"rectangle" poems
Kaliedoscope colors, shaped as a rectangle outline of my door-
and I can't go out and see the beauty of it. A gray room,
with a blue face, laced into rushing in another pumping day.
Provoke the guilt, wilted meaning every breathing being has.
I'll leave someday, in someway, maybe not this moon fall,
but I know I can't live, thoroughly at all-
Jan 16, 2018
Jan 16, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
Lying makes a placeholder for the inevitable truth. The lie will become the truth, as a rectangle can be squeezed back into a square.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
I need to change the circles I'm in
Because I fell into the trapezoid
Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole
Making people believe I was a square
When I was really a rectangle
You just had to look at me from the right angles
The shape of things now
Is me looking at you from the wrong angles
You're pretty hot
90°
When you turn away from me your hotness doubles
180°
I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures
But if you were to turn back around
No creature could survive
360°
The paradox of the parabola in my pants
Will never be solved
It's not your math problem
We're just two points on this rotating sphere
Where time is a straight line
And our's is a segment
I wish I understood the formula
So I could predict the outcome
But there are too many variables
Leaving my head spinning in circles
And myself running in circles
Meant to be avoided
Because within those circles are triangular trials
Where two points create a perfect line
And a third point ruins that
As points are added to the population
Lines only get larger
Like the welfare line
Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex
Like the Pentagon
Lines become more easily crossed
Angles more easily tangled
And my freezing point becomes my boiling point
While I wish for a world more two-dimensional
Because once I consider depth
I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
Avert your eyes
from looking directly
at the monster.
Look only through
that reflective shield,
that glowing rectangle
that parades a
distorted vision of
the objective self,
that which in
dark moments may
suddenly shut off,
revealing one’s face:
inverted, expressionless, petrified—
like when the
mirror of Perseus
at last revealed
Medusa’s horrifying visage.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 3:19 AM UTC
In white water lilies ;
Miniature specks of radiant light
Swim in clear water of minerals, nestled by honey brown soil of nourishing elements
Engulfed by inner petals of delicate but impenetrable comfort
Transported by wise ripples along a translucent rectangle
Eager to drop off the water-fall edge of the plane
To fall as rain and unto its chosen carrier
Of whom shall be called its mother
Waiting to start developing physically after the essence of the mother's choice is fused with her very own jewel
The essence belonging to whom it will call father.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
In symmetry
and colors
a notable image..
meditative model
Hubble finding
in night sky
light years
from here
and Now..
***Science musings:
How created..?***
A creator or
creation..?
***A centered aging
binary system..?***
Polarity energy
says it all..?
The unusual shape?
Sacred geometry
expresses itself..?
A definite torus..
All Reality
and Consciousness
expressed as Torus..?
***Boundaries of cones
form an X..?***
Creation of symmetry
interconnectedness
recognized..?
***Why unusual colors
Red and Blue..?***
Left and Right
Male and Female
oppositions prevail..?
***As hydrocarbon molecules
colors building blocks
for organic life..?***
Center Light transforming
to component colors..?
***In a few million years
the Red Rectangle nebula
will probably bloom
into a planetary
nebula..***
New birth
Now announced...?
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
if i were to turn and say
hey dude i ******* hate you, kay?
(well no, of course it isn't true-)
but what d'you reckon you would do?
i'm only wondering because
you act like it'd be no loss
and insecurely, i don't know-
because you sometimes seem as though
either you think i'll never leave
or just don't care what i believe?
i'd like to say i have a line
but no, i'll just sit here and whine
while you sit there, knowing quite well
that i would never ever tell
you that i'm giving up, you see
i think that this means more to me
than you, perhaps, and **** that stings
especially recently, when things
have led your life away from mine
i know it's not your fault; it's fine-
except it's not, because i never
thought that i would have to weather
all my ugly parts alone,
you used to be just down the phone.
i never used to hide from you
and now it seems you want me to-
but i've spent years with my gun down
it's hard to pick it off the ground.
*-maybe i'll close my eyes instead
and un-remember what you said.*
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.
(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)
There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.
Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)
It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.
A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
His plumage is mostly air
And the tree is anchored in the ground
by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
I still have
your rectangle
black leather wallet,
but it is empty now:
the money notes
banked in your account,
the cards sorted,
cut up and shredded,
the loose coins given
to your chosen charity.
How lonely it looks now
without you to handle;
the leather worn
at the edges
through use
you gave,
shiny black,
silent black,
unused now,
kept as a memory
to hold onto in days
of hurt like now
and years to come.
I remember
that last Saturday
in hospital,
you took out coins,
to buy bottles of water,
to quench your thirst
and help you ***
The wallet looked full then,
bulging at the seams,
full of use and life,
held in your hands,
your fingers working
the coin zip.
Now it lays there
unused and thin,
your DNA
all over it,
worked in the seams,
the leather,
the small pocket
of the wallet.
I feel close to you
when I rub a thumb
or ageing finger
along its black
rectangle length,
the shiny worn leather,
bringing us, momentarily,
closer together.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
When it comes to strong form
When angles are always precisely norm
Grows an alluring mathematically touched creation
Inspired by pure calculated scientific divination
Such an alluring symmetry to behold
Causing the circle’s envy to unfold
For this angled beauty’s strength enforced
Its sold core mass equally divorced
It’s rigid looks captivating us all
Luring architects to its enchanting call
Ancient Greek hands carving stone shrines
Securing their beauty for all times
Its slight outer angles enduringly tease
Yearning us to brush with ease
Who came up with such design?
Was it indeed a gift divine?
However it did come to be
We all can enjoy with glee
Well all but rectangle and square
As they sulk with envious glare
Murmuring curses over hexagon’s slight curve
Endlessly plotting to mathematicians they serve
Scheme upon scheme developed to suppress
The sheer allure designed to impress
Despite all this the hexagon persists
Engaging us all in mathematical trysts
Never will we lose an eye
No matter how hard we try
For the beauty a hexagon reigns
Over the kingdom of geographical gains
Forget not what you see here
Our ancestors have made it clear
Line upon line attached in twine
Measured precisely from sips of wine
The hexagon is a wonder indeed
Allowing us our own mounted steed
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
I left my phone in the gym
What a small black rectangle
Filled with many secrets
Many unpublished poems
Many short stories of life
Many unfinished text messages
Sitting alone in my locker
Cracked everywhere but the front
With my friends and emojis
Secret new and old tumblrs
Pictures I cry when I see
Quotes I cry when I read
What a small piece of metal
To hold my life's story
Every friend, foe, lover
Every tear from sadness, laughter
All woven and intertwined
Within the circuits and wires
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
The Dying Romantic Mathematician
“Your trapezoid is vectored to a sphere”
She sighed, “and parallels are polygon.”
“All, all is perpendicular,” he coughed,
“And arcs are so rectangle to sad Pi
Equiangular in the radius
And rhombus has gone Pythagorean.
O canst thou concave the isosceles?”
“Yes!” she coplanared. “Yes!” he gasped in pain,
“Oh, yes, our love is solved for X!"
He died,
Quadratic equations upon his lips
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
The girl in the black
bathing suit swims
through my dreams;
her orange eyes warn
me that summer
is coming.
An inescapable
swelter of air
threads itself
through the slats
of picket fences,
crisping insects
and terrifying
an army of black birds
bivouacked in the trees.
I hear the soft explosion
of hibiscus, red petals as
bright as belly wounds,
and the heartbeat
of the dog panting,
stupefied by the heat
of a relentless star.
Up and down the street,
abandoned children call
out from the bottom of
empty swimming pools.
I slouch in an aluminum chair,
trying to get black-out drunk
on warm gin and tonics.
The tidy rectangle
of grass around me
ignites in a legion
of slender flames.
I remember the dark room
and my father’s deathbed,
his whispered, final words:
dying is thirsty work.
I strip to my underwear
and fantasize about ice.
I pray for the neighborhood
sprinklers to spring to life.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years
in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley
i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn
i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water tower
lording it over all
i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun
our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink
poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill's hoist with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing to silent attention
and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill
all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
It’s thirty years since I travelled back
To wander my childhood home,
To check out the trees I used to climb
And the fields where I used to roam,
I remembered the friends that used to play,
Wendy and Paul and Mark,
And the local bully that had his way
Back then, in the Boating Park.
We’d go up there on a Sunday, pay
Our money and hire a boat,
That fourpence each to the gatekeeper
Saw the three of us afloat,
Each boat had paddlewheels either side
You could turn, and stop or start,
Or spin around in a circle, just
For fun, at the Boating Park.
The Park, laid out in a rectangle
Took an hour to paddle round,
Once out of sight of the gatekeeper
The banks would muffle the sound,
We’d scream and shriek and laugh and beam
As we rammed each other’s boats,
I often thought it a wonder that
We didn’t puncture the floats.
Then over beyond the halfway mark
We lay in the shade of trees,
The sun would sink, it was getting dark
And we’d hear the murmur of bees,
We had to pass there under a bridge
And duck, for the bridge was low,
And that’s where the bully McPherson stood
On the bridge, those years ago.
He’d jeer, throw stones and catcall as we
Tried to get under the span,
Then climb and drop into Wendy’s boat
He wouldn’t have tried with a man.
He’d paddle over the further side
And make her get out of the boat,
Then paddle it back the way we came
Get out, and leave it afloat.
One Sunday I sat under the bridge
With Paul and Mark beside,
While Wendy came along on her own
As if on a solo ride,
The bully tried the very same thing
But we each pulled on his coat,
And when he came up, he couldn’t scream
For the water lodged in his throat.
He splashed about and he tried to grab
The boat, but his clothes, like lead,
Were trying to drag him down, while Paul
And Mark, they stood on his head.
Wendy had clambered up on the bank
Controlled, and well in command,
For every time he tried to get out,
She’d stamp and stomp on his hand.
The paper said it was very strange
That he must have put up a fight,
But hadn’t the strength to pull himself
Up out of the cut that night.
His hands and fingers were shredded, where
He’d tried to climb up the bank,
But the weight of his heavy, sodden clothes
Were the demons he had to thank.
I went to visit the Boating Park
It was just the way I feared,
I met up there with an older Mark,
A man with a greying beard,
He told me Wendy and Paul were dead
Weighed down with a sense of sin,
And the gatekeeper at the Boating Park
Had gone, when they filled it in.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
You trapezoid my heart
While I'm a spider who gets caught
A rhombus who rams butts...
A square who has perfect sides
A rectangle who is tall
A triangle who sometimes can cave in has pointy top
A hexagon a guy who can be edgy
A circle that has an endless loop of love care & passion
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
.
D
e e l e
l i c l
c ou c
o s o
u D e u
s l i s
D c o D
e u s e
l ~ l
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Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
I see straight lines
Binding giant rectangles to collapse
On the nature of what's below
Endless copies
Animals of asexual, mechanical, foreign disposition
I don't think I know what it means to be solid
To be perfect
But as much as I love almosts
and innocence
They're telling me to grow up now
To find a rectangle to waste away in
But my ghost wasn't meant to be form-fitted
I wasn't meant to be cubic.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
A circle.
Two enclosed in endless togetherness.
A square.
Two aligned and side to side as equals.
A triangle.
Two begun far apart destined to meet.
A rectangle.
Two beside each other through thick and thin.
A rhombus.
Two as equals leaning on each other.
A diamond.
Two joined at the sides in perfect balance.
An oval.
Two turning as one with each the focus.
A trapezoid.
Two in parallel until they converge.
Amorphous.
Two can be as unique as love makes them.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
in the corner of my room
lies there in gloom
a canvas, a mirror
of my loneliness terror
incomplete tile
with neat smile
a face of angel
on white rectangle
my beloved painting
you are feigning.
did you miss my brush
with incomplete plush?
I miss you every day
my imaginations play
when I complete you
what shall I do?
shall I look at you again?
shall I feel the same pain?
or a vivid memory
shall release my agony
will you miss my touch
or shall I miss you much?
the bond between me and you
is the only thing which is true
my beloved elf
a part of myself
incomplete feeling
colors of my healing
shall I stand through
in front of you?!
will I complete you?
or you will complete me?
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
A piece of heaven.
6.5 acre rectangle shaped land, which
situated vicinity to kozhickode mysoore
national highway.
The greenery hill view in the rear side.
Morning dawn through the hill valley.
soul catching sun rise, and cool zephyr
which pat leaves
and dancing with them,
tender leaves of tea plantation look
like green carpet.
all these salient features make once
each fraction of life to be happy
and relief
giving one…
the largest reservoir in asia
which constructed
out of mud
is situated proximity to the site.
Absolutely fit for resort.
Decide yourself!
Right now ! contact!
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
in the middle of the vast calm sea someone threw a bottle with people locked in there instead of a letter. the sea was in chaos after the bottle came. but crashing waves wavered no bottle, storms broke no tiny vessel. rather than calling it tough, the bottle fought because it was scared. no more.
escape. don't we all just want to escape from the bottle-
the suffocating bottle where you meet various people with different personalities, we never realize but we sometimes try to please.
win. don't we all just want to win the battle - the tiring battle between what kind of person you really are
a beautiful rose with thorns
from what kind of person you try to be
the circular puzzle piece for a rectangle-shaped puzzle quiz.
don't we all just wanna ruin our bottle and be who we are -stunning, unique, mysterious or what your personality is in the calm sea where you can be free
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
Remember when this used to be a bodega where you could by an egg a few cigarettes and some *******
I only bought **** there
a couple of times
I really went in there for milk or coffee
or an Entenmann’s raspberry danish in the big long rectangle.
I don’t remember the brand I smoked then
but they didn’t sell them.
The guy next door in my building had a thing for rich girls with flash cars
who would buy him clothes and other such presents
He was from the OC
and what he was doing in Brooklyn
I don’t even know
He got involved with some local
Columbians
Through the corner bodega
And of course proceeded
to date one of their women.
The OC Romeo.
Lady Lover.
Irresistible.
Pink Lacrosse shirt.
Turned up collar.
Leisure slacks.
I had to tell him once to not slap his thigh at me
When I passed him
on that corner
Posing with his newfound buddies.
And to give me back my cassette.
He tells me he left it out on the window sill
And it rained and got wet.
I said give it back anyway.
Not too long after he was gone.
Both he and his yuppie roommate
I heard he moved back to Newport Beach.
I wondered why he ran
Cuz I know he ran
Fast
I had some crazy neighbors in Hollywood
who disappeared
into the Russian night.
Someone spotted them a year later.
Playing with the wrong people.
Taking liberties.
Conning a con.
Your life really is not worth
very much
in those circles
so you’d better be quick on your feet.
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC
The displays
Half-a-commode....
salvaged from
construction-site debris, in an enclosure;
Corrugated tin...
inverted containers,
shop-floor seats, hollow from the inside;
Squashed up...
aluminium coke-cans
and bottle-lids, stashed by the dozens;
Rusting old pair...
of dented batteries -
A-class, from discarded torch lights;
Mounted rectangle...
sketch-canvas
half-a-diagonal triangle coloured black;
Foreground
Expanse of water...
mirage lit by
a deceptive lamp playing evening sun.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC