"rotor" poems
Every day.
The everyday.
You see it every day.
The twitch and reel and marble movement
As turgid blood surfaces to face,
Flows to operate stiff shoulders.
Backs hunch as soon as they're alone.
And they are alone.
Surrounded by lovers that
Love in word only.
They chew their nails and cross their ankles.
Uncross.
And look around.
Spring. Could you imagine?
Gear, wire. Did he say?
Bolt, frame. Isn't he?
Ratchet. And then what did he say?
Screws.
Rotor.
A bunch of ****
Oil.
Oil.
Oil. Oil. Oil.
Plug in.
Silence.
It moves.
We move a head in times of
Strain. To signify
Exact measures.
Twist on axis
With perfect posture.
Unnoticed frameworks bar our days.
We are brass.
The more crass are silver, gold.
And the days are polish. Or maybe sand.
Soon there are no mistakes.
The veneer cakes without flaw.
We do not acknowledge.
We are not caught.
For little hours though, there are kinks.
Pauses.
Errors.
Open the clockwork face.
What is stuck?
A look around.
The gears that grind us to cognition
Are jammed by a fly-body
Of soul.
Soon, soon, sooner than ever
It will be crushed.
So gears might continue,
Might make room for the everyday.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
I held his hand firmly on the fairground.
There were ferris wheel and rocking boat
even a flying saucer
of rides worth a few pennies
but the boy embracing that unlucky age
had his eyes stuck on the shining silver blue
beaming behind the sparking glass
full with rotor blades ready to take off
dreaming a ride to the sky
past the high tent of the circus
over the tallest coconut tree
into the haze of stars
where to only lonely pilots could fly
for being loved and understood
and not questioned for the cracked voice
for the thin hairlines on upper lip
for glancing at the girls
but inducted into the team of thirteen
for perpetually traversing between stars
on free rides into freedom
worth a lifetime.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
Cotton is everywhere,
it's on the ground;
in the ditches,
all brown and soggy like
wet hairballs; in the wheel wells,
the rotor tiller;
the SNAPPER'
the squash;
your wife's ********
tingling her constantly;
the speedometer,
the pulled pork,
collards,
mashed potatoes
and most definitely
the gravy;
it's in the eyes,
makes them red
and explosive,
it's in the dark loam
and gloam; the unwashed streetlights,
the blue dark
and even bluer
lampposts in the middle
of fields black as oil;
the pink sun,
white clapboards
and redwood siding
of that burned-out homestead;
the cotton is everywhere;
thrown up by the slaves;
a ceiling made just for
February lovelessness
as I pull on my Marlboro
and crook my arm
like the cornices of a power station.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
My father a medic in Vietnam
for many years refused to wear
his wedding ring because he said
of countless times he had to handle
the aftermath of soldiers jumping
out of helicopters at the exact
moment their wedding rings caught
on protruding bolts or couplings,
leaving their fingers and rings
aboard Hueys while they fell
caterwauling in air below crimson
contrails dissolving in rotor wash
only to land, godforsaken,
in flooded rice paddies,
shocked and shaken, disjointed
but alive, forever joined in holy
matrimony to far-flung wives.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
I bored a hole through the rock of resistance
lining the base of my heart
oh the terrible pain -
with the rotor blade of hardened resolve,
to heal, to heal,
until I have reached my soul:
look - the waters of love -
they gush over.
Sweet waters of love,
To heal both you and me.
This axe wound on my trunk
is sore not all by you:
In the dead of the night
I welcomed the shadowy woodcutter;
Now I find recompense.
But now, sweet waters of love,
from the soul -
to heal both you and me.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
I love it when Lisa and I take our show out and, on the road,
like this twilight helicopter flight, from New Haven to LaGuardia.
I’m so excited about tonight, it’s possible that I might implode.
The rotor blades started twirling, our luggage had been stowed,
the pilot asked Lisa. “Ready for takeoff?” Lisa grinned saying, “Let's go!”
He gave her a quick and crisp salute and the engine noise started to grow.
As we went wheels-up, the whirly-birds warning lights began to strobe.
Yep, It’s the start of November recess and we’re changing our zip code.
We rise like a balloon, at first, until the harbor comes into view.
The engines were screaming like jets, when the whole world turned askew,
I’ve done numerous take-offs like this, but it still feels like I might spew.
Above the rear cockpit window, there’s an air-speed indicator that looks like a clock.
With a quick turn over Yale’s campus, we’re going 90 as we steak over the docks.
As we ascend into the night, the twinkling lights of New Haven seem to shrink.
We’re swiftly gaining altitude, this quivering contraption, moves faster than you’d think.
As the red numbers settle at 260, the vibrations have all but ceased,
The engine noise is gone as well, as we race up, in the darkness and out over the sea.
I try not to think of the inky black water, how far we would fall and how quickly we’d sink.
Long Island Sound glittered, like fractured glass, under the waxing crescent moon.
The forever-blue sky was hosting a large, fake-star, because Venus was glowing there too.
That dark almost-orbit was prettier than the infinity-of-lights we’ll see on Park Avenue.
We’ll be meeting Peter’s flight from Geneva - a surprise - he doesn’t have a clue.
As the lights of New York become pronounced, so does my excitement that he’ll be around.
I’m sure we’ll get a moment of quiet intimacy at the LaGuardia international arrivals lounge.
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
the car outside. you in your plain clothes;
I solemnize over this slow hill of flesh
when you lay down after the dredge.
it was your old automobile. somewhere in the
console, piping in the shell of night, your once
swift-footed self.
it was for Mico, you said.
this thing of time that was once early.
you in your white shirt with blotches of
yellow, like some aureole-bitten lip of bougainvillea.
some cold smitten flitter peering out
of the window of your gray head, your sage,
prattling about its conscious footing, this automobile.
are we but disputes and all that sense,
eluding us? somewhere in Malolos, the fatigued
machinery with its lilting rotor
modulates a once wild memory:
you, still in your white shirt. two bodies
drained of inertia – otherwise occupying song and silence,
our volition nothing but jarring (unmindful of its scathing dialect),
our terms to ourselves fabulated, the savannah drunk
in dappled light that evening – in front of the hospital,
mum as a nurse.
you pass on the keys to him,
learning new language. by the thousand strophes
of this lurching sea with its plodding delay,
your once bright bone, quickening in slow delight
now, as his face obscures yours with wonderment,
this evening – both of you in your denims,
all three of us in a huddle stamped
with heavy understanding.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
It was raining on us, like a cartoon,
just us, and it was hard to hide
when we got outside, as it dumped.
Yet still, no one noticed— which was nice—
when we were sitting
soaking wet in class.
Clear the little storm cloud from your head.
The world doesn’t work that way,
but as sure as water— vapor or droplet—
falls from the laws of physics,
the pilot of a helicopter
could park his firefighting *** right on top of us.
I couldn’t blame him, we burned like wildfire,
but I can still hate him for shouting,
“Told ya it wouldn’t work out!”
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
words enter to my mind
empty and useless
incapable of producing
the proper empathy
necessary for nites like these
powerless platitudes
rattle between my ears
as the echo of rotor blades
hover over the homes
of a quite city in mourning
watery eyes are afflicted
with double vision
aching for sleep
yearning for rest
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Ten years in a fenced cage under the Nile
restrained from the dense of the fish
raided in eventful motions and constraints
disused from the beautiful living existence
miles of glories and hails of mysteries
the waters swallowed and the hollows
borrowed cries and ails of gloomy sails
green flashes, trances minced and hissed
transpiring the intuitive caskets of energy
the fanning rotor roared harder and wider
further down beyond the extension of being
colluding, protruding deeper and within
cutting lateral slices of time and space
matting the unknown on disused walls
where illegible and delible oaths lays
hidden on rocks and cracks by crooks
As we sat invisible, affixed... telling tales
Ten years now unfenced, flying over the Nile
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Ian rules the skies, or so he thinks.
He sweeps, swoops and flies.
Ian flies high, but often sinks.
This chimp thinks he is a master of the skies.
Wind strong, gusty and more east.
#Ianthechimp eyes up his strong launch stance.
Paragliding wing is placed in full view of the beast.
The beast, the east, sees his chance.
With gusto, malice and a cheeky blast.
The east wind has no regret.
Ian, launch, lifted as he is turned fast.
Words wafted up high ... OH ****
A wild swing as the chimp holds rake.
The beastly east tries some more.
One eye closed, Ian applies brake.
East is beaten, Ian is secure.
Yet the east, the beast, lies at height wait.
Ian climbs out of Cayton Bay.
The wind is hiding high with lifty bait.
Ian takes the leaving line, refusing to stay.
The beast announces himself with malice.
Ian regrets his cross country aim.
Losing speed and height palace.
Reach for Filey Brigg, or run without shame.
Turn, aim home and fly fast.
The beast has one more trick.
Return to the bay with turn last.
He hits the paraglider like a brick.
Wobble, rotor, accelerated flight.
A return to the safety of the bay.
To land on top would cause fright.
****** that Ian, beach landing with obey.
What have we learnt about the beastly east.
With its mean, malice and playful unfun.
Don't challenge, else decease.
Play in the air, climb and top land shun.
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 6:27 PM UTC
The finest of intricacies,
Clung firmly upon thy wrist,
Harmonious,
Motion drives that beating heart,
It's man who stirs that rotor,
A skeleton of the sturdiest of bones,
Amongst, that movement lay,
Gear's spun all so elegantly,
The very composition of your complexities,
A fluent waltz between man and mechanism,
Interdependence,
Oh what admirable craft of a God.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC
I promise i will sacrifice all my life .
so that God may encore me your vision rife .
i will renounce at all thing and glare lastly true.
so that i may embark with you all life through .
and those dream sweet breezes that murmur love !
those times since past and nothing but your vision is above .
my nights are empty and damp as rime about cleft .
but days at wake, i feel like from this dream something left.
i have never stopped to remember the Lyre of your voice .
and for only true at hand as heaven above your are my choice .
you might not have allured me into that passionate of dream !
you might not have sailed me about love into that stream .
for long days elapsed since and i think you tricked me as perpetrator .
and, it was over since but your image keeps in my mind as rotor .
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Whirlybird of gazing views
on rotor's you whispers
on the breeze like a hummingbird.
Hovering static as if ready to
pounce,
but alas you descend.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Unskilled Rotor-Tiller Tiller of the Soil
Plough Monday was by-passed some weeks ago
The Virus of Many Names kept me abed
And then the snow and ice kept me inside
And then – indolence, indolence, okay?
But today, oh, today!
The morning was fresh and cool and damp and still
I wheeled the tiller into the garden patch
Fresh gasoline, then primed the little bulb
And turned the red plastic lever just so
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And said bad words
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And snarled bad words
And pulled the cord –
Pow!
For smoke and fire
And noise – hooray!
Then forward the tines
The tines at first bounced off the new green grass
I pulled the smoke and noise machine back, back
And held the smoke and noise machine in place
And wrestled it, pinning it to the earth until
It bit into the grass, the bright spring grass
And hurled it back, and then some earth, and more
And still more earth, sweet earth, the nourishing earth
Flung up and out and back again, and down
And there the earth must rest for a few weeks
Then to be turned again, sweet and warm
To receive the ready seeds of happy new life
And join in the miracle of Creation
And in the summer when the soft breezes blow
Zinnias and sunflowers and wild marigolds
Will lift their heads and sing hymns to the sun
And bees and hummingbirds hum the “Amen”
And in those days I will speak kind words
To them all, and study rotor-tillers no more
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 10:15 PM UTC
The time has come.
Soft silk shirt
unbuttoned.
Lacey *******
slid from
the skin I want.
I dive in tongue first.
Let you scratch my back
as I latch on like a lamprey
feeding on your juices
plunging deeper.
I hope you’re a screamer.
As I slither to and hither
twirling my tongue
like a cheerleader’s baton
or a helicopter rotor
around and around
with such frenzy
till you gasp fiercely
and squirt me.
Then I return to taste
your flesh,
trace your breast
with gentle brush strokes
caress your neck
and nibble your earlobes.
Then when you shiver again
I’ll send my soldier down under.
That up and ******
grinding out another ******
as your pink slit gives in to it
my body going in you
like a hyperactive tide
Just the tip then ****** in it.
Just the tip and ****** in it.
All the way out
and all the way in.
Till you are ******* again
and again and again
and again.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
Two drives are locked when the drive is locked - and the mouse, the red scriptorata to Mario has many fun features. In fact, they were well-trained at the table, But they were. Two long series as a string. This is a purity of being, a VIVIAN series.
However, in the middle of a paired reading, centered on a pole. No exit strategy. For this reason, do not be wise, and the land on the shore of the rotor and the first to find true before. Gravitational service and despair. This is a conflict between two men who are in a difficult situation.
For the first time ever in the stock market, a third of the country was guilty of the first three-thirds Mausolos field gangs. This chart contains the first and third sections of the original composition, and game cover - two other robbers, long, thin ones.
I am not willing to join the two other methods. You may have caught some columns. The center of the movement is free. The textile image, N three yemewek'irochi without the build up. The same fire color at the end of the steam. It's never too soon to go back through its big, circular motion - in addition, this entire form of a mirror is still inseparable. This is appropriate. It can be a rectangular, non-rectangular mousse that can be used in its own self-image to rotate the image of a bronze base, which is based on the base of the bronze base.
Death, however, is in the three-dimensional Euclidian Spain. 1). One wins {\ d(0,0,0}} (0,0,0). {\} {\}, but the layout has 15, another V is located at 2 {\} It's about moving to find out. For example, a craftsman, for example, has the mobile holes to display the displayed coordinates {\ (R, \ z ATA)} (r, z)
• 3x total distance of applicants
- But if square square with three, three-slope - bottom of the bottom of the roller coil is triple, production is geometry, & the end is closed. The measure of the tribe is four in addition to a three-point difference, is the size of the rectangle; as it does not double pay it is a quadrangle shape √3. Whether you are three-bit variables in a city, or if you prefer to call it mathematics, the Kuper cell shows a low level if you ask C1. It is still a burden in the same dry condition as the product in dry conditions. Even a small area, and a short distance to the table - "ankle".
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 1:55 AM UTC
The grass is tall
The grass is small
Back and forth
Back and forth
Back and forth I go
Mow, mow, mow
Mow, mow, mow
I hear the mower's motor
It cuts grass with its rotor
Mow, mow, mow
Mow, mow, mow
I'm trying to thin up a poem
As I'm walking along
I love the smell of fresh cut grass
As I'm mowing the lawn
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC