"triangular" poems
Someone carved a face in that pumpkin,
and now it's perched on a stoop, grinning
with the same sinister grin the carver must have had
when he carved it.
And everything I recognize as expressive
(the triangular eyes, that big toothy smile)
is marked by a lack of pumpkin.
A red face of dead space.
And now I'm seeing just the opposite.
I see two spots where the eyes should be,
an open wound where the mouth once sat,
and a fire within, baking the insides.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:34 AM UTC
(Co-written with my awesome friend)
The thought is savory
But I know it won't put you in dismay
Triangular in shape, but it needs not to be a worry
As I can just imagine eating it all day
I am gobsmacked by this medley of tomato sauce and stringy cheese
Blimey! How dare you gobble this thing up and not share
Oh, for a slice I'd get down on my knees
A world without pizza wouldn't be so fair
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
And now there would come a time
a swift sharp clock on the bed
Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells
Like an angry little arm
Charming if not for the alarm
And everyday I slap the face of it
Like an unwanted *****
And she is silenced
Quick unlike
Said chick
But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry
Nor cool or heat
There's nothing bothering me
Time just ticks off and I laugh at it
But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men
And yet I am not called upon them
Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts
No masterman
who failing to raise his hand
Clams up
With such poor artwork
Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan
Now In San Francisco
Where the alley streets stink of ***
And the European facades are just that
Crumbling
Poopy
And full of ****
And what yet are they dreaming to be?
The church that survived fire
Great conflagration
God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that,
Now did he?
He's a water-sign
Dolt
And water only jolts your mind
When it scatters true light,
Ain't that right?
But it's all the same
Just different hues
And the news
Isn't new
Just Blaring and yelling
And speeding television crews
Riding their stories
Up and down the many stories
Trying to build a city of angels
On a bituminous hill
Shills
No life skills
And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather
Brief
Casing the joints and rolling my own
Unhappy and alone
Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet
And he has no road
While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air
Going god knows where
Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball
Perpetually trapped in the machine
How bout Nippon
Or Hangujin
Or Han Chinese
Or Berlin
Anywhere but when
A little ways along the state
Of "in"
All these strange things
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
I need to change the circles I'm in
Because I fell into the trapezoid
Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole
Making people believe I was a square
When I was really a rectangle
You just had to look at me from the right angles
The shape of things now
Is me looking at you from the wrong angles
You're pretty hot
90°
When you turn away from me your hotness doubles
180°
I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures
But if you were to turn back around
No creature could survive
360°
The paradox of the parabola in my pants
Will never be solved
It's not your math problem
We're just two points on this rotating sphere
Where time is a straight line
And our's is a segment
I wish I understood the formula
So I could predict the outcome
But there are too many variables
Leaving my head spinning in circles
And myself running in circles
Meant to be avoided
Because within those circles are triangular trials
Where two points create a perfect line
And a third point ruins that
As points are added to the population
Lines only get larger
Like the welfare line
Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex
Like the Pentagon
Lines become more easily crossed
Angles more easily tangled
And my freezing point becomes my boiling point
While I wish for a world more two-dimensional
Because once I consider depth
I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
In this trigonometric love equation
You're my arcsin,
You're my special angle,
Secretly placed
In that unit circle of feelings.
You may arrange my major arcs and diameters
Inside of it
Perfectly triangular,
Love will always have
The same ratio pi.
Our equation of love
Is seemingly incompatible.
It has philosophical numbers becoming
Common geometric shapes
Of love itself
Like hidden spheres
In triangles,
But in real terms of graphing
Our parallel lines of life
Went on forever not crossing at any point
Of this imperfect world.
Our love is, in fact,
A complex system of equations
With the same set of three unknowns
Searching their own values
It has a narrative statement.
You're my C.
You're mister C,
From c'telzing
From caleptikide
And from cataguerrillaism,
In this beautiful madness of love.
You know, our love is getting old
In concentric circles,
Those circles of time.
Extrapolate it to infinity, sweetheart,
You may be my semi-infinity
Until the end of the time,
That semi-infinity,
In which I lose myself
From time to time
Each time coming
From the same unique star
As that already existent
In an old Romanian novel,
Which is called
Lorelei.
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
A horse in a triangle,
A horse within a triangle,
A triangular horse.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
There's a town
It glitters with light
In a valley with walls
That sharply slope heavenward
Into vicious triangular teeth
Covered in snowpack
And ancient spines
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Her long fingers grasped
the midnight blue pigmented stick of oil,
pulling it across the sand coloured card
as if nothing else existed.
The way she focused on the piece of art
she was creating-a piece of art
much like herself,
was exhilarating.
On the card was variations of
shapes, colours and shades-
much like herself.
She wore a prominent frown when she drew,
shaking her head and muttering things to herself when she went outside the lines,
making her hair fall into the middle of her shoulder blades.
Just like her masterpiece, she was
made up of
shapes, colours and shades.
Eyes a large oval shape
her nose a triangular sculpture against her soft features.
The skin on her nose and against her cheeks were a darker shade of olive,
compared to the rest of her imperfect countenance.
Hair like black coffee cascading down her back,
merely reaching her frail waist.
A sense of nostalgia surrounded her small frame.
The masterpieces she creates show sentimental meanings,
hidden with oval shapes and midnight blue pigmented sticks of oil,
much like herself.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
In the garden, a soft-bodied plant thrives,
through sun, wind and rain, it survives,
among asparagus ferns, it proudly lives,
contrasting its purple triangular leaves
against greens...its lightest of pink blossoms
waltz with the wind, in their fragile freedom,
almost white to blurry eyes
wavering...but, they never hide
raised high above the grass
like ladies proudly poised, with so much class...
a small white butterfly suddenly blends in,
deceivingly perched upon the pinks
but the sound of the camera's clicking
sends it immediately fleeing...
to and fro, the blossoms are swaying
reeling from the wind....wailing
over the sudden flight of their lover
waiting, for a new winged creature
on their purple bodies, to perch, to hover
alas,
....life is short...........never fair...
....and so are some...love affairs....
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 15, 2019
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
i stand in front of the Bath,
Taking a moment to enjoy the experience before it starts.
Stream rises from the Surface,
Like butterflies over a field
of fresh spring blossoms
It hovers, seductively inviting me in with a lazy sense if urgency.
In the corner, a lone Candle flickers in the rising Steam,
Lazily shining its Light
Like a Capetonian on a lazy summers evening sipping wine under the setting sun.
The Water,
blue from the bubblebath,
Smells like an orange, ancient, triangular spire in the early dawn of Time.
The hot Water receives my body
And awakens hibernating skin
From its cold, white winter's slumber.
The curious Water
Finds its way all over my skin
In every corner it can,
It crawls into
And caresses me softly
Slowly I relax,
As Sir Isaac Newton makes my bath colder
And as my skin and water temperatures equalise
I lose all sense of self
Held afloat by the mighty Water
I gaze at the white bubbles
As they dance on my chest
Popping and merging
Reflecting light and whispering
Until I finally fall asleep in blissful relaxation.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love's doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.
But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?
I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women, Nothing of cities,
I cannot die Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.
3.1k
From the edge of our atmosphere it flew
nobody knew the craft existed.
Invisible to radar screens out of sight
the spy plane didn't exist.
At the period in history myth or fact
then proof they lacked!
A plane flying at seventy thousand feet
thought an impossible task.
Designed to spy undetected at this height
against their powerful old foe.
But the intrigue when they started to fly
a surge of UFO's reported in the sky!
Was this what pilots were reportedly seeing
and civilians on the ground.
Not alien but man made flying saucer craft
but maybe not all were!
Could it have been this secret spy plane
or something we can't explain!
Strange lights that change shape and colour
blending into one then dividing.
Triangular shapes seen all over the planet
often over groom lake!
So are they secret and developing planes
created on barren salt plains!
Is there a need for mankind to be very afraid
if we knew the secrets being made?
The Foureyed Poet.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:33 AM UTC
I broke a painted *** that was a picture of me.
Then tried to glue it back together.
Piece by piece.
But try as I might,
I could not fix it.
I could not repair myself.
Cracks remained with wide gaps.
A little triangular piece was put in a random spot.
It just didn't fit.
The *** is finished...
but now cracked...
imperfect.
I could not repair it.
I could not fix myself.
But then...
a candle was put inside.
And a beautiful miracle shone
before my eyes.
A lovely, gentle light glowed forth
between the cracks.
Just like the Light of God...
the treasure within...
shines out through my brokenness.
I am a cracked ***
made even more beautiful,
by God's Light shining through my cracks.
My imperfections.
My brokenness.
I am a vessel...
broken...
cracked...
for His Glory.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
To everyone else who used it to seal a present,
It was nothing more than
A color to choose
A length to measure
A string to knot
It was something that held together a treasure
But to her, a ribbon was so much more
The triangular slit
She herself had cut at the edge
Of the soft pink ribbon,
Ended in corners,
The way her smile did
Everytime she'd
Loop and pull
Loop and pull
The bows she'd craft
Were more to her
Than just bunny ears and tails.
They were trinkets of triumph
Hints of hope
Possessions of passion
They reminded her of spring
Not the season
But spring
Of the trampoline
In her first gymnastics competition.
The ribbon hugged her ponytail
Delicate and dainty
The ribbon lay around her neck holding
Gold
Silver
Bronze
Ribbon nonetheless
They reminded her of balloons
Not the hot air type.
Balloons at carnivals
That floated
Miles away
Heights astray
If there was not ribbon
To secure it tight
On her fragile wrist
They reminded her of father.
Not that he wore ribbons or anything.
But that he left her with one
Wrapped around
A freshly picked
Bundle of flowers
Bundle of happiness
Bundle of unspoken words of affirmation
But flowers die
And so did father
When they did,
She was left with nothing but the ribbon
Loose and dirtied.
But the pinkness
Unlike flowers and father,
Barely faded away
And for the first time in a long time,
She saw life
In something that didn't have any.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
A Beautiful and A Bitter Shroud
When I was little, I found a magic box,
tucked under the eaves where
we were told not to go.
Something compelling about the
forbidden, triangular space,
sealed off by lath and plaster,
made me resolved, beyond curious.
I kicked and pulled until plaster shattered
and wood cracked, delightfully.
The large box was filled
with silk, organza and tulle,
the proud-worn gowns
of my mother's college days.
At those ***** she danced
in them, hair coiled up
and earrings sparkling.
It was not about the men, I knew,
but her need to be admired.
I don't recall a punishment
for opening the box
but she relented and allowed
my sister and I to put on
her finery and pretend.
We wrapped them round us
and twirled to imaginary waltzes,
stepping on long hems so many times
that the gowns all came undone.
The rags were put away
and the room sealed up.
In my youth I recall but a few
times Mother gave in
and let us be children
or fairy princesses for a while.
Now she is old and finally
trying to wrap me in her shroud,
to make resentment drag me down
and envy of me, crippled with self-hate.
But that no longer works
and I tell her, finally grown
that this is not allowed.
I summon up pity and vague sympathy,
even if love left long ago.
I tell myself that
everyone dies alone.
Apr 3, 2022
Apr 3, 2022 at 4:16 PM UTC
Orphan roots are banished into Bermudan-like triangular realms of presumed stability off the coast of Neptune,
Whilst abandonment firmly establishes her ancient dendrology.
Are your connections deeply entwined in the postmodern era of presumed certainty and deluded rationalism?
The method of self-transfiguration is evidenced on the mountain-tops of vanity, where the purging of the soul with self-flagellations is an archaic and scornful memory to those who claim to be enlightened.
How rooted are your roots? Does your reason stand trial in the docks of uncertainty?
The autumn leaves are changing color, and the birth of death reveals a beauty which, when embraced, flutters her powerful wings in the dawn of a frosty voyage.
I believe in ripples of probability.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
Zip up the tux
and put it back
in the body bag
it came in
we danced, but
it didn’t make things
more real
i, with my
fake, dead skin –
someone else’s –
and you with your
cute pigtails
“make sure
you return
the body,”
mom said.
this is all we are
skins under death
someone else’s passion and style
we fit the frame
triangular shoulders
show stability
i hope:
please tell me you notice
death provides me with
a sense of being
just because it reminds
others
of someone i’m not
I hope you notice –
Now, this:
This is who I am.
I am capitalized,
With proper grammar
And order.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
That I'm cute
Beautiful
Pretty
And I tell them that
It's okay that I'm not
Because I know I'm not
But I don't like being lied to
I know I'm not
Because I can't let tears
Drip down my cheeks
As they shimmer in the dim light
Of the movie credits
I sob until
My face is red and damp and puffy
And I'm clinging to your sleeve
And just crying so uncontrollably
That people sitting next to us
In the dark theater
Might glimpse over to see if maybe
I have a reason to cry so hard.
Does shehave cancer?
Is she missing a leg?
Did her crack-addict mother die when she was an infant?
Why is this bratty straight white blonde girl crying while watching Selma/Dallas Buyer's Club/The Help?
I have to brush my hair
Instantly
When I get out of the pool
In the summer
(Hopping from foot to foot of course
Because the sun has baked the concrete)
Because if I don't
It becomes a half-curly knotted mess.
And if I don't braid it directly after that
Then it dries
In resemblance to a Yield Sign
In a somewhat triangular form
And I'm chubby.
Not fat. It would be better if I were fat.
If I were fat then things would be
Proportionalish
But instead I'm just
A 5'2 and 3/4" girl
With DDs that no one wants
Because ***** don't count when you're chubby"
And baby fat that lounges on my stomach
No matter how many kilometers I row.
My fingers are too small for my hands.
My glasses make my eyes look huge.
My lips are forever chapped.
My cheeks are overly red.
My eyes are too dark to be pretty
And I know it.
I know all of it.
I've lived in my body for longer than you have.
So don't lie to me.
Don't tell me that I'm cute
Beautiful
Or god forbid pretty
Because I really
Really
Hate being lied to.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Tell me how,
One person can divide into
Three perfectly psychotic sentiments
While still appearing to be whole
Tell me how
Multiplying your kindness only
Creates a rift between myself and patience
And ends with nights of contemplation followed by tumultuous
Back-and-forths with imaginary numbers
For I am no mathematician
I cannot find a solution to every concrete problem
I do not bother with equations or substitutes
I only skim the symbol, rewrite questions and leave the answers hanging in the air
Tell me why,
Subtracting victims from my life
Only added a murderous sentiment
To every repeating decimal that couldn’t find its’ place
Tell me why,
The quadratic formula is emblazoned in my memory
But everyone keeps throwing opposites at me
So forgetting whether to add or to subtract becomes hazy
And the square root gets suspended until next class, so the
Four drops off the plane, two goes insane, and
Letters lose their fictitious meanings
For I am no mathematician
Archimedes is finding the constant of my triangular coffin
While Newton is rolling in his gravity
Carl Gauss is busy laughing his *** off with fundamentals in his eyes and
Descartes keeps whispering incoherent Latin, migraines sprinting towards me
As if in a race
So don’t ask me
Whether or not you should divide by zero
Or whether it requires sine, cosine, or a tangent
My logic will not tell you anything you want to hear
I am through trying to piece together this imaginary puzzle
And I’ve had enough of playing this never-ending game
Because I’ve been through two continents, and 4 different states
And I still don’t know the meaning of my name.
For I am no mathematician
The only pie charts I am fond of,
have to do with sugar and preheating an oven to 450 degrees
And with every cubic centimeter
I start thinking of cubes of cheddar cheese
For I am no mathematician
I can’t graph a simple line
I don’t understand the dimensions of the polygon shown above
And I’m tired of wasting precious time
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
long before light graced
beyond my sealed lids,
a gray lady sat sewing
squares, "for foundation."
her accent was like the
magenta strips with
which she bordered:
a boy needs foundation,
boundaries to teach him
his boundlessness, dirt
in which to sink his feet.
and unlike my foundational
quilt, linked so firmly to the earth,
she faded
first to rose, and then
to silver pink before
dissipating
into dusted petal wither.
i'll meet her on the next go around.
my sixteenth was bitter-themed
and my parents gave me
a mexican blanket,
colored like mother,
aqueous aquamarine
and patterned like father,
those angular and triangular
movements;
woven just like theirs,
to give me rest and
haven on the roads
of my inevitable adventures.
and when i am eighteen
the women of my family
will meet with needles
and spools, and wool
to click-clack and chit-chat
over my adulthood -
and when it is done,
i will behold azure
like the heavens
entangled with warm tones
and spun prayers
to cocoon
in the chill of
carolina's coast
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
an art gallery splattered with promiscuous color
a dotted canvas hangs on a sky of calm
next to a catscan -- modern art
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
Sometimes I forget what happened, but not completely, just as if I was in a haze. I squint to see through the mist of my recollections and in that moment I feel ten thousand things at once.
I catch myself saying to you in my head, feeling it too, I Love You D - - - - -, and I smile and bask in it for a moment, proudly, warmly. As soon as the words pass silently through my lips, I nearly remember.....
My chest tightens up and air can hardly enter and depart my respiratory system on their usual schedule. The piano falls, crashes, louder than silence itself. Steam escapes my eyelids as the pressure builds up all at once but not a tear passes through. Every nerve in my frozen body is screaming and retching in terror at the thought and I feel the need to run as a child would to his sympathetic mother, but there is nowhere to go, nobody to run to.
I am alone.
I am alone.
I repeat it a thousand times a second trying desperately to process how something impossible like this could have ever happened. The idea of you not being mine any longer can only be described as surreal and unbelievable, a feeling hauntingly similar to how that same mother felt when she received the ominous knock on her front door years later, the way she felt when the triangular bundle of patriotic fabric first made contact with her frail but steadfast fingers. Liquid cold encompasses me as the blood drains straight to my feet and out through the floorboards. All in that same moment I find the strength to inhale. Like the jolt of emergency paddles, I snap back to life as the gears resume their rotations.
This was not just a dream.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
Patterns form across convex corneas
Geometric portraits of tangram animals
Hexagonal-faced lions
Triangular-trunked elephants
etc.
Tessellations of
anagrams
Draped over rods like Batik fabric smoothed over king-sized beds
Calculating Bayesian probability on fingertips
rote
styles
Whispering, "Carry the 1!" to columns of 100s
with a remainder? Try again.
Plot Cartesian coordinates with mechanical pencils
click! click! click!
Crying, "Awwwww.....
you
sunk
my
battleship!"
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when on that day you proclaimed
to have learned nothing and on that
day Dr. A. held no doctorate degree.
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when bodies: sick, overweight, in-shape
fell from buildings and into to TV screens
into history books, only to be stuck forever
in a New York newsreel in their Tuesday
outfits with Monday night’s love and touch
brewing, aged and earthy, from their falling
lives. If you listen closely on the eve of this day
the wind still whispers their scent of perfume
trails, still whispers what really happened
that busy day in the clouds, in the sky.
I was ten and can’t recall where I was
or in whose company but like the waters
stretched between Europe, Africa, and the
America’s, I was (am) far removed, was (am)
still putting together the blue-black lineage
of my triangular history that drowned
in the salty waters stretched, flowing
between three continents. But fifteen
years later, we (you and I) have overcome
the billowing black clouds of Tuesdays
the Monday night upsets, and the routed
maritime of our ancestors. 15 years later
you are still alive with your blue eyes
and clear face, are still four years my senior
are still my guiding light and sight of sun.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC