"slants" poems
you wake up
his hair is spilled across the pillow,
the sun slants across his cheekbone
and his breath is slow and even.
he smells like an open field
and his body is wrapped around yours
so he keeps you warm.
you think,
there is no moment better than this,
that he is too perfect to exist.
but you wake up gasping,
skin soaked in sweat.
you lie there for a long time,
in your completely empty bed.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 10:57 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
The rain felt beautiful.
The grass stuck to my body itched
But I secretly miss that feeling
On any sunny day
I feel meaning in the way the field slants
Its always done that
The white paint has faded away
I love it when it stains my fingertips
Every shot leaves a tail of water
And the rippling sound of the ball sliding down the net
The way that the rain falls on me
Feels beautiful
Literally washing away my worries
As I never feel truly tired
As if every drop was distracting me
From my physical state
This makes me feel strong
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
I see a sunset in the west,
The fishes and turtles under the ocean take their rest,
Palm trees here and there;
The sun is fading in the air.
Royal-blue waves crashing in motion,
A sea turtle peeps up out of the ocean,
The sunset bears shades of red and gold;
Colours so vivid and bold!
The sunrays slant under the bay,
It's nearly the end of a beautiful day,
The sun slants under the sea;
This place is so dear to me!
Four palm trees on a high cliff,
I breathe in the salty-sea all in a surprised sniff,
I heave a sigh;
While on the beautiful island I lie.
One cliff and another one in the distance I see,
What a beautiful treasure to see is the pretty sea,
So beautiful is the day;
No wonder people call this beautiful place Turtle Bay!
~Marian~
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 11:44 AM UTC
467
We do not play on Graves—
Because there isn’t Room—
Besides—it isn’t even—it slants
And People come—
And put a Flower on it—
And hang their faces so—
We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop—
And crush our pretty play—
And so we move as far
As Enemies—away—
Just looking round to see how far
It is—Occasionally—
4.7k
Through water and sand, stands you.
Spring breaking at you feet
Your breath flicking the pages of a street paper
A black crown of nightingales at your head
Entwined in leaves and wheat trickling down stones in dew-morning light and thrones in brambles of blackberry pie
Rooted to firewood and sheer bliss of kissed moonlight
Where herons christen Stars before black velvet blanket
Bridled by Rosemary and time, caught with Mary in a dark corner
Slumped behind priest less ivy, we permeate the air and through blue blooded command and gnashing of teeth, slants me
Outside the ramshackle cwtch I the hangmedown barks of woods, kneels you.
And stopped around cockles and foundling sparrows, sings the epitaph of a fallen barbarian.
Still through desert and carcass, lies you.
JWS
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
slants of sun
move time across the room
feels nurture feels dwelling
when the sun departs
time moves with an otherly manner
feels bury feels unearth feeds reflection
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 3:02 PM UTC
In homage - splicer of Aladdin's reel;
a bow, beneath the centered piece so drawn
and slants alive in shade of noblest seal,
no other blushing temptress ever worn.
To hasten tryst; may taint her Jasmine gaze
as lashes flutter onto other's love
how then beguile and keep her ardent daze,
thereby no more in spite - a lonely dove?
The mystic canvas; mine - eternal beat,
and soars in winds, which sail's her gentled tones,
adrift and glides, to bloom this rose, complete
once withered long beneath the hermit stones.
If journeyed nether brittle; sways no guise
remote and marvel then - her Jasmine eyes.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa
Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery
Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements
Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations
CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
He thinks her little feet should pass
Where dandelions star thickly grass;
Her hands should lift in sunlit air
Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
Green leaves, he says, have never heard
A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
Move no more silently than she.
It was this way, he says, she came,
Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
And now that his heart is all on fire
Will she refuse his heart's desire?--
And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
(Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
2.3k
RED barns and red heifers spot the green
grass circles around Omaha-the farmers
haul tanks of cream and wagon loads of cheese.
Shale hogbacks across the river at Council
Bluffs-and shanties hang by an eyelash to
the hill slants back around Omaha.
A span of steel ties up the kin of Iowa and
Nebraska across the yellow, big-hoofed Missouri River.
Omaha, the roughneck, feeds armies,
Eats and swears from a ***** face.
Omaha works to get the world a breakfast.
2.2k
Oh, Prue she has a patient man,
And Joan a gentle lover,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—
But my true love’s a rover!
Mig, her man’s as good as cheese
And honest as a briar,
Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,—
But my dear lad’s a liar!
Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
Are thick with Mig and Joan!
They bite their threads and shake their heads
And gnaw my name like a bone;
And Prue says, “Mine’s a patient man,
As never snaps me up,”
And Agatha, “Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,
Could live content in a cup,”
Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell—
All one color, and clear—
And Mig’s no call to think at all
What’s to come next year,
While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
That’s troubled with that and this;—
But they all would give the life they live
For a look from the man I kiss!
Cold he slants his eyes about,
And few enough’s his choice,—
Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—
And Agatha will turn awake
While her good man sleeps sound,
And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
Will hear the clock strike round,
For Prue she has a patient man,
As asks not when or why,
And Mig and Sue have naught to do
But peep who’s passing by,
Joan is paired with a putterer
That bastes and tastes and salts,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—
But my true love is false!
2k
A FOREFINGER of stone, dreamed by a sculptor, points to the sky.
It says: This way! this way!
Four lions snore in stone at the corner of the shaft.
They too are the dream of a sculptor.
They too say: This way! this way!
The street cars swing at a curve.
The middle-class passengers witness low life.
The car windows frame low life all day in pictures.
Two Italian cellar delicatessens
sell red and green peppers.
The Florida bananas furnish a burst of yellow.
The lettuce and the cabbage give a green.
Boys play marbles in the cinders.
The boys' hands need washing.
The boys are glad; they fight among each other.
A plank bridge leaps the Lehigh Valley railroad.
Then acres of steel rails, freight cars, smoke,
And then ... the blue lake shore
...Erie with Norse blue eyes ... and the white sun.
1.9k
He thinks her little feet should pass
Where dandelions star thickly grass;
Her hands should lift in sunlit air
Sea-wind should tangle up her hair.
Green leaves, he says, have never heard
A sweeter ragtime mockingbird,
Nor has the moon-man ever seen,
Or man in the spotlight, leering green,
Such a beguiling, smiling queen.
Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,
Her mouth as sweet as red-rose musk;
And when she dances his young heart swells
With flutes and viols and silver bells;
His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,
When she slants her ragtime eyes at him. . .
Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,
Move no more silently than she.
It was this way, he says, she came,
Into his cold heart, bearing flame.
And now that his heart is all on fire
Will she refuse his heart's desire?-
And O! has the Moon Man ever seen
(Or the spotlight devil, leering green)
A sweeter shadow upon a screen?
1.7k
I'm dreaming beside the creek
I'm dreaming of skies with aurora hue
I'm dreaming beside the ocean
Of angels singing and playing their golden harps
I'm dreaming in the forest
Of fairies dancing on the pine needle
And moss carpeted forest floor
I'm dreaming in the woodlands
Of a place where time is eternal
And where wishes come alive
A place where dreams, fantasy, and illusions exist
I'm dreaming in the meadow
Of a world to call my own
Free of pain and sorrow
Where nothing bad or tragic ever happens
And where everything is sheer bliss
And pure magic
I'm dreaming in fields of flowers
Of true love that lasts forever
With no hearts ever broken
Or no tears ever shed
I'm dreaming on the mountain
Of a friend who understands
One whose always there to hold my hand
And tell me it's okay
The one who puts their arms around me
Or offers me a shoulder whenever I cry
I'm dreaming on the shores of time
Of orchestras singing me lullabies
Whenever I feel sleepy or tired
Or perhaps playing a tune to calm me down
Whenever I feel panicky because I'm scared
I'm dreaming underneath a tree
While the sun slants it's rays across my cheeks
Dreaming of everything pretty
Of life calm and cool
Forever tranquil
I'm dreaming of all the things
That make you and me happy
The things that are so pleasant and cheerful
I'm dreaming about you as well
And when I wake up from these
Happy and all-too-short journeys
I wonder, are you dreaming about me too?
~Marian~
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Sand of the sea runs red
Where the sunset reaches and quivers.
Sand of the sea runs yellow
Where the moon slants and wavers.
1.8k
Aureole...Manna's descent like showering
waveforms.
Eyes hungering...upturned, cloven in rapture.
Mouth slants open in a salivary click--
come the incantations...come the
anatomical sway of microcosm.
Intergalactic cynosure, pariah, shaman--
mangy interloper teaching wind to dance!
Tamer of the subconscious...mender of schism!
Anathema to Gaia's Satanic Stewards!
To be sought in the House of Aquarius,
haunting its foundation that it may uphold.
The roads to and fro are as anagrams that
alter with the perceiver.
It is the second look, of what's cross with
what Is...and ever shall be--that gives rise
to disorientation...reincarnation.
O grant dancer of self-evidence, grant your
sundry incantations... yearning for Gaia's heart
of hearts.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Let Death be spontaneous
as will I
Shakespeare
I am a little boy
drawing the midnight wings of a moth
that I saw in my dreams
on the damp window
of a nomadic van
crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway
1993
Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads
high grass
I am laying with my black lab
Death is a wild animal
birthed in the sands of a desert
that I traveled
****
holding the Bible
holding Hemingway
holding a
sternum of poems
to keep me
weighted from the sky
In a vision
In a vision
As a boy
Crossing the life span of a symphony
Crossing the life span
of a musical note
of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey
from my Camel Wise palm
I am grace
I am Evil
I am the Devil's brother
scribbling war paint
on the bathroom walls of
Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches
Blessed with a passion
Blessed with a vision
Blessed with
the Night
on my back
that slants like the sunrise
that slants like
the eyes of a widow'd mother
of a widow'd goddess
of a widow'd song
of a widow'd night
of a widow'd Boy
stretched out on the Lawn
of a rich man
Who sleeps with silk
and hope
And I
I am a child
Exploring the tiny beauties
of things
that do not happen
I open the swede coffin
of imagination
of foot steps
of Beethoven's finger tips
I climb the roof of Death's condo
of Death's shack
of Death's
Widow'd cat
LifeX70
if you are lucky
Emma
girl with black hair
hair like sleep
On a Violin
On a Piano's back
On a Dog's color blind eyeball
Let Death
be spontaneous
I will wait for him
in my stained sweater
holding a bottle of wine
for the two of us
I know he won't say much
like the pavement
I will offer him a glass
Where does the poet go when he dies
Does Death favor him
Does he let him
become a bird
or a crooked lamp post
that shimmers
that shines
Like Youth once did
Highway child
Nomadic boy
falling in love
listening to the shapes
listening to the wrinkling skin
listening to the story
for ******
in a symphony
Aging night
leaning on my window
I would offer you a cigarette
I would offer you inside
But I know your tricks
I know that the moon
is awake
When does
the poem stop
When the poet stops writing
or when the truth is lost
There is a Cicada following me
like rain on her long hair
as she walks to a river
There are too many books poetry
too many lamps that wont let me sleep
too many poems I have stained
too many nights I have lived
Like a Moth
or a wandering bull through a cities lights
I ask April to stop the rain
I can hear scraps
from the storm
falling into the flower ***
where nothing grows
Let Death be spontaneous
and I will study the rain
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
laying in bed with ephemeral kate:
her hands are
brazen, fingernails clenching upon
my hips beneath the sheets,
her grip barely elucidated beneath
buttercream bedsheets.
her pale pink *******
cast aside hours ago,
and now the sun slants
westward upon her bedroom walls.
I laid waste to her skin,
ravaging her with lips and tongue and teeth,
and I am
sated, if only for the moment,
scent of her skin upon my tongue and
her ****** a badge of honor upon my mouth.
her bedsheets are ruins,
UNESCO World Heritage Site
waiting to be uncovered and reclaimed;
if it wasn't oh so lovely,
laying languorous limbs
asprawl, your stomach pulsing beneath
my thigh, her chest
rising and falling, rising and falling,
beneath my head; I always boasted I was
cutest when sleepy, and she always
murmured assent with a halfsmile;
that ******* halfsmile, playing
around the corners of her
endlessly kissable mouth,
lips glistening with a mix of
lipgloss and ***
the sun dips down towards the horizon,
a girl hurrying homeward a minute after curfew;
her nails traverse upwards,
scouring my spine; my mouth is
pressed against her neck, tentative
words and laps embossed upon
the hollow of her throat.
she laughs, she sighs,
endlessly inimitable kate.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Precise scaffold silhouette
slants sharply across smoothed
cement. Narrow shadow shaft bisects
unfinished window, points
toward glowing sunlit
sliver of grey wall. Mundane
beauty, workday
glory unwitnessed.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
The clouds finally release their burden,
Feeling themselves suddenly empty,
Missing the drops of moisture that used to nestle within that now seal the sky with white.
The snow falls like dots on an old TV screen,Its bunny ear antennas finally failing in old age.
Muffled silence. Shh! Do not disturb.
The wind echoes through the trees,
Whispering airplanes lamenting the freedom of flight.
The snow plummets from the sky
Arrows
shot by a hidden enemy
But this is a friendly kind of war,
The intended targets only becoming chillier.
The wind chimes peal occasionally in delight,
Shaken by the frigid gust that slants the snowfall
I exhale, my breath warm as it clouds past my lips,
it swirls back to envelop me, as if in thanks.
The world is quiet here.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
An echo of slants
A frozen stretch
Humming terra ensconces - you
Forlorn
Ever-crooked
A never-stagnant aeriform environ
Tugging and vibrating through root
Hairs furling densely about and
Through
Dirt clods
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
The late-day light slants in through
the large, framed window and onto the couch where I sit again.
I watch my Abby lean against the back and
squeal with joy as she points towards the tall trees
dropping pine cones and needles and filling the air with yellow dust.
"Dance! Dance!" she chimes while the trees continue to sway.
A sober smile spreads itself across my face
because the contrast lays heavy in my heart.
The air is thick and stuffy even though the wind outside blusters with
the warmth of a young Indian summer.
My grandmother sits pale and broken in that chair.
there was a time I sat there with her
delving deep into tales that took place so far away.
Her soft, careful voice lulling me
like the trees were lulled in that wind-
And there were times that I lay outside with my sister
our hair ratted with autumn leaves and pine needles
on a carpet of the greenest grass.
We would lay there, trees swaying above us,
shrieking and giggling nervously when they would bend.
Clutching hands we would laugh nervously and say
it was just a game.
And Grandma would call us in
to soup and sandwiches
made with such care
and over chocolate milk
we tell her of how the wind had snapped branches off the apple tree
and we had found a perfect bird nest with feathers still caught in the twigs
As she listened her eyes would widen with interest and,
at just the right moment, her hand would flutter to her heart
and she would gasp with such sincere surprise
that my eyes would meet with my sister's and we
would choke back a chuckle with a smile.
And there were times when I would snuggle deep
into the cleanest smelling bed linens and
Grandma would pull the quilt up over me to my chin.
"Goodnight my Angel," she said.
But in her eyes I saw the real angel
as she bent to kiss me softly on my cheek.
The smell of her face cream always lingered on my cheek from that kiss.
But now she sits
tired and broken
in that chair we used to share
and watches my little angel
young and vibrant
giggle at the same swaying trees
in a different age.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC