sandwich,
Larger ovals squished between a slice of cheese and it's *******
and he smiled at the notion
that she'd been thinking of him
when she put them there.
She'd set fire to the bed in which he slept,
And leave the gas oven turned on, door wide open.
Put him on a diet,
How long can one last without food?
Without water?
Without air?
Infatuated with each other,
And vain attempts at love and death.
They were perfect.
And she knew,
in all her sadness,
that with the ending of his life,
Hers was sure to follow.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 4:03 AM UTC
warm weathers with a warmer heart:
i stretched out my arms
and embraced her with all i am.
this girl threw an ocean of words,
of images, of emotions, and even of silence at me
over a mango shake, kimchi fishcake,
and a pair of hot matcha lattes.
she challenged me to a doodle dare
when i told her i don't draw humanity,
as much as i wanted to draw her right there on the spot.
let's draw those people on that side of the cafe
ah, a people-watching activity!
just our kind of hobby that immerses us within society
while being in our own little world!
i noticed she draws people first
then the background according to the proportions of the persons;
yes, a people-watcher observing another people-watcher
unlike me who starts off with the walls and furniture of the space.
she drew the ovals for body proportions;
her pencil marks done gently, focused and magnified,
much like how she holds herself up.
thus we were satisfied with unfinished sketches
and incomplete acapella song covers;
and it definitely was a finished day–
complete with her presence,
photographs taken with cameras and our memory's eyes,
inside jokes about boys and talks about life outside.
the sun is getting lower
as the hour hand is getting higher.
Time continues but we paused.
So I'm up for another round with you, Lou.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC
She lay in the bath, half asleep or half awake she wasn't sure, but the warm water floated gently around her infinitely. And just like the memories in her mind the water lapped aimlessly at nonexistent edges, spilling over, as if wandering off the edge of the world.
She moved her hand carelessly to tuck an escaped strand of hair behind one ear as the water hugged the creases and crevasses of her body, all contained in a white bowl of serenity with the only disruption in her mind. She starred absentmindedly into the reflection in the water, a distorted and watery version of her blue eyes and curly hair, although somewhere inside her she knew she was beginning to feel more like her reflection every day. Her tear stained eyes stared back at her, the makeup smudges making her look skillfully tired and worn as though an artist himself had hand crafted her very face and in the process aged her 5 years. Inside she lulled away, wanting to melt into the water and never care about anything more than was necessary. The soft, happy, carefree side temporarily locked away, with a combination that even she did not yet know. Instead an emotional whirlwind of feelings, angry and powerful tunneled out, amplified by so much as a word or a thought. It was these moments that almost took her by surprise, as if it was someone else pushing these people out, in an attempt to avoid explaining. This was accompanied by feeling as though the world had given her everything to live for and everything to lose in one breath. Her ragged breathing had eventually softened to an emotional sigh of trembling lips as she reimbursed herself with more hot water. Feeling it burn on her leg she watched pink ovals appear, stinging with regrets and pain, a constant wishing to go back and re do and apologies and pause and rewind and forward.
With a click of her heel she snapped the plug away, maybe in some attempt to also drain herself of her tribulations that had almost enveloped her entire bath. Watching the water disappear quickly, she was entranced at the waters escape, loving how eager it was to run away from her. And with this she felt relief, as though she could finally breathe.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
i am your woman in
ruby red silk sari with
gold thread-
i bear the mark of a
married woman high
on my forehead
for you i cook aromatic
spiced lamb-tender as
the light over morning
calcutta
yellow rice soft as a
painter's yellow ochre
on drying pallate
for hours i have watched
over slow rising flat bread
each thrust of the heel
of my hand forming warm
dough into flat ovals
i bathe in the essence of
warm sandalwood and
the fruit smoke of incense
tonight i give to you the
secrets of womanflesh and
take you to me david
under white gauzy canopy
as the garden peacock
prims it's silken feathers
under the shadow of the
sundial-
tonight i am your temple
and the gods smile softly
with pleasure.
ana christy
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
when i thought of you i thought of
how many years it took to put together a calculated metric system
that could measure the centimeters of how little we were.
i could see through the windows in your chest, right to the spot that was kissed
one too many times by one too many bees,
i could almost pinpoint the stings - they were so red,
it was like the color of your blush when i told you i could feel two thousand
suns gathering in my voice box,
and i wanted to shine the sounds i could teach to you.
i thought of thrift shop valleys and simple trails to the nearest mountains,
you kept a smile on my face for nearly five days,
but i knew i could not fall in the depths for you - the risk was too high, like
high waters and highway jay walking and heights.
i thought of your laughter like an allergic reaction, pollen swarming into
my nostrils down to the ovals that caused so many sneezes and salt pouring
through my tear ducts like it had somewhere to go.
maybe it did, drenching the ground to form the next sea and maybe it just
grew into a fresh water lake,
because even though the red lines developed in my eye sockets you always kept
me hydrated with sweet, sweet, sweet
glances as if we had something to put away to sell once it
turned up valuable.
and maybe i should have absolutely gave you the leisure to
take my thoughts and pick through them to enhance the
endorphins and forget all the complicated stuff,
since you have a way to levitate up through the mist and
let all the sun do your ***** work,
like the unnoticed trash collectors and the janitors who
wonder what it's like to have a choice.
but i didn't give the green light, as i drove through the yellow
in case the bees were following me.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 4:47 PM UTC
(1)ones laughing like a dog with 2 22's
who're like 3: a whorish slightly giggling mess
3 prods the carpet by footed semblance of leather
assembling her flesh in the left corner of a lazy
rectangle cinema cube. 1nes still cackling throat
******* cords vibrating stupidly on every face with the 2 maybe 23's
mouthhanding and eyefucking with his fat grunt syllabary. 3's uncomfortable
atthe sycophantic panting of her 23's atthis masculine discharge
wetting the silence a pulsing ***** of tongue barking vomit . as an usher ushers fleetly our
moist intellects to the quiet little. the quiet little notch. of waiting excited
screaming visuals a screen crucified blathering.
the 1's ungiddy prance detonates by the skinnyjeaned legs pumping fetid motion. in company of long femininity. and the ovals of 3
grate swift bile at they're lump. and they swallow inthedarkness
his moronic spit. and puke . . .
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
specifically:very:yes the gray grows
speaking slowly rainy bones
disheveled drooping vertebrae
c
ambered lovely death .a wrist bangled stupid colour's
finely pounded grains galloping fleet ovals
the apt pupil dodders and the sky is a *****
why today?rain
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 12:41 PM UTC
If I left the earth today, what would they say?
A few would cry.
Dry your eyes
Live on and dream for me
Carry my soul in your hearts
Make sure, that I never fade away.
Take me to a place
Where angels place seeds into the cores of pears;
Gently intertwining the juicy fibers
Into nearly perfect ovals.
Go to sleep
Don’t wake up; Don’t blink!
Rest your eyes and sleep
Sleep with me
I promise, I will always rest on your shoulder
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 4:52 PM UTC
Droplets of sweat flattened on our foreheads under the weight of a mid-August sun—flattened into ovals of sticky sodium, catching specks of stray dirt swept into the air from the passing semi’s and transport trucks, whipping the wind into torrents of chalky highway dust.
Pressed high against the skies curved plain, we used our thumbs to browse the passing cars like pages of an anthology enclosed by a narrow spine of asphalt.
But when one pulled onto the shoulder and we approached the passenger side window, we too were ****** with the expectation and appeal of a library—mutually eager in the labour of conversation for the currency of experience.
For a moment, as the prairie receded in the side mirrors, our car became the baseline of a frantic cardiogram, crowded by the landscape of rising granite walls and low-hanging canyons, and the space between our separate lives closed like parallel lines drawn by gravity to a magnetic core.
We pushed our destination west, as far as it would go, safe on the heels of expectation. In motion the passing towns crackled like neurotransmitters firing signals over axons of black asphalt. But each time the car slowed to release us, one more they faded into a rancid stasis, that, once more, we aimed only to depart.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC
Look into two ovals of blue,
Ice caps, the winter's sea, rough, vigerous, cold.
Swimming in snow, through snowflakes, through veins of blue too.
Ice on the surface but water underneath.
Drowning.
Skin white as the snow, struggling.
Waves of warmth leaving her body.
Head towards the sky, towards the air to fill my lungs.
Drenched, heavy blue jeans, weighing me down.
Pull me to peace.
Where two ovals of blue close, and sleep.
Where warmth may be found.
Dreaming of a different set of ovals.
Brown and deep that search for something more.
A hand to reach into my ovals of blue.
That finds me.
That pulls me out softly.
Gentle.
From my battle within this cold.
This desolate despair that makes no good friend.
The ice will melt.
The cold must end.
Blue eyes made of ice.
Awaken again.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
In moments such as these
My skin aches with recollection
Of how it was when passions ran high
And silence was filled with devious, knowing eyes
In moments such as these
My mind strains to find a masterpiece
Anything that will gather your attention
From the mundane distractions its lost within
In moments such as these
My questions begin in endless ovals
Pushing adrenaline and anxiety as I wonder,
"Is this really what I'm resigning my youth to?"
In moment such as these
I lie in silence searching for a revival
But now the quiet crushes me
And any eye contact is dull, disappointed, and droopy
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC