"propellers" poems
The light wraps you in its mortal flame.
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way
against the old propellers of the twighlight
that revolves around you.
Speechless, my friend,
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the ruined day.
A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment.
The great roots of night
grow suddenly from your soul,
and the things that hide in you come out again
so that a blue and palled people
your newly born, takes nourishment.
Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave
of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold:
rise, lead and possess a creation
so rich in life that its flowers perish
and it is full of sadness.
35.2k
Turtles swim swiftly in the sea
Its fins propellers from its shell
From the predators it can quickly flee
Because turtles can go in land or sea
Which makes this task quite easy
So being a turtle is pretty cool, you can tell
Being able to swim in the deep sea
And having a home that's a shell
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
i.
not bad,
i commented to myself as i watched you do your thing
for the first time ever ;
not bad was my way to say
extraordinary
still is today
i have standards, you see and —
well...
they were met when i
heard you say,
"that's only half what
i can do."
let's get this straight:
i was the best at what i do until
you came around ;
it's not like i'm mad though —
quite the opposite
in fact.
ii.
here's something else:
i have always liked the way your eyes
shot daggers
even when you were smiling ;
a death stare, they named it and, you know,
i won't call them wrong —
i'm rather fluent with the concepts of
death
and staring myself, after all.
ah,
do you remember?
when we spoke to each other —
it was always a sparring of
eyes
rather than words.
iii.
a fact:
you have been called cold
more often than
you have been called pleasant ;
i know —
it's not like you'd disagree
not like you'd be stupid enough to
deny ;
cold is a comfortable shadow
to hide in,
something people like us
wear as a coat or
a scarf
from july to june.
now,
there's this saying that the addition of
two negative objects
turns them a positive
result ;
i'm not much of a scholar so, honey,
what's on your mind?
iv.
i get it now,
if i'm propellers
you are wings —
rather than a mirror, we're
distorted reflects
a thing evolution knows
a great deal about ;
this yearning is the aspect of you
i'd wish to keep
bottled up ;
"what for?" you'd ask.
no,
yearning is not a thing
i'm a stranger to ;
i've yearned for many things including
strength
sleep
serotonin
and you —
i've been struggling
to make them mine, though
perhaps because i'm never really trying.
v.
that's how you do it:
you take what you want with
clawed hands
accomplish miracles with
thunderous silence —
an entity of cruel fairness,
icy anger but —
what you want is a complicated
thing
with definite shape to your eyes
but blurry to those of
others.
okay,
i'm neither believer nor seer but
here's a little prediction :
the day you are satisfied is the day
hellmouth
shuts down upon us all and
half of me
prays for it.
vi.
about extremes —
some will say grey is a better shade and
though i confess
it does have its charms,
it still has to paint me a picture more striking
than a soul with
adamentine purpose.
see —
i stare as you pass by,
terrific in beauty
beautiful in hardness and
off —
goes my heart, sanity, ego
and shirt.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
I cradle the thought of my soul deferring from my body, as if death were a newborn to be adored. as my efforts towards nurturing this ideal reach expiration, a broad emptiness conquers my internal being; and I fear I will drift through time unchanged. hear me, propellers are necessary in the water and legs on land- but I'm no ship, and I have ropes tying my born given feet to my hands.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
I was daydreaming about the hoverboard that was promised to me
in the sequel to Back To The Future when you big-banged my mindset
with a universe of thought that I was not ready to comprehend.
All you said was, do you think koi fish were typecast?
As if some ancient Japanese fisherman noticed that that fish in particular
was more reserved than the others. I can picture him
paddling quietly across the Caspian Sea as he notices these fish,
looks down through his own reflection and says, you seem artfully shy.
You remind me that historically and geographically speaking,
my story makes no sense. And that the fisherman would not speak English.
I remind you that at the rate we're going, we'll probably die
before we find out how this life ends.
You remind me that we're all fossils in waiting.
This was on the back porch of the house you lived at in Santa Barbara.
There was a mountain to our right and an ocean to our left.
This was in between puffs of your cigarette.
I remind you that sometimes you throw yourself out there like propellers
so I threw myself down like a launch-pad-made-for-landing-
not knowing anything about trajectory- hoping to show you
that there are some people out here who know the importance of landing whole.
You retreat to your smart phone, search Google, load a satellite image,
point to the smallest blue pixel, See that? You say.
That's Earth. Everything we will ever know happened on that dot.
I thought about Newt's completely feasible moon colony and the first moon-born human.
I thought about illegal aliens and inalienable rights.
But I didn't say anything.
We just sat there in perfect silence
like two ukuleles wanting to be acoustic guitars,
perfectly tuned, painted in moon reflection, I said, what are we doing?
And you didn't have to ask.
You knew. When I said we, I meant the species.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
The sky is
a calendar
written with the clouds
the sun smiling
day after day
the sea is
a calendar
written with isles
waves and vessels
the propellers rotating
day after day
a calendar on the table
rusty shovel
and hammer singing
paint brush dancing
day after day.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
If my heart could fly,
I’d break it’s wings,
Flee any hurt,
specifically the ones caused by me.
I’d use it so much, it’d begin to destruct,
familiar irony of my existence, and in place for its absence,
I’ll leave behind a fragile piece of mine essence
If my heart could fly, I’d never let myself belong to another
not again…
not again will I trust,
I will never trust that you wanted me here,
our love unconditional, a mere fantasy, over-looped and overplayed,
my welcome,over-stayed.
your world was never supposed to be a hotel staff, that hosted my stay
you made it very clear, my ticket of reckon is uninspired
letting me know it’s time,
time that i left your humble empire.
I never expected your love for me would spoil,
a car neglected, i never changed the oil, fixed the flat on the tire,
so on this love i’ll fly and retire.
never again will I trust. I’ll flap my wings and leave the next, so quick like i taught myself
that’s right steady and fast, never looking back, foot on gas.
anything in my grips seems to fly anyway, it never lasts.
I’d break it’s wings before it left me, and keep it in my arsenal,
for days my propellers lose fuel,
If my heart could fly , I’d give a better reputation to the foolish mule.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
In my garden is a clean little pond
Fructified by tadpoles besides tiny fish
Where water lilies bloom by day
White and violet, a lovely sight
Over it hover pairs of dragonflies
They come in plenty on summer days
When the day is bright, soon after morn
To lay their eggs on lily pads
Like helicopters, they skim up and down
With their tiny propellers coming down
Sometimes like surfers over the aqua blue,
Perform rare feats, with brisk movements
Their filmy gossamer wings glistening in sunlight
And their bulging eyes reflecting iridescent shades
If ever we try to catch one…., sensing danger
They would rocket up, as fleeting flashes of light,
Into the air…. gliding and spiraling
Even in my sixties, whenever I spot a dragonfly
My mind catches up with those memories
When as children we chased them- ‘hush hush’
Trying to trap them while they perched on a fence or pole
How delighted we were holding them between our fingers
As they helplessly shivered thrumming their filmy wings!
Making them lift small stones double their weight
In their quivering thread like hands, a huge task for them,
Had been our greatest thrill then…!
Were we sadists……??
I still wonder!
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
you told me i was an eagle
simple as that, i believed you
tied my shoelaces together
took off my shirt
jumped from the roof with you
holding my hand
you told me i was unstoppable
so i never gave up
still making propellers
out of paper mache and
over-watering the succulents
you told me you loved me
with your fingernails in
the soft young flesh of my back
you swore you weren't a liar
but we were both drunk
you wrote your phone number on my cast
you told me once
that i was a big engine
and i took it to my powerless heart
did some body work
ran screaming through the streets
roaring naked at midnight
perched on a solar eclipse
singing sinatra to a cat.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
VI
No.
These books lie.
These words and these voices and
These photographs
Hoodwink us into thinking
Titanic is really gone.
No.
It was the Olympic, dear
Baby girl Titanic is still out there
Twanging lovely cello notes
And drifting with smooth propellers.
No.
Adrift like a ghost
Is she…
**** those photographs
They feel so untrue, because in my heart
I was there
I am there.
So I am drowned?
I am facedown in the water
Gasping for a breath my
Body cannot take?
I am dead?
NO.
My boy is still alive
I am still holding his hand deep
In the sea
Blue blue ocean
If lovely girl, Titanic, has broken
I am broken too.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
It is 1943 and the world has ended as we once knew it.
I drive you to the air strip in the rain.
Purple dusky shadows slide across the strip.
I am wearing strong leather shoes with ties.
I am hoping they hold me stable.
We get out and walk towards the waiting plane.
I look back at our sturdy little Studebaker.
It pales next to the plane.
A waft of chanel rises from my neck.
Do you smell it?
We climb the ramp, you holding your luggage.
We look at each other. What do we say now?
"There will always be Portland?"
Who ever heard of the small West Coast town?
You are covered in uniform. I desperately try
to get my green leather gloves off.
I look at the small emerald ring.
At least I have something.
I want to touch your face but you scare me.
Your air force uniform and hat are so intimidating.
I hear the engines; the propellers start to turn.
A gust of air hits me and my hair is tangled.
Are you going to kiss me? Or, do I kiss you?
Stupid. Why don't we speak?
War is unreal. But, I'm going to work in a shipyard.
We already have black outs. Fear has a distinctive odor.
At least I'm not pregnant. So many women are.
They are counting on America. America is young
and full of grit and bravery and heroism.
You touch me. You are going. You kiss my cheek.
I recoil like I was slapped. Your face turns ashen.
You disappears inside the plane. I hurry done the ramp.
I hurry to our car: your car. I sit in the old brown seat.
and wait. The plane takes off. Up into a misty darkness.
I expect it to explode. I turn the ring around and around
on my finger till it hurts. I finally feel something. Pain.
I start the car and head towards the highway.
Traveling down the road I begin to relax and suddenly
I feel relief. It is over and I will go back to life again.
And you are flying into death....
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 10:55 AM UTC
Can you remember before we tripped and fell out of stride? Over-paced, the human race, our twelve-hour clock wound up tight with our world moving two days too fast.
Can you imagine a world with dirt roads and infrequent cars? Silence from the propellers of planes with air so pure, crisp and free from the fumes of exhaust and burning fuel that continues to fill our atmosphere at an extraordinarily fast-paced race to the end before we can even enjoy the beginning?
I dream of going back to such a place, building these dreams and grand illusions in my mind from the stories of my elders and great ancestors of old times.
When working was nothing about sitting at an office desk or making the most salaried income in this hectic life of no rest.
When mornings were spent gratefully tending to the fields and afternoons to the flocks. When in between, you let your eyes rest as you lay on fresh hay bales using only the sun's shadows as your clock.
When nights were filled with belly laughter and passionate kisses creating harmony with nature's own chirps of crickets and coyotes making sweet symphony to the skies; to Mother Moon herself and to the Great One hidden from our eyes.
A time of ease and inner peace amongst our day's hard work. Where the silence of zen in utmost meditation's only disturbance is of nature herself... A dragonfly zipping across your line of view... a horsefly buzzing around your ear... The bark of a pup or the sly movements of the cat as he makes his way into your garden to mess with your plants...
A world where your surroundings are as vastly colored as the most glorious sunset sky of orange, fuchsia, peach and yellow rainbow-dipped flowers, sending their love in sweet floral aroma as you breathe in; lifting your head, heart and chest in joyful adoration as your eyes glance in reverence to the heavens up high.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
To be a lawyer is not a difficult pursuit,
To be an astrophysicist
is not a complex occupation.
To be an actor,
To be a general,
To be a professor of the most mesmerizing numbers,
of the most perplexing and alien symbols...
Is not confusing in the least.
For with the right ambition
and a mind with but simple intuition,
Nearly anything is within our reach.
But there is something that is not so simple.
We can put men living men in the heavens
and map the deepest trenches under the propellers of our ships.
And although we can replace a liver
and syphon off entire rivers
A cloudy clump of confusion sits upstairs...
Lying in the dusty attic with a chain woven through
the rafters 7 billion times.
A courageous cacophony of credence and passion
That physically sits just behind our eyeballs
in a wrinkly gray sack that laughs at us
every time we try and break that chain that keeps
our eyes fixed forward.
Fixed far away from the very source of soul that makes
sense to no one but ourselves.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
All the cannons, all the smoke, early sunrise coming,
Scattered all about the landscape, men and boys lay dying,
Staining all the grass and meadow, blood on grass is showing,
Once again another day when young boys now are dying.
Fresh-faced babies, gathered in crowds, come to test their mettle,
Full of dreams and evening strolls, while whistling bullets flying,
Recalling days of past, short youth, none came here with dreams,
Planes with bombs and propellers sounding, war is now a flying.
Marching madness, ground war mounting, hear the babies crying,
Holding shoulders high and fast, this meadow will be knowing,
For every blade of grass we see, the color green will be removing,
So, now proud solider, with head held high, begins now a crying.
The undertaker, this busy man, will begin to build the coffins,
While taking youth and squandering souls, bodies not lay lying,
What will be done and who must die, when giving all they have residing,
Deep within, and made of wood, there lies the road of coffins.
More come soon, these fresh-faced children, ready to **** another,
Brother on brother, and unknown youth, will **** without shying,
No one know the mental mind when killing is now the sporting,
Girls at home, so pinning worth, will console one another.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
I, the bird, to this marine world
looked back up at the bastion of mine
from a new perspective.
The brass propellers,
the ‘streamlined’ shape of the beast,
seemed insignificant, to the beasts of God below.
I insignificant,
out of place,
in a way that awed a part of me
A vortex of swelling frigidity replaced the air of my world,
I spit out the tube
lurched back to my reality
My scape.
I saw the bright yellow
pale blue, above,
and a squadron of orange tipped tubes floating
about the rippling white capped sea.
The pearl again white, and pure.
The Voices fluttered about, and grins were sent our way.
I looked inside for my knot of fear,
it dissipated,
impossible to reassemble as dry sand.
water drained from my tube
outstanding figures below were gone.
All that was left was the shadow of the boat,
a couple dozen still to my rear approaching.
But the serenity and rush were gone.
The perception of the sea’s attitudes on my weak flesh,
the fear of the unknown,
vaporized like boiling ice.
The whole experience lost, and replaced.
Urgency lost, I floated about on the plane between two of God’s worlds.
Neither of which we truly understand.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
givin' a shout out
to all the young fellas
chasin' cheddar
Clenched fist on the berretas
cuz im go getter
like my hoes wetter
than the average twist
Up the meanest cabbage
born a savage ill die a savage
these are just
the tales from the hood g
Some how i thought it would be
Easy in this life boy i was wrong
But outkast built in me
no phonies on my block
we all had to knock
a hustle drugs n thangs for the struggle
we got switches n dead bodies in the dit ch es
some time my minds
spins faster than helicopter
propellers
aint neva chased a yella-
bone phone home back to my hq
Yellowstone
soon cuz i feel the doom
sealin' my death soon
boom
there i go into another dimension
with all my past folks
blowin' smoke
sayin' jokes
we havin a good time
kick a good rhymes
feelin o so fine
drinkin' jew red wine
no body cant come between
my happiness
if ya know what i mean
aint no hate but i got hate
to all haters
watch me catch a gun in they pate
but thats reality
friends turn to foes i suppose
???
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC
The coral reefs are colored Christmas lights, decorating the ocean with color and light.
The top of the water is glass, reflecting and capturing all of the Sun’s light.
The sand is wet cement, squishy and soft, allowing foot prints to walk and mark on top.
The fish are elegant ribbons on a dream catcher, swishing and swooshing around the ocean.
The old sluggish turtles are molasses, slowly making their way through the deep, salty sea water.
The boat propellers scouring through the water are knives, splicing through the water as if it were butter.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I remember how slow
time flew in my
boyhood days
when everything was
unsophisticated, uncomplicated,
when a joke was a joke
that lasted days on end,
when a walk down the street was endless
And besides,
you felt as if an ice-cream cone
was so enormous
that it would take you
an hour to eat
And greeting a friend
became frozen in time
and somewhat endless
In fact, almost every act in life
was set in slow motion
for just like you,
we were flying through life,
at that time,
just with little propellers
But like you and so many others
we ate of the tree of knowledge
thus expanding our vision
A vision that hasten our life
and accelerated us
into adulthood as time quickened
Now greeting a friend is like eating
at a fast-food restaurant,
not quite remembering
fully what was said
and even listened to
An ice-cream cone has emotionally
dwindled to the size of a thimble
and passes our
taste buds so quickly
we can't remember when we
started and when we finished...
And like those sophisticated air jets...
for all
time
flies.. towards oblivion...
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
The wackiest debacle of spoof-esque and entirely haphazard manipulation is profound and wholly visible whilst seeing tradition being drowned and beaten oh so violently at the many spindle-thread-thin hands of progress.
Unknown etymologies spring into the air then fall approximately six-feet down and initiate rearward propellers and jets that're (in place of a better single word) one after another, in order to breathe.
And I learn
And I learn
And I learn
I appropriate and accumulate, store and enunciate, words that contemplate at any rate and though this senseless, nonsensical, principle poetry does destroy me by poison or curse or by noisy disperse, I continue to spite and despite my deriding exciting writing for those and they who've no forte or way nor say for both the beauty and ugliness of language and textual perfection.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Back to part two
O ya thought i was through
Im not through with you
Break down your crew
Leave em stuck like glue
No clue
My mind surpasses the highest IQ
Of the wisest scientist
Aint no defyin' this im ludicrous
But at the same time perilous and mysterious
Watch how quick my reaction bust
Im a demi god evil as ******
My syndication thicker than
Louisana fog my mind jogs
Faster than the speed of light
Blast through rhymes like a rocket flight
That means outta space
Get it naw forget it
By the time u catch on you'll
Be admitted
IN ICU
Doing intensive surgery and the clergy
Prepared for ya weak will an.eulogy
My philosophy is embraced with agony
Suffering n pain i go against the grain
Harder than *******
In the pauper neighborhood
You wish you could
Flow like me like mike everybody
Wanna be like me picture me
On mt olympus spittin' flows ridiculous
Even had the dead hearing us
rolling in graves
My fiery tongues leave ya skin scorned
And grazed like in the last days
Urgin' for ya soul to be saved
Im not well behaved
I radiate the sun with my own beam rays
******** go astray everday they jam K
But dont know im a protege of him
So they just lay
Low waiting for my.blow
hit ya harder than tyson combined with tsunami in japan
Makin' money that surpasses the average man
King Solomon heir entice terror of the new era
Step into my cage i dare ya
I go through propellers without touchin'
Double clutchin'
My grips on money so it aint nothing
Always into something
Like nwa all for gun play
Im the seed of demon feedin' on your territorial region
Leave your country bleedin'
I was banned from the garden of Eden
Who do you believe in??
God or me none can pass me
Blast me and I'll split up to three
I'm trinity
God the father and the son the dangerous
One infinite continuum
By the time you'll figure out
You'll still he lost in my magnificent
conundrum
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
On an open field
they would land
magnificent godlike machines
like fortresses they would stand
as if built there by ancient kings
reaping profit off villagers’ toils
Shaped like cones
They were layered like ships
Having decks for each purpose
And openings
only where openings were needed
The top decks were ventilation
Huge propellers circulated the air
Also
They were used for steering
Like top mounted rutters and blades
Cutting the air
Allowing the crew to breathe
On the middle decks
Even when they went into space
The lowest deck held the great magnets
Powered by inductive force
A manually produced electricity
Enabling the ship to repel
Any surface on Earth or moon
And hover like a carion bird
Waiting for its prey to die
One day
There were hundreds in the sky
Magnificent temple like structures
A mystery how they would fly
But they ruled the air
Like gods
Wielding invisible fire
And reversing
The forceful pull from the Earth
In the streets
men would fall to their knees
in thousands
food and water would spoil
in minutes
infected
they did not have time to pray
before buildings would crumble
yet there was no fire
only a blast
and oblivion to follow
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
By Joseph Childress
I'm not afraid of heights
I'll get high
Just to prove it
My wreck-less-ness
Should let you know
What's expected
Resting miles above danger
Enjoying the unexpected
My lack of uncontrol
Is enough to annoy
Those aiming for control
I own
A random nature
Mixed with structures
Of my choosing
I'm losing
The laws of physics
Being lifted
In the physical
Living on a plane
That lands on open lanes
Yet prone
To being blown
From pressure on it's propellers
The dwellers of trenches
Are perched on their benches
The field of clouds
Are for those out
Making yards out of inches
Taking chances
Dancing
On top of storms
Learning
To dodge the lightning
And living above the norm
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
Mending
by Michael R. Burch
I am besieged with kindnesses;
sometimes I laugh,
delighted for a moment,
then resume
the more seemly occupation of my craft.
I do not taste the candies;
the perfume
of roses is uplifted
in a draft
that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans
that spin like old propellers
till the room
is full of ghostly bits of yarn ...
My task
is not to knit,
but not to end too soon.
This is a poem for the survivors of 9–11 whose families lost loved ones in the terrorist attacks. Keywords: 911, survivors, victims, first, responders, passengers, firemen, police, heroes, terrorist, attacks, World Trade Center, Flight 93, Pentagon, White House
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 9:51 PM UTC