"sectional" poems
He fly above the same airport
Waiting for a chance to land on the runway
The runway of her heart
Nobody knows how long he waited but the Lord
That airport have only one parking spot and one runway
And occupied by one aircraft
It's hopeless
To wait for that parked aircraft to take off and gone forever
He began to feel desperate
All his patience, all of his waiting, gave him a mental break
He opens his sectional
Pull out his plotter
Change his heading bug in his heading indicator
He finally said, with a smile
“It’s time to divert”
Waste of fuel and time
Waste of credits and dimes
Too long he was holding
Now it’s time for leaving
He will never know
How does the runway and the taxi light glows
After sunset and before sunrise
He will never feel
The satisfaction for using the service
24 hours everyday and night
He will never see
The runway decorated by green grass, flowers and trees
The beauty of the airport’s sight
But it’s for the best
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 3:30 AM UTC
Forbidden fruit of Barbados
Oh how she glows.
Sectional sweetness
Bitter in aftertaste
My favorite things in life
Always seem to be similar
Maybe because
I prefer the familiar
The curve and the shape
Contour and ripe
As I slice thee in half
I notice your walls
Serrated spoon in hand
Showing gratitude toward the land
For it bears blessed fruits
The fruit blesses me
Upon receiving sour
Bite after bite
The bitterness sets in
Night after night
Grapefruit makes me happy
Grapefruit makes me smile
I hope that I don’t get sick
At least not for a while
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 2:28 PM UTC
I heard the door open. It was Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister),
she’d been out on a date. I was the only one in the living room
as she came in and sagged, dejectedly onto the huge, white
sectional couch, right next to me. She looked positively
deflated. Which is unusual because up until now,
she’s been all freckles and smiles
Ok, here’s where we get poetic and rhyme, with innuendo and allusion:
Me: “Did you have a good time?”
Leeza: “No but I was trying.”
Me: “Did he get handsy—the swine?”
Leeza: “Argh! No—but his kisses are a crime.”
I gasped: “You didn’t give him a climb!?”
Leeza “NO!” she said, somewhat horrified.
Me (trying to be neutral): “No judging, it would have been.. fine (I lied).”
Leeza: “That’s never going to happen.”
“Good,” I declared, “he was just a distraction—and, you know Santa.”
“What about Santa?”
Whew, that’s enough of THAT (rhyming business).
She asked, so, yeah, I sang it.. I had to.
*“He knows who you’ve been kissing,
what you’re thinking when you’re awake,
he knows if you’ve been bad or good—
he’s kind of like a cop that way.”*
After a moment's silence Leeza asked,
“Is there something creepy about that?”
“Only if you think about it.” I admitted,
as she put her head on my shoulder.
.
.
A song for this:
Fairytale of New York (feat. Kirsty MacColl) by The Pogues
.
.
A Christmas Playlist! There’s 6 days til Christmas (and Hanukkah)
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 12:14 PM UTC
The Lawncrest Acres State Hospital for the Incurably Poetic -
I think dear Granddad, the good doctor,
once practiced there as a clinician
(and as patient once, too)
his writing otherwise confined in public eyes
to those horribly dry tomes whose titles began
"On the practice of..."
whereupon he may have gone
on to expound the virtues of religion in psychiatry
as measured in cross sectional study
or harsh parenting as inherent to induction of pathology
But at home he would write
the sweetest poems to us
on birthdays or just because...
he never wrote one for me, oversight I'm sure,
as I roamed the floor
in his house, same as all the others.
So maybe that's why I secretly try
to be a poet like he was.
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
Start with a fifty inch screen
Make it smart
Hook up the blue ray baby
Now plug in the BOSE SOLO lady!
7 seat sectional
Comforts seat for all I meet
or just to nap, stick up my feet
Have a loaded bar with drinks on call
It is legal here, so load the ****
And enjoy the new single life
All summer long~
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Last night, Lisa, Peter, Leeza and I were in her father’s 50th floor study watching New York City. It’s a corner room with glass walls from floor to ceiling. He likes to watch the city himself and has a small, 5 seat sectional couch facing the view.
The left wall window looks across Hell’s Kitchen to exactly where Sully Sullenberger crash landed flight 1549 in the Hudson river (it was 3:31 pm and no one was home). The right window overlooks Central Park and Upper Manhattan. Lincoln Center, almost dead center of the corner, looks like part of a toy train-set.
The view is a wheeling, ever changing and mesmerizing panorama. Well lit ships, barges and boats move glacially against the ink black Hudson. Jets in expressway-like holding patterns (Newark Liberty, and Teterboro airports left window - LaGuardia, right window) blink, like waving angels, helicopters buzz below like insects and the traffic, far, far below, forms a living chain of red and white lights which can erupt with nugatory hues of police blue at any moment.
While we watch, we’re playing a game of “Would you rather.” It’s a game of situational trade-offs, like “Would you rather listen to the same 10 songs forever or have to watch the same 5 movies forever? Of course, most people say the movies - because they last longer and there would be fewer repeats.
We take turns asking these critical questions - pausing, occasionally, to point out things below.
“Would you rather be in a crowded elevator with a bunch of noisy high school students or pinned in with a bunch of judgemental, middle aged men? The girls chose the students, even though high schoolers can be mean. Peter chose to be with the men.
“Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with 5 million dollars?” We all chose love.
“Would you rather hike or camp?” Both were unpopular if they involved going to the bathroom outside - which creeps the girls out.
“Would you rather give up your computers or your pets (forever)?” THAT was a stressful one.
Nov 20, 2022
Nov 20, 2022 at 11:18 AM UTC
I sit on my sectional, a witness
to those vulnerable beings
pulling at scarves,
yanking at gloves
clutching at down jackets
I find great entertainment by this.
They have waited until November
When I have resided in frost
since last October
All year long
I held onto turtlenecks of impulsive irony
I bore
thirteen layers exactly
of self pride
I wore gloves religiously
that were knitted out of masochism
and egocentrism
And I drank from cups of hot cocoa
brimmed with whipped irony
during the month of June
I was far to eager
Now these glorious beings
surround me
clinging to warmth and long john material,
sitting closest to the hearth
All I can do is laugh
I searched for a shell
in June
I decorated a tree of longing
in May
I reached for a fringing
frolicking
frock
in July
that would
:gasp:
keep me warm
Fahrenheit resided in
pelvic bone
fingerprints
desperado
and seduction
None of it warmed my bones.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
There's something re-assuring about the tick of a clock
It counts off the moments and marks out the days
We know where we are and where we should be
It keeps the world moving without hesitancy.
But do we confine ourselves by wrapping in time
Are we constricted in this sectional way
What if we threw off the comfort of the norm
And took back the freedom of an old timeless form.
The world that we know would be drastically changed
Financial institutes would behave so deranged
Criminals would take over as 'opportunities' presented
Charlatans and fraudsters... - "The World Goes Demented".
So the thing that we find is 'there's no other way.'
We depend on the start and the end of each day
But if time stopped existing not one of us would care
We'd soon cease to function and then we wouldn't be there.
There's something re-assuring about the tick of a clock...
©Joe Wilson - The re-assuring clock...2014
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
I’m in the kitchen at Lisa’s. Her little sister Leeza enters, her pale, freckled face redder than usual. “Liza is the bossiest sister..,” Leeza says, slamming the cupboard door after grabbing a box of Fruity-Pebbles-cereal like she’s choking the life out of it.
Lisa enters from the hall, her jaw set with tension, she waves her “La Mer” makeup bag, wildly, letting its very existence, there in the kitchen, function as angry exposition. “YOU,” she practically screams and then shaking with outrage, she begins more calmly. “You can’t use someone else's makeup and ESPECIALLY not their brushes!!” She had begun under control but with each word her message grew emotionally.
“I didn’t hurt anything!” Leeza answered venomously back, giving as good as she got.
I lean with my **** against the waist high kitchen island, slowly letting myself slide down to where I’m not visible, into a sitting position on the floor, as the fight quickly escalates.
Have you ever been a guest somewhere, when there’s a sibling fight or other parents start yelling at a friend? All you can do is try and become invisible - or pretend to text on your phone like you can’t hear the turmoil.
I catch a motion out of the corner of my eye, it’s their mom, Karen, motioning me, with a side-bob of her head, into the living room. I quietly, crouchingly exit the kitchen - the fight reaching full, nuclear bloom.
I join her on a white sectional, breathing a sigh of relief. We’re far enough away from the action to feel uninvolved. I like Karen a lot. She's warm, open and always seems to be suppressing a smile when watching her girls. She’s a lawyer. “You’re officially part of the family,” she says, as she takes a sip of coffee, “they don’t fight in front of company.” I grin.
Somewhere just below the tumult, I hear a dad’s deep, male voice, “Excuse me?” he says, and the fight is instantly over. There is a moment of deafening quiet. “It’s NOTHING,” both girls say, a second later, in perfect, synchronized, bored-sounding unison.
Nov 24, 2021
Nov 24, 2021 at 7:49 AM UTC
I used to think everything meant something. Now I know the aorta can burst and mean nothing. Genius on silver-blue sand stars in **** **** the feather bustier and nylon dreamlike; unafraid, my sister put chilis in her sweet tea. Finally back to the dingy sectional and I should be flipping out. I have a box of cigars from my old boss. Like me, he can't figure out what to write in the card. Like me he lies. I was dropped on my head a few times, I laugh. We are haunted. We're both boys playing baseball, but I kept trying to touch the basemen. Genius, abducted by bluegrey shellfish. I used geletin for the cytoplasm; cell splitting is easy, says my pregnant sister. Almost done, I can hear the radiator leaking if I try. I had my head in the lap of a new outlaw, reciting what I could remember of cummings buffalo bill tragedy. There was a gun under the seat and it was blue. The box of cigars was blue too.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Don’t know where should I go
And I don’t think I cared anymore
Wide opened sectional
With a standby plotter
A flight computer
And a pencil
But no line was drawn
My plotter became useless
I let my Cessna flew by his own
And he followed where the wind blew
I noticed
The wind pushed me to that same airport
The same runway I tried to avoid
It's like faith
The further I go
The stronger the wind blows
Or it's just my crazy theory
Or maybe my mind plays tricks on me
I’m lost in the nowhere’s skies
And I still found her
No matter how far I fly
The wind leads me to her
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
orthography implies: a word, yet diacritics implies letters, and ιota is the perfect example of an unnecessary diacritical misapplication, notably observed in a language that observes orthography: which is non-existent in english: which is still to untangle from the latin graphemes ae & oe; english hasn't untangled itself from the grapheme modus operandi: which is why LL TT NN OO GG PP: pull fattening manner pool bigger popping - invite the stutter!
- a word is worth is its orthography -
yet there is absolutely no need to indicate
the letters I & J with a lower-case diacritical branding:
because suddenly one of the letters disappears!
i.e. with i = ι, j = ī
a letter disappears!
and people thought that quantum
physics was bewildering...
because there is no ****** reason
to apply diacritical marking on a phonetic
mark that's already a "solipsistic" unit...
a saying revealed by:
ιota = ιgrek in the north...
| = . because what is 1 squared?
1... what's 1 cubed? 1. what's 1 to the power
of 10? 1.
*glitches glitches glitches glitches
glitches glitches glitches glitches
twitching twitching twitching twitching
glitches glitches glitches glitches*
- only yesterday i was in a supermarket
and met a fellow traveller:
a distant kin, whom i might have
shared a native conversation with...
point being: i could spot a language
behind the "faςade" of accent...
call that quasi s?
a word sprang to mind -
ziomek,
a slang among immigrants denoting:
a fellow of shared roots.
yet that morphed into an:
orthographic anomaly -
why does the i and j need diacritical
marks when there are
exceptions to be made: otherwise?
you know how easily
you can write ziomek
differently while still retaining
the word and it's meaning?
źomek:
because the diacritical mark ****
of ιota is just that...
the unholy umlaut of
i & j...
| and .
are already synonymous:
they're not inter-sectional akin
to the illiterate signature of X...
why was it so hard to make a mark by
a mere I... instead marking
a count to 10? ah... in Kantian terms:
0 = negation...
well: the 1 is to be denied.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
We all know what we should do!
Eat little
Eat often
Eat green
Eat three meals a day and nothing in-between.
Portion your
Carbs
Fats
Vegetables and
Proteins.
On a small sectional dinner plate.
Designed for your ease, alerting you to how much you ate!
A smorgasbord it is not!
It's restrictive and brings no joy. It is not the equivalent of a board game, book, or toy.
One night out with friends, and the plan is forgotten.
I will have garlic mushrooms and cheesy bread to start.
We order a bottle of sauvignon blanc.
For mains, of course, it's has to be battered fish and chips for me.
Ooh, and that chocolate cake is looking too temptingly.
As friends, we are in this together, and we all agree it's just this one time, as we order another bottle of wine.
The next morning, I step on the scale and wail. "How did that happen? It was just one time. One piece of cake, one glass of wine."
Vowing to myself to get back on track.
I open up my food app.
I record my
Carbs
Vegetables
Fats and Proteins
Determined to become slender and lean.
Make myself fit into that new pair of jeans.
Today begins a new day.
And that is pretty much all I have to say.
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 1:59 PM UTC
Brookyln Nine-Nine flashes across the screen of my laptop
I wonder if this show makes you think about me
Because even the obnoxious theme song reminds me of
That oversized, purple couch I will never sit on again ,
The Christmas tree you hosted in your living room until March,
Or the pictures that your daughter drew, strung up on the wall next to the sign you bought reading
“You Are My Sunshine”
I wonder if you ever bought that gray sectional,
Or put the tree up extra early this year
Or moved that sign to your daughter’s bedroom door
Every cheesy one-liner Andy Samberg says
Leaves the words you left lonely
In the back of my head.
You were right, that night
When I drove south to a familiar nowhere
To see an open door with your lopsided grin.
You were right,
I think I did love you.
I promised myself I would not let the memory of you ruin this television show.
But I find it hard to watch,
I find it hard to think,
I find it hard to know that I must coincide with the inability to know
how you are
or who you are
Anymore.
Rumors tell me about the weight you’ve lost,
And how the speckled gray now covers nearly all of your freshly shaven head.
I know that your skin would not have slowed to wrinkle with mine,
but I cannot help but roam around the unknown of you and I.
Our episodes did not end
With a bittersweet goodbye or a tragic farewell,
The cliffhanger too skewed to draw conclusions from
A forgettable ending to a promising pilot.
We were not a series.
I did not make the finale.
Life is not a network sitcom
I cannot watch the scenes of your life that proceed without me
As much as I want,
Your existence didn’t cease when your credits rolled to me.
And with every memorable scene we did share,
I am thankful that it did not broadcast on NBC.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 8:45 PM UTC
Night lingers with constant ravaging through the kitchen and impatiently flickering channels because of commercials
In spite of the fatigue feelings mixed with the funny noises coming from hunger pains
I am not In a bad mood cause I am broke, in distraught or because I can only afford rent due to my minimum wage job washing dishes stationed in a one room shack apartment
Stuck in the house need to get out more wanting issues without discussions fascinated by what I can't have enclosing my day with a infested bus ride back to my urban sectional neighborhood what am accustomed to living a lifestyle fighting more than rats and roaches
Survival is the most important part of the breakfast next to acknowledgement that nothing can become something cherishing food and shelter because walking on the streets and pockets on empty force decision to do hand-to-hand work predicaments leaves you in a state of unravelling thinking of your next move or not thinking
Questioning the obvious Wishing though there is nothing wrong with wanting
A Christian, but broke, and a 5th of gin will make a Man sin
Becoming a product of my environment leaving it to be a statistic in this society as a black man in poverty
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
Love = Q
Living = A
One = v
Vision = Q
For = A
Eternity = v
Q = v A
Q = volumetric flow rate
v = flow velocity v
A = cross-sectional vector area
So, we get a new formula for the volume flow rate Q = A v Q=Av Q=AvQ, equals, A, v that is often more useful than the original definition of volume flow rate because the area A is easy to determine.
© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 5:33 AM UTC