"slanting" poems
up early to water
the garden
the cicadas are
already drilling holes
into the
leaden stillness
everywhere
leaves are drooping
I spray the shrubs
to wash off the dust
birds fly in to sit
on the dripping branches
begging for a shower
a cardinal flutters
its wings and sings
and I oblige
jewel-like droplets splash
through the slanting light
everywhere
the world is ablaze
heat waves wild fires
everywhere anger
everywhere distraction
suspicion
leaders are faint-hearted
the wicked fan the flames
still my garden needs water
still the cardinal
flutters its wet wings
and sings
here here water here
here here water here
Tom Spencer © 2018
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
Bright, glowing rays slanting through naked branches.
Crisp air and moving masses of formed metal.
Kept beards, tattoos, rising wisps of coffee roast.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
Sunrays are slanting through the trees
While the sweet tiny bluebells sway
In sweet summertime's blowing breeze
Sunrays are slanting through the trees
While the sweet tiny bluebells sway
In the warmth of the tender day
Sunrays are slanting through the trees
While the sweet tiny bluebells sway
~Marian~
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Golden sunsets glow
Slanting through your windows, cold
Lighting dust into lazy snow
Drifting, drifting slow
The blaze first to go
Then fiery Amber toes
Paint red skies bold
Then before the story is told
The colour away is blown
And melts into summer nights.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
There, in God’s country, the benign ruler
Had promptly burst out of the earth’s bowels.
A sea of coconuts smothered, sultrily,
The most unwilling moss-painted houses
The banyan raised its feet high enough
For hundreds of creepy monsoon-creatures.
The journey began in silver slanting rain
Waiting for streaks of pure white sunshine
To crawl through upright areca nut barks.
As the telephone wires went up and down
A floating bird quickly froze in the sky.
First the coconut fronds ran to the hills
Then the chilly plants , go red in the face
Inside, they of the uncertain *** beat the wind
Out of their joined palms in forced cadence.
The floor-mopping boy under our large feet
Looked with money-wetness in his brown eyes.
The train went spluttering for lack of puff
While gravel stones hit its forbidden parts.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 10:36 PM UTC
Sit in a crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday.
Basketball is not the point.
Stare at the orange speck anyway.
Silence your phone and his voice from before,
Still inside your head,
words the color of the burnt orange ball.
Find music in the squeak of the rubber soles,
Notice the referee's slanting stripes, and how they blur
when you stare, until even pictures inside your head blur.
Nod to the man wearing the red cap beside you,
whose words dribble across your mind,
They imprinting a message:
travel
next year
last year
time
killing
foul
out
losses
hope.
Maybe you miss that last word,
Or maybe you see the message graffitied on the score board.
Maybe you close your eyes and open them again,
And notice the white jerseys gleaming in song with light,
The same light that slants up toward you,
Your shirt should also be white,
With the same light shining on those who travel
and on those who foul out.
Sit in the crowded gymnasium
on a Thursday,
and forget about what he told you last night.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
My small hut of dreams
surviving all alone atop of hill
covered all around with huge deodar trees
of muddy wall and slanting roof sill
Ginger and cardamom tea
near the orange fire place
reading journals
I will live , capturing the first snow in days
freshly baked potato in oven clay
sprinkled rock salt with melted cheese
fragrant leaves of corainder
lingers on and stays
sweet and sour taste of wine
from the close by farm of grapes
friends and family gather everynight
over dinner and United prays
bells echoing mystery in the air
far from the temples on a difficult mountain
where path to heavens looks reachable
trekking the rocks in sun and in rain
Manisha
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
LOVELY Semiramis
Closes her slanting eyes:
Dead is she long ago.
From her fan, sliding slow,
Parrot-bright fire's feathers,
Gilded as June weathers,
Plumes bright and shrill as grass
Twinkle down; as they pass
Through the green glooms in Hell
Fruits with a tuneful smell,
Grapes like an emerald rain,
Where the full moon has lain,
Greengages bright as grass,
Melons as cold as glass,
Piled on each gilded booth,
Feel their cheeks growing smooth.
Apes in plumed head-dresses
Whence the bright heat hisses,--
Nubian faces, sly
Pursing mouth, slanting eye,
Feel the Arabian
Winds floating from the fan.
4.9k
I hear Thy fond whisper thro' leaves and grass
E'en as my heart weeps with the mourning dove;
'Neath blazing heat of noontide sun above,
Breezes caress me as I feel Thee pass.
Sunset fades into soft, nocturnal thrill;
The full moon rises, its silv'ry beams cast
Shadows slanting o'er field and meadows vast,
Cicadas hum, blending with whip-poor-will.
And as I listen at faint hush of dawn,
My spirit soars and sails as if with wings
At ev'ry flute-like note the wood thrush sings,
My soul to Thy eternal love is drawn.
~Hilda~
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:28 PM UTC
The fallen leaves
are gauzing thin
as they lay decaying
on the forest floor
and the frost that formed
crystal by crystal
slowly in the night
with the morning
sparkles to become
the jewels of fairies.
She is fluttering
her feminine silhouette
flirtatious against the grass
so distorted
that your eyelashes
can not catch her
but only a gleaming hint
of gossamer wings
delicate and ethereal
is reflecting in the morning's
slanting sun.
You are tempted
into probing under a leaf
with a broken twig
seeking her soft footprints
but they make no mark
on the fragile leaves
or in the softened grass
and her clandestine space
is too elusive
for your eyes.
She is hiding
veiled and disguised
carefully concealed
and you can only see
the glittering cobwebs
formed by a hungry spider
into a intricate misted mesh
catching careless flies
and morning dew.
She is fooling you
once again obscure
and her transparent laughter
like the soft spoken sound
of a faraway subtle pan-flute
is floating with your
sheer wonderings
in the waking light.
Nov 14, 2009
Nov 14, 2009 at 10:43 AM UTC
375
The Angle of a Landscape—
That every time I wake—
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack—
Like a Venetian—waiting—
Accosts my open eye—
Is just a Bough of Apples—
Held slanting, in the Sky—
The Pattern of a Chimney—
The Forehead of a Hill—
Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—
But that’s—Occasional—
The Seasons—shift—my Picture—
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake—to find no—Emeralds—
Then—Diamonds—which the Snow
From Polar Caskets—fetched me—
The Chimney—and the Hill—
And just the Steeple’s finger—
These—never stir at all—
3.1k
and i never said goodbye
but i don’t know where to start, anyway
though you’ve never been more at peace
apart, we just fell apart
please, please send your guidance
and don’t answer with a question
I’m just naive
don’t forgive, just forget, forgive again
I watch the evening smoke fade into orange
and the reds into black
you’ve always been a lamp unto my feet
in a blank world
give me comatose joy
like recurring memories
well the snow is shimmering in now
slanting dark colors, shading my destiny
can we just rewind time while I watch you age backwards?
forever changing the shape of memory
again, just show me how victory’s sweet,
even in death
hey, this dirt road’s empty
littered with cans from summer nights
deliver me, make me honest, make me clean
take me home, tell me where
wait, calm me with your voice
take me back to the old willow tree
make me dizzy with laughter
push me in the creek, again
like 2008 goodbye,
give me tears of pride
soft winds are sweeping away my days
as evening fades to night
you’ve always been a empty book to me,
an empty box to fill with notes
I still feel you, like a shadow on the empty plains
you’re a gushing waterfall
that’s run dry
can we just rewind time while I watch you age backwards?
forever changing the shape of memory
again, just show me how victory’s sweet,
even in death
you never judged
never condemned, cause that’s not you
and I never asked enough,
sought what I should have…
and tomorrow is here, unknown
all these changes and time—
and it’s you on my mind
like the evening smoke fading into orange
while the reds are fading into the black
oh today is just a nightmare
chaos and uncertainty
your boardwalk isn’t the same.
as I give way to **** poor dreams
like jumping out of a plane, with no parachute
I feel like you constructed this universe,
had it in the palm of your aged, lined hand
this perfect society of infinity
I lay and watch the sky get darker
the sunset through the naked branches of our tree
the stars emerge like diamonds
I remember how you always wished on the ones that
“have the courage to stay where they are”
and I retrace our steps of old to your empty room
to the datebook you lived by
you missed your dentist’s appointment,
never made it to my senior night.
but today, just hear my call
send me your voice
guide my feet as i walk away
as i take my steps into this ever-changing
presence we call life
watch over me from above with your knowing smile
and show me how victory’s sweet
even in death
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
*The perfect slanting of sun
tundra cotton leaning northward
salmon spawning homeward
golden grass - waved in winds
The cast of red autumn's spell*
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest)
Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles,
The rushing amorous contact high in space together,
The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel,
Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling,
In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling,
’Till o’er the river pois’d, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull,
A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing,
Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight,
She hers, he his, pursuing.
2.8k
slanting hue
sink every desire due ~
cackle at humans
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:15 AM UTC
The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again."
Mathilde Blind. 4/7/2016. ☔
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
under the slanting rays
of the December sun,
silhouettes of this sin city
eke loneliness,
eating the timid
and spitting out carcasses.
its skies, ash gray
the refrigerated air moody
reminding wayfarers
that here is no place
to come seeking solace.
as apathy rains
sirens howl
and crime soars
the need to look over the shoulder
more pronounced than ever before.
the bottom line is
everyone’s looking to make money,
fast, furious and frenzied
in this,
my hometown- New York.
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 7:29 PM UTC
Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep--
one by one going up the hill and over the fence--one by
one four-footed pattering up and over--one by one wiggling
their stub tails as they take the short jump and go
over--one by one silently unless for the multitudinous
drumming of their hoofs as they move on and go over--
thousands and thousands of them in the grey haze of
evening just after sundown--one by one slanting in a
long line to pass over the hill--
I am the slow, long-legged Sleepyman and I love you
sheep in Persia, California, Argentine, Australia, or
Spain--you are the thoughts that help me when I, the
Sleepyman, lay my hands on the eyelids of the children
of the world at eight o'clock every night--you thousands
and thousands of sheep in a procession of dusk making
an endless multitudinous drumming on the hills with
your hoofs.
2.5k
Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.
Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.
My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.
The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.
But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.
2.5k
Withered through these relinquished lips,
softly lays an embellished, embroidered, carcass.
Torn across flesh-like soil
caressing gently into this impermeable being,
you're only human.
So allowing in the presence of indigenous, oblique thoughts
slanting into the belly
never feeling so bare
the hunger deprives.
The nails of your eyes piercing into the forefront of mush you call a brain,
feeling the earth distinctively tremble with each step you chase closer to the ledge
Clutching onto the white knuckle breast
your hands pounding at your fingertips
its electric running through your veins
feeling it at the core
so helplessly, lost.
Your throat knots into one-thousand splinters
splicing relentlessly between your core
the wedge of your mortal body becomes noticeable to your soul
detaching,
jumping.
Slithering one step closer,
pull the rope
you leap
you rot
one more inch closer,
you can feel it
separating your surroundings from comfort ability
picking up between each breath
shaking at your own wake.
there you have it
at the brim of the edge
you've push yourself this close
whats one last jump out of this skin?
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC
It was the type of day Wellington is infamous for:
rain slanting into the pursed and puckered faces
of harried pedestrians
and I, out and about with my secret
that in the tall towers where the wheels
grind slowly
a thing not made of commerce
a growing not spurred by market forces
an investment not subject to whims and crises,
but a spark ignited by two people
laying themselves open to love
and hope and dreams and
schemes sometimes lost sight of,
was fanning the flame,
the head, heart, flesh, bone and wairua
of a life
taking root in my beloved's belly,
a life long longed for
a life
whose existence sweeps before it all petty irritations
and affixes itself on my face
as a big stupid grin
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
do you like the feeling,
walking ahead quickly,
moving forward, loosening limbs.
pushing through wind,
through water, rain slanting.
shouting, counting the rams,
shadowing shepherd. wee
mouse on the path, beady
eyed. these are the hopeful days,
weak sun aching to shine.
these are the days, the marches.
after
idly chat to neighbours, to fetch
the dog, to dawdle, to wind
slowly down.
the snowdrops are out.
sbm.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC