"spherical" poems
—and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses,
is what I wish to prove.
When you and I were first in love we drove
to the borders of Connacht
and entered a wood there.
Look down you said: this was once a famine road.
I looked down at ivy and the scutch grass
rough-cast stone had
disappeared into as you told me
in the second winter of their ordeal, in
1847, when the crop had failed twice,
Relief Committees gave
the starving Irish such roads to build.
Where they died, there the road ended
and ends still and when I take down
the map of this island, it is never so
I can say here is
the masterful, the apt rendering of
the spherical as flat, nor
an ingenious design which persuades a curve
into a plane,
but to tell myself again that
the line which says woodland and cries hunger
and gives out among sweet pine and cypress,
and finds no horizon
will not be there.
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Here is my version of a paradigm shift,
Socratic questions if you get my drift.
Why did God make the Universe elliptical?
To make an Aussie football, not spherical!
Why did God make football? See here,
To make men miserable, my dears!
Why did God make beer?
To make men happy, my dears!
So, some intelligent chappies here,
Taking beer to the football, no fears,
Now they're miserable and happy dears!
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 6:05 AM UTC
once in my sanctuary
it came in a loud gallop
followed by a wallop
my sorrowful lumbar
detaching the fear
of a clumsy blunder
shifted away from
the law of physics
an emptied vessel unmoved
like a sealed vacuum
certain a final curtain
pin drop in code of silence
light time alliances
whooshing me into
ethereal plains
a sublime hemisphere
of infinitesimal space, time
an indescribable beyond
gentle breezes
feathery light teases
soon a star-gazing eyes
darted through a
zero gravity galaxy of an
endless empyrean expanse
a’turnin spherical sight
orange white stripes
rosely red spot
churning roiling clouds
speckled dusty rings
what beauteous it shrouds
why am I here
a knowing voice appeared
melodically close but I
can only behold afar
of an ethereally existential
interstellar manifold
questioning mind
told of convoluted ways
as seen and heard
the rhymes and seasons but
for one and the only reason
mankind's whisper'd words
entrance to the portal
as did my dawned immortal
met a peaceful assembly
I lay in days, this rapturous gifts
what divine effulgence of
a truly cosmic lift
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
Mickey Mouse
When Mickey Mouse comes home hungover
He throws up ice cold Coca-Cola
He lives in a spherical house in the sky
Which he enters and exits with telescopic stilts
Which grow or shrink with every step
He is a good vertical neighbor
I live just to the right of him down below
He always stops to say hello
Or to make me laugh with a joke or pose
(One time he even stole my nose)
Sometimes I get so mad at Mickey
That I take it out on my kid
And then spent, I wonder what Mickey did?
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:31 AM UTC
There are beetles on my skin
Attacking my bark
With pincers sharp
-trying to get in
And as they cover me
Head to toe in a blanket of living death
They tickle in bitter giggles
At my senses, set ablaze
By their exo-skeletal steps
I do not build a scream
For the sound would die out in between
The sheet of beetles
And my trodden lips
Instead I lie still
Commanding them with my negligence
Fusing with their fear-mongering
They take my shape; I don’t take theirs
I am the alpha insect
The form of their nature
And now I stand
In beetled armor
A figure against the sun
My shadow raining over the undergrowth
Reigning over the under.
In this symbiosis we travel
Across valley and valley
Coleoptera-covered Rand McNally
Covering the earth, showing
The dominance of man
The man the man
He who holds the plan
In the palm of his life-colored hand
I am he
The guardian of land and sea
Infected with a voice-in-hand
Who writes eternity
Whose pen is the land filled with ink of the sea
And with beetles of lead
I harmonize
That between myself
And quaking skies
As the world shakes in its roots
During a spacequake
That bends our atoms like dried glue
But then I am not alone
And as I rest on grass of gold
The heroes step forth, dressed in animals
In a dark, ****** harmony
That is the nature of our home, our Terra
The brute beauty in black void
Swimming through time like a turtle
On which the souls of man rest
On golden grass
Our spherical nest
And our evils are justified
By the good of our pursuit of beauty
Though selfish maybe
Though hellish for he
That swims on land
But drowns as he walks the sea
We are multitudes.
We are Gaia, we are the mother tree
The ****** bliss of humanity
Dark and light, both are we.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:59 AM UTC
Murmurings of words
so long unspoken,
now sent out across
the curved expanse
of our spherical home.
Murmurings of all our
voices and languages,
coalesced into one.
Winging out into open
space, like the nimble
murmurations of birds,
never quite touching,
yet deftly creating
virtual shapes,
markings recognizable
only from a distance.
*Do birds' own souls
unfurl and unfold in
these undulations?*
Starlings find aerial
corridors, travelling
together swiftly, so
to stay warm. Do we?
These murmurings,
our word-murmurations,
fly out into the space between us,
swiftly curving back, and then back again,
before dipping low, then nesting deeply,
so very deeply, into sweetest sleep.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
She fabricates variance in the same picturesque sky
Mauling two birds with one stone-cold, self-sustaining lie
If happiness blots itself upon perspective,
then I was merely one musing of a momentarily hung canvas
dangling dull under the noose of your
cautiously composed independence
-
"Independence"
she doth protest
While in dependence,
she doth ingest
She flees towards East evermore, infatuated under the intoxication of dissimilar skies, ceasing to remember that all worlds eventually become spherical.
We, abreast, left the nest;
I, digress, detest the West.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
FIRST
Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.
SECOND
Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.
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Stencils and pencils
Sharpener mishaps
Doodles, scribbles
Scrambling shades
Blending sketches
Running axis points
Spherical shadows
Tinting hints and hues
Pencilled portraits
Cruel crooked eyes
The bendy nose
Philosophical muse
Artistically inspired
Shading and fading
Realistically amused
Fused within reality
Surreal tuned vices
Meet-ups and sit ups
Outlines freakily patched
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
It was orange -
spherical symphony of segments
I liked to
cut
up,
peel off the skin,
lick the surface
while you
stared
and
shouted
and
clapped your hands
and called it Art.
We both devoured it
anyhow.
I spat the seeds into the air,
you waited for
gravity
to catch them in
your wastebasket.
I noticed the sour
before-taste
dripped into
sweet
-bitter
so our fiction of
pulp
melted on the
tongue
into facts of juice
running down our chins
until we were
hollow-hungry
no more.
Facts like
frightening
words -
you may decide which.
It was orange
like
the globe
of irrational truths
some people pray to.
Dropped out of a tree
into our mouths
but we bit into
everything
but
nothing.
It was orange.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
The glistening spherical platform
Capturing the eye with a hue,
Of transparent blue.
Within the center of a twinkle
On blue and admiration,
No dust or cover exists,
Polish every day
By master art creator
A stone appraised,
With no price,
Irreplaceable individuality.
A gem
Full of its warmth
Held closest to me.
And upon my heart.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
The weight of the world weighed heavy
She was a modern day Olympus feeling the pressure cracks of a spherical burden
Bearing the full brunt she winces yet sheds no tears
Her plight remains silent in the deepest recesses of the night
Hers and hers alone
She confides in the stars
Polaris her guiding light
As she sets her sights to the heavens
Letting Orion aim his bow and fire arrows at her rigid frame
She moves for nothing
Steady as the mountain she holds out through wailing winds and piercing rain
The weight of the world heavy but never enough for her to bear
Her eyes shone back the light of the moon
Merely a third party reflection of faded sun rays
She let the tides of seven seas and 24 years of misery swell in her stare
Breath crisp yet labored at the reality of it all
She remains awake silent waiting on the sky to fall
Bearing company to her closer than anything she ever knew
She'd hold the world forever just to give it all to you...
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Inventing the day,
Circular possessions,
All I own cannot be touched,
Everything lost in a fire,
Blazing nocturnal,
The slab of marble becomes
A tin marker,
Watching with stillness
As fleshes mesh with time,
A poet remains:
The spherical elimination
Casting lights on dark
I find my axis
I find myself the epitome
And the footsteps
In the puddles resound
In my minds echoes;
My body is a transparent verse,
Night unfolds , I
Can see myself again.
Listen to me as you listen
To the water,
I am the unhindered thunder,
The shadow in the light's
Ignorant glow,
From my footsteps rise the
Steam,
I am still The DedPoet,
As you sleep in your bed
I invent my new homes:
Nightly I bocome a
Poem of The Nocturne.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
Last night I had a dream.
I was standing on a planet named ALONE. It was just a lonely planet widout any sun and moons. It consisted of kingdoms. And I was on a tower of one of such kingdoms. The day was perfectly imperfect as always. And the night came succeeding to boil all the intricate frivolous thoughts running through my mind. Wind was cooler than usual. And its blowrate was gradually increasing. Suddenly I saw a white dot far ahead in the sky. It was getting brighter and was protruding lines of white. Wind ravished the people all around the planet. There faar ahead something had happened and the white dot was now like ripped off into small white dots and was kept intact in a spherical manner by some force. It was a scene depicting many planets coming into existence.
Then something clicked my mind. Maybe there a world had arised like ours but very very far from this planet. But there, is not just a planet, but many of them with luminous bodies succumbed into it.
One day I will travel there.
I got up from sleep. Now I knew that goals are always far. You just have to try and be determined..
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
I must take note,
of how the people lie,
their dastardly twists and turns,
their shifting and conflicting emotions,
spiraling out of C O N T R O L,
their faces grim, as the enigma is made,
they paradoxed their words and actions, and all I,
and all I am for, it a laughter under my mask.
I must take note,
for if I don't, I won't be able to detect a group's actions,
they could cause the destruction of my dynasty,
I had set up in my mind,
I deliberately made a world of hope for those who need it,
I who is king, I who is God,
I, who is the only citizen,
they must not find out, and corrupt it,
for I will go hysterical.
I must take note,
of the weather,
what makes the spherical mass in space,
and the biodiversity in it continue to go forward,
for the blades of grass that cut me like a knife,
or the indifference of the flowers lovers give to us,
or the emotions, the physical strain,
that is made within the weather,
how my bones ache in the sun,
and how my emotions contrast in the rain.
I must take not,
or I shall parish,
or I shall meet my demise,
whether it be at the hands of the blades of grass,
or the conspiracies made from the liars,
or the people,
for I will meet my expiry,
the storybooks have told me so.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
This world is not my home
This life is not my own
Walking helplessly in this spherical dome,
I'd rather walk my life alone
This world is not your home
This life is not your own
Walking aimlessly in this spherical dome,
You'd better walk your life alone
This world is not our home
This life is not our own
Walking endlessly in this spherical dome,
It's best to walk this life alone
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
The girl’s corneas expand over the small black abyss of pupil
Tides of blue and hazel rising over onyx isles
An unhinged eyelash balances precariously on its neighbor
It evaporates with her quick blink
Directly beneath her right eye
Below the mottled eggplant shadows
The corpse of a capillary drains among the freckles
Subterranean rivers of vein
Pulse under thin skin
Her nose is spherical
Etched by soft papery scars
Pores round and gazing
Culminating in a uniform valley
Lips are soft and pink and unkissed
A source for a small steady trickle of pride
Her mother’s lips
But behind the outer façade
The seamed surface is rough with nervous nibbles
Ribboned with scars of worries and troubles
She lacks fourteen teeth
Absent since the womb
Those she has are either sickly infants or filled with grainy mystery metallics
Some entirely fabricated with spatulas of amalgam
Yellowed and cracking
Rough and worn
Spongy inner marrow screaming with pain
She hides the stony incisors from view
The hair
Curling and waving
Kissing with reptilian tongues at her cheeks
Neck
Forehead
Framing her face in brambles and cowlicks
Indecisive of its true form
Fuzzy with moisture
Unwilling to obey
The strands of a gorgon
A monstrous tangle of personality
Instantly recognizable
Her hands attempt to soothe the undulating tendrils
But they anger
As stubborn as her
Refuse treatment
She gives up
Rinses her hands
And turns away from the mirror
Sighing
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.
His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.
He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.
He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.
He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.
When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, "He's gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"
He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.
He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
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Bubbling, sugars ignite and spit sweet white batter
then callous and cover
the thick cream that stews beneath.
Clouds pour snow and trees bequeath
blue spherical bliss
onto the wrinkled surface.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Your soul; all its liberation.
Amorphous,
I see it in my dreams in the form of its purity.
Crystalline.
I can never catch it
But it captures me.
My only caprice is to love and chase after it.
The feeling I feel from all your presence;
Your dulcet soul
Encompassing me,
I am enraptured, and can not let go,
You're the light
You are ethereal.
The energy you bring to me is exuberant.
Finally
I've found my felicity.
And I am free.
The way you just exist in your form ,
On your own
Incorporeal in your world.
Thanks for letting me in.
You fly and so naturally just exist,
Contentedly pleasing,
So beautifully incandescent.
In all my dreams where you are my vision,
I see you absolutely quiescent.
All your raidiance giving me what I needed.
I can't find on earth
What I find in you.
You in your power defying gravity,
In a sapphire mist, in your own portion of the world, where darkness never lives
Nor visits.
A place so serene,
That is why I only see you in my dreams.
When I am somnolent, and bound to fall down and lay silent,
Witnessing your spherical tranquility with no vestige when I awake,
You take me to my highest point when I am destined to break.
You are transcendent and truly amazing.
I love you in all your lilt sussuration.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
My Radius
Mine distance
'tween the center of mine
and my edges
('cause I am not exactly
spherical, Varies, I guess)
The differences divided
by a varying circumference
diameters changing
makes it SO hard to divide the pi
squaring it
(or trying to multiply by zero)
Makes absolutely
zero sense
poses more questions than geometry
or algebra,
(far as I know, might be a constant, somewheres)
the I = me?
trigonometrical nonsense?
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
Smokey bubbles-- Trapped behind glass
Filling up the murky water like spherical clouds of the sea
Bursting in heaven as blissful flatulence
~~~
Lightening my heart, bringing freedom to my womb
Scrawled across my walls
Graffiti inside my heart
~~~
I pull this patience from my well in solitude
Homogenising the cultivated need within to better suit my needs
Breathe deeply and clear
~~~
Resting wickedly -- Passing moments endeared
Acceptance as I pick up my chain...
...*But there will always be time to dream, and it will never matter because time does not exist in my dreams*
-
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
*my rough and tattered edges like sea glass
smoothly rounded by her passions
relentlessly polished by intimate contact
with her welling water and earthy grit
the reality of her excites me
humbling any romantic doubt
dispelling any fantasy skepticism
instilling a will for the moment
she is energy in pure spherical form
encircling this scattered life
she holds for me a sense of place
a bookmark to poetic existence
just as bands bind magic barrel staves
as rainbows secretly circle underground
as concentric rings indicate growth
love will revolve even as it expands*
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Imagine a spherical shield,
all sensual swirls of body art
and gleaming currents of
silent comings and goings.
Her path is radiant
with skeins of silver slime.
She’s discreetly **** inside her shell,
snuggling in mystical moisture.
A willing captive,
She’s self-sufficient,
timid yet eager to explore,
free to withdraw at any given moment.
Admire the courage of her smallness,
the generosity of her gifts to the beauty
of our skin, our gastronomic delight.
She does not fear mortality’s ultimate crush.
She lives and dies in the joy of giving
her soft, sweet syrup back to the earth.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
A clay *** holds your happiness.
It's halfway tall,
reaching up to your thigh,
Narrow, blown up in the middle, narrow.
Simple lid with a spherical dot for fingers to grasp,
and a black drawn line
that curls from base to lip,
and over.
Insides encumbered by sweet darkness,
shaded glory,
because outside,
gleaming.
Spiraled gold that must have dribbled off the sun's ice cream cone
leaked through the bottom where the end had broken
and flavor escaped
to land on your mirthful urn.
Blue so clear,
the sky surely lost a piece of itself
as a crack appeared
and a fragment cascaded downward
to shatter along your pleasant chalice.
And in between,
are lines of green
that could have only originated
on pinewood trees
in a forest so dark
that monsters beware.
Bordering a little town
where children played
and only truth was called,
never dare.
Because there is red on your delighted decanter.
Spattered droplets
of coagulated sparks.
Jaded needles saturated,
with pine fresh essence
emanating from your zesty flagon.
And a single spot,
Barren.
Bereft of treasure.
Parted from cerulean.
Robbed of Viridian.
And severed in the roots of a blushing Amaryllis.
Occupying there,
a white blemish,
a shape of infinite corners
immaculately defined
and so small,
you will never find it on the canister
that harbors your smile.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC