"transformer" poems
A four-year-old was perched in front of
a boxy TV with eyes only open to
sugar-coated Cheerios and 80’s Transformer heroes
on the screen.
Fast forward to age
thirteen where she flipped through
dusty photography with
eyes searching
for substance
to prove reality from almost-forgotten dreams.
Scrapbook memories aren’t
all that she sees
because,
honestly,
she loses things.
Summer Saturdays and
Fall Fridays and
Winter weekdays spent too wrapped up in her
own head to notice, silently, spring rising
from its deathbed.
Honestly, she loses things.
She
loses
things that should be important
and real, but all she can feel is
the guilt of lost
and faded photography.
Scrapbook memories fabricate times of
color and scent and sound,
of spilled milk and Diet Coke,
of words too far gone to seep from
pen to page because
honestly,
she loses things.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Cut me open, cover yourself in a blanket of skin.
It won't make I difference. I don't inhabit it anyway.
It is a shell.
It is a lifeless thing.
It is not me. It makes no decisions.
Split the differences in your own mind and do anything you wish.
Take away every doubt.
Leave it on the edge of a cliff. The rain will wash it down our throats.
A spoonful of sugar.
It is laced. Silk laces, pretty underthings ruined.
They were taken off.
Too many flowers to water with the fluids running from open wounds.
They will not grow. They are made of the plastic from leftover
Glass from a broken window. Portal to the soul
My eyes are not there anymore. Blindly
Stuttering, I cannot speak.
These arms lack bones.
They were buried long ago, burned to blackened
Charcoal. Draw a masterpiece, dear.
Stab my physical canvas with toothpicks and see visions.
Crystal trees growing from my ears, reaching into your voice box.
Sing for me.
Make me dance over the salt, gives me rashes on my legs, blue flame licking what is yours.
Turn the key in my bleeding back. Twist my spine and laugh, watch as I writhe in
Lust?
How am I supposed to know. My brain is nonexistent, just gears and crushed light bulbs.
There is no light.
I took a step two nights past, I didn't see.
A tusk ****** through my foot, breaking bones.
I admire the animals caged at the zoo. They were stronger than I was, before they were
Eliminated. They are dying, wilting.
I drew flowers on my nails to represent them. A memorial to the horrid truth of knowing about the robotics of life.
This is just a computer, ringing a high. No going backwards. The button doesn't work, the transformer blew, we have no power.
My data was deleted.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
The esophageal chill of fresh rain paired
with Bozek's tire stove undertones
slipped through the chain link tennis court.
Love all, love-fifteen, love-thirty, love-forty, game.
I love you, service box Suns, fault one fault lines,
Grandma's crochet centerpiece. Cornucopia coping
with *deuce, add. in, deuce, add. out, deuce,
you get it.* Lost ***** in the transformer pen beside
the playground where I watched my classmates
fall off the monkey bars and expose themselves daily.
Racket strings like pantyhose girls surrounding
the sink applying lipstick and stabbing each other dead.
They don't need monkey bars to show off.
Slice serve pizza at Pudgies to kids barely making it.
Grades lower than the pepperoni from the seedy
gas station they sit in and thumb-spike quarters
into each other's knuckles. The "grown-ups"
buy instant lottery and feverishly **** the tickets
with misplaced pennies, and then toss the moneywastes
when they score a free ticket. Free ticket to what?
The tennis match in Addison so far away?
A clear view through chain link?
A wet, elm bench some kid made in shop class?
An alternative to what we waste our lives on?
****** marijuana, drinking at the basketball court, and
flicking cigarette filters into Berger Lake like we're hot ****
We are **** not the ****
Just ****
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
As we fight
we get the guns out
shoot the decepticons
transform into trucks and cars.
As we fight and wrestle
until we transform into ships.
As the motorcycle and cars and trucks
transformer teams
we all fight the decepticons.
Sometimes there's a lot of decepticons.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
They fight.
They transform.
And they fight with the decepticons.
Every decepticon transformer transforms
but it's only about the transformers
that transform into cars and trucks.
You know, we have a great story of the transformers.
There's another called Transformer Guns and
they're fighting right now.
They fight and fight until every actual
decepticon is dead.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Mount Kenya University; our school
Has really scaled the heights
Climbed the mountains of education
In and outside the country.
However, we as students have to sweat it out
To climb personal mountains of education.
That’s why am not happy
From Monday to Friday
My precious time and fare
Gets wasted
So that I can attend lectures.
Here I am
A digitalized engineering student
Who has designed a robot
For taking me up there above the clouds
To punish they who brought
All this book-struggling to us.
The robot is climbing up
The steep steps of the atmosphere.
In heaven I am now
Holding a cane.
I dispenses three hot strokes of the cane
On Eve’s buttocks
Then advances towards her husband.
But Michael the Arch-angel
Kicks me back to my seat
At Uniafric house
Where am listening to a lecturer
Who is possibly lecturing for eternity
He does not seem to understand
That my dry throat needs some unlocking
That my lover
Is waiting for me.
Have a look at Nairobi city!
Lit like a bush
Full of countless glow worms.
Look at the beautiful
Gleaming lights of Tribeka club!
At the cheap hotels
Located at Odeon Cinema
Am forced to take lunch
Of chips which cost thirty bob
They say it’s usually prepared
Using some poisonous electricity transformer oil.
My pockets are
really too small
for the likes of Java.
But my fellow mountain climbers
Let’s fold the sleeves of our shirts
To hold onto the mountain’s
tricky walls for guidance
To climb all the way to the top.
And of course
We will have plenty to enjoy
In the snow capped peak of the mountain
Armed with huge jackets
For preventing the destructive advances
Of the then present world.
©2013 Vetelo Ngila
The writer is a Journalism student at Mount Kenya University, Nairobi campus, Kenya.
Contact: [email protected] OR [email protected]
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
Les être, le cosmos, la terre et le vin
(Dédié à l’incomparable génie Charles Baudelaire)
Les ceps murissent longuement sous l’énigmatique lueur des cieux,
irisés par les ondes astrales du Cosmos et ses grands vents de feu.
Des gelées de janvier aux averses d’avril, le vigneron soigne ses vignes.
qui souffrent des fournaises de l’été jusqu’à la bouilloire dorée de l’automne.
Le vin est d’abord fruit des astres et des cieux, mais aussi de la patience et de l’art du vigneron.
Il y a une magie du vin qui vient sceller les noces mystiques de l’azur, de la terre, du cosmos et des graves.
Il existe dans le vin comme une consécration des noces d’or de la terre, des pierres et de l’azur,
Qui lui donne son caractère âpre ou velouté, son goût inimitable, sa vraie signature, son héraldique.
Un palais exercé saura toujours en déceler l’empreinte pour y trouver sa genèse et gouter ses merveilles.
Mais c’est le vigneron qui consacre ces noces avec son savoir, son doigté, sa manière d’opérer le grand œuvre des vendanges.
Le choix de la date des vendanges dépend de l’intuition humaine et correspond au sacre de l’automne.
Au moment où les grappes pèsent et ou les raisins sont gonflés comme de lourds pendentifs,
alors que les raisins mûrs sont prêts à sortir de leur enveloppe dorée pour se transformer en élixir.
Le vigneron prend la décision sacrale de celle dont dépend la qualité du vin à naître.
Et les vendanges vont se mener dans une atmosphère d’excitation et de sentiment de franchissement du danger.
Désormais le vin sorti du pressoir va murir dans des barriques de chêne
Le bois peut apporter sa chauffe méthodique afin que se mêlent au jus des arômes de bois et de forêts,
C’est sûr, cette année, les forces de la nature et de l’Homme nous préparent un grand vin.
Aussi quel honneur et quel rite magique que d’en boire les premières gorgées dans des coupes d’argent ou des verres de cristal,
avant même que le vin ne soit fait et tiré pour en détecter les grands traits et les failles.
Enfin, vient le moment de boire, comme une élévation des cœurs et des esprits.
L’on ne boit bien qu’en groupe, qu’avec de vrais amis, sa chérie ou des belles.
Boire c’est d’abord humer et découvrir par le nez les secrets d’un terroir et des pampres,
puis humecter ses lèvres afin de s’imprégner des sucs et des saveurs,
et puis boire surtout, c’est œuvre de finesse, d’expression de l’Esprit et de bonne humeur; qu’il y ait de l’ivresse, fort bien, mais jamais d’ivrognerie
Paul Arrighi ; Toulouse(France), le 3 novembre 2013
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
My hands are not my hands
My voice is not my own
My lip never was my lip
But this blood is all mine.
The spoon sedated my fears and insecurities
It's tender metallic surface gleaning
And involuntarily shaking
As I lapped up alllll the yogurt.
I could use a cartwheel.
I don't want to sleep
I'm afraid of dying
as my back and forehead sweat in agony
My eyes don't open anymore
A steady beeping
A flickering fills the air around me
I told my brother I'll be back soon
If I stop
I'm writing with my eyes closed now.
My heart rumbles like a cannon shot
My only regret is how I never knew you better
Mr. Cobain.
We had such fun nights with Mr. Yorke
and Mr. Coyne
Just laughing
And taking turns rolling Thom's glass eye across the floor.
Spring training.
I'm laughing on my bed outside
Catching glances of the summer
Coiled and contemptuous
They go on their lives not caring
Who lives.
Who dies.
Three girls climbed into my window
They smelled of grass and
polyurethane
The children died 6 years ago
The Johnny Carsons of this life
And
GET OFF MY HAND *******
PASS ME THE FOOTBALL
Percodin.
Codin.
Coding.
I just turned the page
And I'll be ****** if I do it again
“oh ****
If Dan went white-face ghetto
And wore beatnick clothes
It'd be
AMAZING
The incisor broke my fall
Sorry.
No pork and beans today.
Ericccccc
Help my head
Chalk these mint leaves up to fate.
Because GOD **** are they good.
I'm reading your expression
On an empty pizza box.
You don't seem too pleased.
I fear
This ice in my tray made me soak my bed
Honest!
Flounder had a mohawk
I don't give a **** what you say.
His **** mohawk was badass.
His stubble made Sebastian jealous
A bed of ice is better than a bed of coals
Or a bed of cars
Or a bed of rice
But that would feel really, really good.
Take a guitar solo
Now a bass solo
Now a keyboard solo
Now a harmonica solo
Now beatbox, no go?
Maybe the former
The TRANSFORMER of course. I hope I live to see that one day.
Yes.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:50 PM UTC
Teen, sixteen, gazing into the mirror, adoring
Her smug self afore that vanity espying glass.
At her well favoured features she's ogling
With ****** grins, sans ****** feelings.
Everything was still in a pink state,
Like morn, from her sole to her pate.
"Time's winged chariot" flashes by, and she's
Turned sixty. That same structure luscious
Like seasons, from summer to winter,
sooner changed: gray hair hath taken over
With wrinkle surface, shelving ******* on
A frame frail. Her cherished hot form
Has sunk, as the sun, down the horizon
Of beauty for ageing, which doth man transform.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
My heart flat lined today.
No ICU needed.
it's the only way to go on.
Transformer Cimi Death my other name says my Mayan zodiac
birth chart and I go flat,
in a terrible amnesic shock.
when reality hits I no longer remember nor feel pain
I am sustained by a strange
heart rhythm beat.
I did it once before
very long time ago and
it worked for years.
phychogenic amnesia
There's no feeling no love
no hate no hope no dreams
no waiting for love to be real.
No bridal chambers no gold key
exists to open this gold lock.
My cave of wonders is sealed.
In essence it's another
kind of passing on.
I need it here,
not to stay flat on line.
~~~~~~
By: KArijinbba
8--2021
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 2:29 AM UTC
A weekend of extremes, where a lover became a demon
A car became a transformer and a lifeboat
A child made a new friend, a friend found a new voice
Two fathers took comfort knowing their daughter's safe
A new begining for one woman yet an adventure for a little girl
Now a bath a cup of Earl grey tea and Edward Elgars chello plays on the radio
It had no plan no agenda yet I feel strangely satisfied
Some people can do that to you
And yet it's only 7 pm so 5 hrs to go
And lest we forget the apple crumble!!!
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
the troublemaker who knows no rules
a soft warm heart under a pile of stone
he is the stoner
a free falling soul just trying to live out loud
always lashed upon but never was punished
he is the winner of the blame game
all fingers point to him when trouble arises
it must be him they say
he had to do it
just because he doesn't care
a misunderstood teen fighting for his life
innocent until proven guilty I say
behind his back I stand
watching it like a mother
he is the web spinner
spinning lies to hide the truth
they hate him for this
I say spin your lies
in the end no one can stop him
so why try
easy for me to say
he doesn't spin his lies on me
the determined transformer
wanting nothing but to prove he can rise above
emotionally bound to show them they were wrong
he is my brother.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 8:11 PM UTC
That constant drone,
With flickering lights and humming tones,
At every corner, one more whirring transformer
And blinking LED, just to let you know.
This constant drone,
With pulsing waves that fill the bones;
With boundless range, it's hardly strange
That one might start to call it home.
What constant drone,
Those ceaseless doldrums one condones
As flitting drops and Cupid's darts
Will often guilty pleasures be.
Oh, constant drone,
That permeates this astral dome,
There is no mask for dismal facts:
That constant drone is me.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
A shape shifter.
A transformer.
Everything you fear.
Change.
The unknown is
a scary place,
a scary thing.
Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?
Would someone please show me
which home is my place,
which family my own,
which lines I should trace?
Every contour on my face,
every word that I utter.
It is all you.
And that’s scary.
Why does it scare you?
Because I am a stranger, and your homie.
Your son, and your enemy.
I am all that you were,
and all that you will be.
You want to embrace me
as your child, your kin.
But I’m different, a little
too complicated to fit in.
You wish for things to be simple,
the son whose identity is set in stone.
So I travel these unbeaten paths alone -
As you close your eyes to me,
a child who barely knows part of his family.
I look to you to help define me,
and still you refuse to see,
even as your memory is stirred by me.
Your mind pushes me
to the back of your head
but your heart won’t let
you forget who I am,
and so I’ve grown,
the invisible boy,
soon to become
the invisible man.
Some days you simply wonder,
and life seems more an illusion, and
all those heavy questions drive
your mind into diffusion.
Your reason screams “yes,”
while your sleepless conscience
tells you otherwise.
So which is telling truth,
and which is telling lies?
As you struggle to pick,
you start to realize,
you’ve made a wrong choice -
a part of you died.
This choice about me
could never be wise.
So which shall you follow,
your heart, or your head?
Don’t be too quick on the take -
You might make a worse
nightmare of your bed.
To see the unseen
is a complicated thing.
Many have said that
with knowledge comes pain,
And I assure you that
seeing me has consequences.
So you whisper, “ok”
Your curiosity parched
For the knowledge that quenches,
As it tugs at your core,
A million tight wrenches.
I will see you
Is your tardy demand!
And a transient being
Lifts his transient hand.
Where this unveiling takes you,
You intend to land.
You’re facing your demons,
You’re being a man.
So who is behind
the mask, you ask?
It’s me,
An interracial boy.
A melting *** of culture, and color,
A child who won’t accept the word other.
Not molded from one sole identity cast,
Destined for eternity to sculpt my mask.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:31 AM UTC
God of mystery?
I don't think so!
A God who
Embraces
A transformer
Defender
Affirmer
Way clearer
Stand by you whatever-er.
A God who
Endures
A giver
Kisser
Hugger
Commender
Showing favour no matter-er
A God who
Comforts
A deliverer
Protector
Forgiver
Builder-upper-er
Never put downer.
A God who's
Proud of each of yer
His followers.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
Gifted soul
🌜moon willow🌳
my ripple my stone
your blue lagoon
here in my inland sea
Only misery and pain
greedy green mates came.
Unsalable virtual lovers àim
flowed distant partners were.
In the power of one
you complete me my
transformer perfect mate.
In this world a mystery you are
a little bit mine, and in another
world you are my exclusive all
my everything.
In this our power of one.
we exist as stones thrown
into each others pond
see our ripples, your ink in gold.
Everything changed
❤️and nothing no thing is ever the same.💔💜💞
~~~~~~~
Mr. and Mrs .Andrews
🌜treasure loot all embezzled was😩
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 1:07 AM UTC
With this Release life's studio is taking it's sweet time
So I'm just left Waiting to be back at my Optimistic Prime
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Last summer, on my birthday, I received a card in the mail. Every year my grandma sends me some silly birthday card, I'm used to it. Last year, I turned 18. On the inside of the card along with the sentimental gilded text, was an explanation. My grandpa had picked out this card for me 12 years before, and for whatever reason, it never got sent. My grandpa died when I was 8. Now, 10 years later, I have one last card, sent from both grammi and grampi. I forgot to say "I love you," I forgot to say "goodbye." I can never go back.
I love you.
Goodbye.
I wish there had been more, maybe an "it's okay, you forgot." An "of course I heard you, I'm here." An "I love you."
An
"I'll come back and meet my other granddaughter."
A story.
Something.
I have a card, and a transformer stopwatch (long broken), a tiny box (that used to hold a wooden beetle with moving legs, but no longer), and a memory of a smile.
I lost the pocket knife.
I forgot his voice.
I miss the pens in his shirt pocket. I miss playing pickup sticks. I miss him playing the piano, and letting me ruin it, pressing the keys. I miss him reading me stories. Over and over, as many times as I wanted.
I miss the absent look he got when he was thinking about something else entirely.
I miss when he forgot about veterans day.
I remember him, dying, stuck in a bed, drinking water through a sponge (it was one of the most terrifying things I've ever had to watch). He never lost his mind, or his memory, he lost his body first.
The last thing he said to me was "you be a good girl."
The last thing I said was "I will" (and I hid behind my mothers back, while she said "We love you").
Sorry Grandpa,
I'm not perfect.
And that's probably not
what you meant
He knew he would never see me again.
I had no idea. (Why was that the last thing he said?)
He was a composer.
Two weeks before he died (that's also the first time I cried for him), someone arranged to have a symphony play his music for the first time in concert. They drove my grandpa to the concert hall in an ambulance. That's a gift no one will ever live up to. I wish I'd gone.
He was one of the most amazing people I've ever known,
and I didn't even realize it until after he was gone.
I'd give almost anything to have a conversation with you.
Goodbye.
I love you.
Goodbye.
I love you.
Goodbye.
I love you.
I wish you were still here.
Two Christmases ago, my grandma started crying while we were singing silent night, because Chuck wasn't there to sing bass. We were missing only one part, and no one could replace it.
I wonder if there are recordings of him talking, just talking somewhere.
I'd like to hear them.
I wish I could have sung with my grandpa, Christmas carols, anything.
Goodbye.
I love you.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
**I was in a small crowd of roughly 300,
I was standing there watching the cloudy skies,
Near the beach. It was then that the spaceship landed,
Building speed, out of the blue, it found someone,
To take them away for their human life.
A battle broke out, it was almost like
A Transformer had just become the
Next alien spacecraft, and there was
Nothing like it, or so it seems.
I said "NO," seriously not liking the
Idea of this alien taking a poor human being,
But you know what the alien found?
Too much of a match, wrestling, he wound up
Losing control and the human won,
Walking back to the crowd. His friend gave him a
Cigarette and the right to look like a big space man
Had finally gone down...**
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Iggy & Lou,
my iron angels
I do love you two
I am your sister now
schooled in experience
a Passenger
a Transformer
of dark days
though, Lou
they never tried
to fry my brain
thank god
Iggy, what did you do
when you were bored
locked up
what did you do
to shock them
I want to see your notes
& what they wrote
what havoc you caused
if you tried to jump over the fence
Boys, no matter how they treated you
your music still came out
they couldn't stop you
& they won't stop me
for with you, I am free
donning my leather
strutting my stuff
spitting words
out like charcoal
& grit
through the night's
backside
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
**The Moon Above The Mississippi Mirrored,
The Warm Silhouette Of The Sleeping Sun,
The Cold Aching Branches Of The Trees Cheered,
For The Day Spring Would Be Set Free And Run,
And As The Days Got Longer And Warmer,
The Moon Felt Free To Leap And Promenade,
Skipping Past Every Stream And Transformer,
The Taste Of It's Song Sweet As Lemonade,
It Exhaled The Bodies Of Fireflies,
As It Glided Across A Lake's Surface,
It Harmonized With The Coyote's Cries,
To Illuminate Upon Dawn's Preface**
*In The Black Impending Night Stars Shiver,
As The Moon Disappears In The River*
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
He drags his ****** feet through the forest.
An apocalypse of peace, now consumed by flames.
All that is green becomes black as the mighty
Transformer inches closer to the edge.
Metamorphosing destruction at its finest.
He can only continue on as he is gently caressed.
By fire, death and the depths of the hell.
The morning sun takes its place in the heavens.
All that remains is darkened dust dancing in the wind.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
I met a man by the name of Chris
bound to a wheelchair is he
smiling real white
with hair so thick
complexion as shining as he
With a quiet demeanor that's peaceful and cool
he rolls along in shorts and shades
listening to his I-Pad of tunes
He does not debate the fact of his fate
sipping red wine, looking real fine
savoring dark chocolate after his pate
Standing in his transforming scoot
he lives his life one day at a time
enjoying whatever may be
wasting no time fretting about
the silliest things in life
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC