"panels" poems
In Anaheim the ultimate celebration begins,
People traveling from all over with fat grins
Luke, Leia, 3PO, R2
Autographs, merchandise, cosplay too.
Tattoos, nerd dating, panels and games
Sea of Slave Leias and other costumed dames
Everything you’ve ever wanted and more
This is the place you’re looking for
Fly solo, or come with family and friends
Party like a Jedi until the festivities end
From Lost to Disney, thank you JJ
Star Wars is back in a big bad way
Fans rejoice, happiness deep as a Sarlacc pit
There’s been an awakening, can you feel it?
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
611
I see thee better—in the Dark—
I do not need a Light—
The Love of Thee—a Prism be—
Excelling Violet—
I see thee better for the Years
That hunch themselves between—
The Miner’s Lamp—sufficient be—
To nullify the Mine—
And in the Grave—I see Thee best—
Its little Panels be
Aglow—All ruddy—with the Light
I held so high, for Thee—
What need of Day—
To Those whose Dark—hath so—surpassing Sun—
It deem it be—Continually—
At the Meridian?
12.6k
Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree. This bollywood wedding saree is beautified with resham thread embroidery on pallu portion and panels of the saree.Shimmer embroidered patch patti is placed at border of the saree add extra beauty to the saree. Blouse pattern shown in image is only for photo shoot purpose. Ara Priyanka Chopra Beige net Saree color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for you
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree. This bollywood wedding saree is beautified with resham thread embroidery on pallu portion and panels of the saree.Shimmer embroidered patch patti is placed at border of the saree add extra beauty to the saree. Blouse pattern shown in image is only for photo shoot purpose. Ara Priyanka Chopra Beige net Saree color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for reference.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
Saturday.
what a glorious time of week.
laundry hangs on the clothesline,
the ghosts of the week left to dry
as we softly stare out the window, chalky panels
between crusting paint. Attempting to
listen to the silence,
muffled by words, we discussed
a day free of demands, and the boy
in his blue shirt, with his ball.
If I were to wish anything on anyone
it would be a year full of
Saturdays.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
He owns the solar panels on a thousand hills
He knows all the satellites by name
He knows when every laptop crashes
He has cheats codes for every video game.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
At the defense proposal
I was convinced
I would make it through
The proposal in my hand,
Months of preparation,
mentally, physically, loaded brain...
Well prepared I was for this judgement day
A little over confident, perhaps....
In the life of a Phd candidate
This is the true battle of Academia
Whether you'd be at the top
or you would be shot dead
The honorable Panels will decide...
The moment you utter a sentence or two..
Continuous attacks from the left and right
endlessly..... till you have your head
buried in the ground
Again you wake up and strike again
This is your war....
Defense is war.. the war of life
the moment of truth
the battle of a doctorate student everywhere
Research Objectives, Research Questions,
The Signification of research
and the Implication, the contribution of this study
SO WHAT?
One by one was being detailed, scrutinized and questioned
Dear panels,please be kind
Was patiently coping with your brutal attacks
Head held low, head held high...
Nearly had a stroke,
But I refused to die...
Thank you dear panels,
my courteous smile for you...
I'd be back,
You'd see me again,
When I counter attack....
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Her mind is an observatory.
A really fun one. You know,
With rock candy at the entrance,
And a gift shop full of unique keepsakes.
Like compassion.
And warmth.
And when you step inside,
Her constellations are painted upon the dome ceiling,
Telling a story only visible
To those willing to connect the dots.
A story of glowing blues
And scattered specks
Of burning red,
With a dark void
Occupying the gaps
You so desperately wish to fill.
She has an entire solar system
Inside of her,
Hidden within the stars.
A heart as gold as the sun.
A soul as old as she wants.
And when she speaks,
You fall in love.
Because you don't have a choice.
Her voice echoes amphetamines
Along the walls of my skin.
Her smile shines
Like the crooked panels
On every straight paved sidewalk
I've ever known.
And when I look into her eyes,
The universe stares back.
I think she's a goddess.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
Winter break my boyfriend and I Drive downtown.
He buys incense
lets me pick out my favorite smell.
Coconut.
We get in the car
he lights a stick and hands it to me.
The smoke flipping over in the air,
rounding like winged bats.
I breathe it in as he turns the car wheel.
Twist the scents
between my fingers,
watch as the air fills with
pipe cleaner smoke.
Wiggling,
Convulsing.
The next week my
Ex-boyfriend decides
he loves me again.
Pulls me over at a party,
beckons me to sit on the stairs.
He tells me he loves me
through drunk tongue
and I watch the wooden panels
begin to twist and curve,
tug at my tattered limbs
until I am sitting.
He pulls my arm towards him,
asks me to love him again,
asks me why I don’t.
I think of the incense
as he pulls me closer,
the delicate flips of smoke,
the moment only a smell can give you.
I breathe in and can taste the coconut,
he pulls me into him,
the coconut smell,
our two bodies,
his lips singing to kiss mine,
but I think of the coconut.
Breathe in,
twist my fingers,
leave.
©DelaneyMiller
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
When I think of the future,
I cannot grasp the thought of a career.
But, I think of a kitchen with wood panels, windows, and a few too many plants.
Of sitting in the rain, watching the sky turn dark.
I think of a symphony in the trees.
I think of saying I love you.
Of all the different ways I could say, I love you.
I think of taking your fist in mine and kissing it, because they say its the size of your heart.
Of a gentle touch with an attempt to take your pain away.
I'll repeat it a million times until I lose my breath, I love you.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.
On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.
He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and
he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
4.3k
Behind the building,
a one hundred percent green certified building
an amazing feat of engineering-science-forward thinking
fabulously energy efficient cutting edge building
sit solar panels in the sweltering heat,
extra heat from the toxic clouds in the sky
which now envelop the Earth
There, under the panels sit a small band of sheep, who represent the
last little bit of progressive wonderfulness
visionary design and research based and proven
and the future because they eat the grass
and there is no need to use toxic fume producing
loud unnatural unsustainable lawn mower
But the grass is long dead.
It is just white and yellow and there are lambs
baby sheep who sit and pant underneath the
sustainable solar panels without a decent meal
in sight. Only stalks and yellow deadness
I suggest vitamins or supplements
after all there is no grass, only grass out
that is watered sustainably and is carefully fenced off
from the living sheep underneath the dead panels
behind the dead building.
Outrage from the forward thinking cutting edge
Wi-Fi custodians of the cement and metal building and panels,
panels that emit a high pitched hum
from a hot metal box and regulate the CO2 in each room automatically
The sheep are there to eat the grass
if you feed them, even to make them healthier
so that they may get up out of their hot suffering
and eat some stalks in addition to a little bit of supplemental feed
they will not eat the dead grass, and they are there to eat the grass
they are not there to be comfortable or healthy they are just sheep
But sheep are only living non human feeling beings
and not part of the forward thinking cutting edge metal and cement
technology that is worth a lot of money and was written up
in the paper and got the custodians attention and recognition.
And they are just suffering, hot, miserable animals
and despite all of our technology, Mars landing
solar panels to electricity advance thinking technological wonders
our compassion and empathy remain tight and selfish
and the dead things, not the living ones, are what we value
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
dirt and grime
line the bottom panels.
worn down,
worn out, but
war ready.
an orange-tan tint
on old suede.
an elegant design with
thick rubber soles.
the cushion of leather
around the brim.
thin,
yellow-amber laces.
sleek and comfortable
yet
tough and durable.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
Building new fences
Panels become barriers
Guarding raw senses
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
Without legitimate occupancy,
Adverse possession is the legal right
Of anyone who moves in and maintains
A property, so here's the deal. We must
Move in to 1600 Penn,
The current tenant having broke the lease.
The caravan from Guatemala first, Hondurans trudging slowly from the depth.
Then the Yemen children not yet murdered,
Those with preexisting conditions next,
And women whose assaults were ridiculed,
Those roughed up by cops and politicians.
Losers in the war on drugs, the big house
Having far exceeded capacity.
The mentally ill, discarded by the
Great communicator after he tore
The Solar panels off the roof. This is
Anger, not poetic license. When a
Long train of abuses and usurpations
Evinces a design to reduce them
Under absolute Despotism, it
Is their right, it is their duty to throw
Off such Government, and to provide new
Guards for their future security. Such
Has been the patient sufferance of these
And such is now the necessity which
Constrains them to alter their systems of
Government. And journalists under fire,
If there's room still left in the briefing room,
Let facts be submitted to a candid
World.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
Glitters and red meters
givers and received perceivers
usher the gift of illusionary display
vision all the aspects of reality
Signal the surreal posts on trees
yank and spotlight my dreams
walk and split the glass panels
wagon us from societal ice
Glitters and red masks
course every vein of our being
pour the red wine and misplace
protrude every nautical sense
Read my palm, contact the wizard
grab my sight, take me to the moon
contactless,eventful and tasteful
contactless, easy and resourceful
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
TW: suicide / cancer / brutal imagery
july isn't a good month for me
it is a collection of all the things
i have had taken away. it is a
bitter winter chill through a
summer i do not get to enjoy.
july is lonely.
it breaks apart all the other months
like a pack of werewolves; it is
their alpha and i have six months
before everyday is a full moon
and my legs are tired of running
from it. i have six months to
enjoy the fresh scent of crisp air,
to feel the iciness of snow without
shivering through my skin. i try
to break out of this body, try to
knit myself a new one out of
preloved sweaters hoping their
stories will become my own so that
i may have a july worth talking about.
suicide happens all year round but
your suicide happened in july and
has happened every month in my
mind since. i have lost count of the
way i try to contact you to say
i'm sorry.
maybe my spiritual journey wasn't
my own; i convince myself the
universe will show me your face again
one day and i hope it is not in july.
people suffer from cancer throughout
everyday of the year but you suffered
in july. i watched the sunset through
hospital windows, smelt more chemicals
than fresh flowers, held back more
tears than my throat knew how to
swallow. has anyone ever drowned
without being submerged in water?
i have.
i imagined cracking my skull off the
glass confining you to this ward, to
this smell of microwave meals and
this buzzing of machines echoing
like an emergency and my heart is
on standby, i imagined it would give
the ward some colour because i am
so sick of seeing white.
and this july
this july,
i hold your hand as your treatment
continues. i do not feel the sun on
my face because you cannot feel it
on yours. i watch the sunset through
windows. carry the bodybag of my
soul around in "i'm fine" and "i'm okay."
i don't think my voice could drip
with any more sadness as i envision the
words cascading down glass panels
hoping if i spell it out for the world
to see, someone will stop and ask me
why i hate july, or at least,
if i'm okay.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.
Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
bored faced, roaming the neon panels
I've got my backpack & wallet
I've got my self
25% off faces looking bored at me
weird convo's about the government
and TV shows litter the bell jar mall
the mannequins look down at me
bored faced janitor
bored faced mom & kids
bored faced teenager working the CD store
the infinity mall echoes
a muffled boredom roar
the mall is everything to everyone
"whatever you want"
"how can I help you"
I want to go home right now
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
I listen to the words of tv hosts
trying – or maybe just pretending – to analyze
topical issues of the day in depth
on their panels with certified experts on the issue
yet in the end mostly remains a host of possibilities
rarely a clear decision
more seldom even a provocative conclusion
one could at least start arguing about
what happened to well-structured arguments
that did not lend themselves to fuzzy readings
but had a recognizable opinion at their core
challenging viewers to discuss some more?
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
When I said you could think of me as your therapist,
I meant, could you leave the room and I’ll make notes?
Allow me to turn
Watching you leave
Into a profession.
Mind you, I’m pretty good at this job.
There’s the creaking of the floor panels
Under your converse,
The jingle jangle of car keys
In your back pocket,
And the death-like glow of light bulbs
Seeping through the door hinges
Of when you exit.
But you didn’t notice any of this.
You hardly broke a sweat.
Meanwhile,
On the other side of the room,
My tears are stars
And the sound of your departure
Has me painting
Galaxies
On my cheeks,
Turning my chest into steel
Until you’ve convinced yourself
That God locked this heart in a cage.
Don’t worry (I know you don’t),
I am built for this,
For your soapy self
Slipping in and out of my life.
And it will happen again.
See?
I have my notepad with lists of
Heartbreaking theories and
Scientifically correct ways
Of sending you off.
And when I will,
Know that it’s just
What every good therapist does.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
there is a certain liminality to airplanes
even the ones now fixed to the ground,
all museum tours and rot held at bay,
for a while.
yearning for the strain of metal,
a voice calling out safety procedures
(don't tamper with or disable the smoke detector in the lavatory),
and someone who loves them to come back to brush
knowing hands, since gone to claws, over their instrument panels.
in the air there doesn't seem to be a good reason
for planes not to tilt,
tilt down inexorably,
till they kiss the earth again.
all crumpled aluminum and fire
and a small black box
to tell those we left on land
some of how it happened.
I can tell myself about physics and engineering,
about this being my second flight today,
and about how (if nothing else) I made it onto this plane.
the turbulence pays me no mind.
touching down, touching ground, it hesitates.
there's a ghost of movement still.
a waiting. a breath.
the rush of air and engines,
not gone so much as paused,
halted only for a moment.
I am a little afraid of flying
but I'm more afraid of moving on
moving past this moment,
all muscled grace and limbo,
a portion of earth held up in sky.
then we land and walk to baggage claim
while behind us the airplane-
the airplane holds.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC