"twisty" poems
Because he was the robin, see
I built him a birdhouse made of the fingernails I chipped from every time I was forced to button up my own flannel shirt
It was quite silly and awkward-looking
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
It would take a lot of fake smiles and wooden blinds to tolerate a habitation such as the one I constructed for him
So it didn't bother me when he didn't want to live there
When he told me he was making a nest I took a paring knife from the kitchen drawer
When he told me he was making a nest I gave him 10 inches of weave to (through) the twigs
When he told me there were lots of split ends and varied shades
I wasn't too hurt because it was true
And I knew he would use twisty ties from bread bags instead
Which were much more practical than 10 inches of lover's hair
I just couldn't understand why he didn't give it back
He misplaced it, he said
How can you misplace something I had (longed) for him
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
I stand on the scale
I look at the number
I'm fat
I way over 140lbs
What am I doing wrong?
I barely eat anything
She steps off the scale
Walks over to the counter
And opens the cupboard
Peanut butter
She untwists the twisty ties
Grabs two pieces of white bread
Places them in the toaster slots
Pulls down the lever
For ten seconds
Pulls it up
Pulls it down
Waits ten more seconds
Pulls it up
Takes it out
Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges
Starts eating it
Nom nom nom
Her dog moves close to the counter
And begs
She walks away
Drops a few crumbs
And the dog eats it up
And follows her into the living room
And looks up
Nom nom nom nom
She just looks at the dog
Puts her bare foot against his nose
Which is cold
And the dog doesn't even move
Sticks his tongue outside his mouth
And breathes quickly
Stupid
She puts her foot back down
And moves it against the rug a few times
Then walks into the kitchen
And opens a bag
Of salt and vinegar chips
Starts eating them
Nom nom nom nom
Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor
She walks back upstairs
And the dog follows her
To her room
She shuts the door
And the dog starts scratching through the bottom
And barks
She just lays in her bed
Eating
The dog barks again
She opens the door
And pushes him
With her right foot
Down the stairs
He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor
He races back up
Gets pushed back down
Dog runs away
She walks towards the bathroom
And uses the other scale
And she sees that it says 141 lbs
I've only been eating for a few minutes
Errrr
She closes the bag of chips
And stomps downstairs
And places the bag on the counter
Dog waits in the living room
Right next to the kitchen
His food bowl is empty
No water
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
are you generally happy?
a semi-innocuous query
now actualized as a two sided bladed poker,
hot stabbing me smack dab in
the chests hollow crown bullseye,
continuously, as in all life long, and eternal longing for a
“yes”
it fits inside a pubescent aged wound that
refreshes with every breath;
a life long struggle for an accurate definition,
be a general of genuine happy,
that alone would deliver, bringing on bright day satisfaction
as a human, one operates on parallel continuums;
slide slipping on well oiled poles that over the years,
their lengths, increasing with add-on extender poles
formed by
twisty turny slips and falls of sundered hearts and sad loves,
marriages nicknamed Titanic, children found and lost,
complications responsibilities that are denied meeting the words
“The End”
a life that many would envy, questioning what’s wrong
with you dude, are you blinded to the riches yours,
reality is
shoulders permanently bent, a spine that’s held together by
spit and solder and curved by wearying wearing longing for
a straightness that is also called crooked unobtainable
and a piece of a peace that comes and goes
like a highway billboard that you pass too fast to be fully read
the body is corroding and worser yet to come and that’s a hand
you selected - luck of the self-selecting-drawing -
the opioids of the mind offers are rejected
the clarity of painful self exploration valued overall -
the place where the poems come from,
and go to die,
a landscape of a scene repeatedly visualized
but never been and never left,
the crazy contradictions come in two flavors;
vanilla smiles and chocolate weeping of tears that have
etched pathways cheek-chiseled
the city is a struggling strife for most,
the next red line on the side
of the measuring cup and
everyone has a cell, a credit card,
and a measuring cup
<•>
here I stop can’t finish
someone missing alerts me
to their real worlds troubles
making my complaints super superficial but
the silent running of the stilleto
cuts shallow
repeated hourly
the cut color,
pitch black
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 2:05 PM UTC
"And the older I get, the more I'm sure
That more by itself never was a cure
Some days I've got nothing to show for except
Walking the dog and walking the floor"
Mary Chapin Carpenter
<><><>
*it's been twenty years plus
who can remember exact,
the last time I had a full-time four-legged
companion to share my bed, greet my head with
wagging tail, and joy incessantly, overflowing and drowning me
with face lickings and hugs of a topsy turvy twisty body,
and smiles and curdling yowls of deep throated
cries of obvious joy and the
first thing I'll do when the nectar of next
life's staging begins to commence will be me to get
such a dog as heretofore I remember as an unadulterated purest joy,
I'll still walk the floor,
long walks, yup, outdoors, early morn,
and late afternoon day settling setting endings,
dog and me, freshly bathed, settling in to watch
some British crime and ****** mysteries sleuthed and
solved by folks I'll never meet, but whose company enjoyed
over the distance of an atlantic sea and about seven feet,
and maybe dog curls up next to me, by my pillowed
head, or between my happy to snuggle legs,
don't matter much, dog & me,
will discuss an alternating
rotation satisfying our
mutuality,
and even when I still walk the floor, which be a task for evermore,
he can walk beside me if he chooses, cause choice is
what's it all about*
with a true companion
nml
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
She walked barefoot in the desert and wore desert boots to bed.
My baby was topsy turvy dipsy swervy crossed up curvy clean out of her head.
A cast iron face that kept the truth bound and shackled.
Deep inside her head.
Self deception was her stock in trade and every choice she ever made was reasoned Wearing blinders.The snake that ate her tail
Her logic was.
Circular in nature no ending or beginning. Which guaranteed her winning
Regardless.
But only in her twisty wheelhouse.
Crazy as aa ********* rat.
Twisting facts into tasty pastry.
Seving them up on shiny ware.
Neither here nor either there
Calculating slipknot tension
Telling tales too tall to mention
The daughter of the pretzel maker
Part deluded.Rabid faker.
Pretzel logic
Pretzel minded.
Twisted now and twisted later.
Down the road I go.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
our conversations are all in blue.
i try not to mind it,
like i try not to mind the hair falling out of my scalp.
you're just busy being unattached to me.
i make excuses for you as easy as i double text.
they flood my head like mantras,
but not the kind that make you feel calm or loved.
it's more like telling yourself you won't throw up after the twisty roads up the mountain.
but i want to see the view with you.
so i keep sending you blue paragraphs filled with 'sorry's and 'i love you's.
you send the same grey 'i love you, too's.
and we call it communication.
i'm the driver and the passenger
the carsick kid trying not to throw up and the toddler asking over and over if we're there yet.
but i want to see the view with you.
would it hurt to send a grey paragraph? or ask me,
in your best whine,
if we are at the top yet?
throw up in my lap. drive me crazy.
ask me for the aux cord and i'll give it to you.
i'm done listening to this album on repeat.
i want to hold your hand without worrying if your fingers are numb and you just don't want to hurt my feelings.
this car needs more you.
and i don't mean the you dressed in grey half messages that you probably rewrote three times.
i need the you that talked about faking our deaths together
like it was the only part of life worth living.
wearing that laugh you always say is too loud,
but really it sounds like music.
i like my music loud and angry.
and ****** at your parents for being expired versions of themselves, always expecting you to be organic.
i need that you like i need a vice.
because that's who i want to see the view with.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 3:13 AM UTC
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
1.
white chapel on a hill
sheep dot rugged, earthy slopes
ruminate on warm, sun-kissed dale
endless lines and lines of verdant tones
late afternoon sun slanting
behold, jaune compassion
alfalfa ocherous leans willowy in wind
distance of silence yearns on
afternoon shadows lie within majestic vales
powder-blue ranges in 3D tiers
shadowy rifts, like a painting out of heaven
lone tree not alone, reaches up
blinding turns and rust-coloured bends, twisty trails
two on horseback, apples for sale
reservoir as a hold all for all
brown mud is where redemption lies.
2.
sun dips away, out of reach
beyond the eye's catch
step out car
feel the ping of silence, deeply-alive zing
crowd in and then,
into the slot of torched horizon
the orange world slips . . .
S T, 19 May 2013
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 6:29 AM UTC
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
The Straw Furniture (Summertime and the Living is Easy)
The ancient straw furniture, yellow-white, cracked,
My boon companions from the Sun Room where I write,
Give me a welcome back embrace and purposely snag my sweater,
Crackling a laugh and tween boisterous gasps, all wish me a hearty
Welcome back ancient mariner, to your cottage
On the bluff overlooking Peconic Bay.
The deck furniture exhumed from the garage,
Accompanied by a parade, nay a slew,
Of spiders and insects waving Adieu to their winter palace
Climb aboard to get a better view of their new deck digs,
And of me, the anti-hero of their grandparent's tales.
I go down to the basement.
Chagrined,
I come back up the twisty stairs
which designed, aimed to maim,
vowing never to return.
The refrigerator says do you like modern art?
Mold of multifarious colors, heavenly hues worthy of the
Museum of Modern Art,
I bequeath to you freely, no charge!
The clean laundry left out from last summer,
Looks so forlorn, asks politely,
Make me gone, wash away the winter's dusty grime,
Besides, traces of aged balsamic suntan lotion, still inhabit.
The golf clubs say nice meeting you,
Tho we think we met you once before,
Five or eight years or even never-years ago, was it not?
My obedient servants?
No, my friends, my helpers, my guides,
For in their sheltering embrace, in this holy place,
Inspiration floods, overcomes me and I am compelled alive,
Poet renewed, ****** why am I crying...
May 26th
10:15 AM
Shelter Island
In the Sun Room, weeping.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
To be a daisy maiden
with fragile fingers in my hair,
Is not who I came to be,
though strength lived inside this vessel fair.
So burdened I was, with thoughts of
clever rapport and satire deeds.
Catching the intense beauty all around
not just looking within me.
I walked barefoot on muddy journeys,
collecting trinkets too precious and plain.
Graceless bellows of happy words shouted out
never caring for judgements name.
So when I came across a devilish looking man,
a humble heart in disguise.
I surely followed that tether
feeling my solitude world's final demise.
.
What I saw was a bit frightening, slightly...
only because of his eyes.
They were not uncommon but still unique,
something behind them I recognized.
They held secrets and wonder,
twisty worlds and something familiar.
Showed me tales and revealed quiet emotions.
I swear they were something of a mirror.
So when he disappeared from my sight
but called to me with his lingering light.
Laid out subtlety but inviting none the less.
I started after, caring not for the rips of my traveling dress.
Climbing up toward his castle of
vibrant colors and crests.
Venturing inside to find where the human delight
my sticky heart believed had come to rest.
Finding him sitting front row waiting docile in a chair,
I proceeded ahead with a confident flare.
Unbeknownst at first while focusing on the one
I was chasing.
There was an obstacle in waiting like a beast's heavy pacing.
Past lives and insecurity followed this creature about.
Like wasps hunting a victim waiting to make them shout.
A mask of confusion clouded this face simmering with doubt.
Trying to reach toward me, to let go and get out.
He said there was hope in his heart
but demons he still had to conquer.
He was so lonely and wanting to love
but feared he was too tired.
I responded that
if it's your evils that chase you
down to the pyre.
Well, I guess we are meant to be,
for I am a dragon slayer
And I too, breathe fire.
©NDHK
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:13 AM UTC
Delight in these words,
As I enlighten your mind.
Twist and tie your tongue,
until you are twisty tied, its fun.
Your tongue, entangled with mine.
After just meeting for the first time,
in this precious moment; of a lifetime.
I cross the fine line, of your life line
until our lines are entwined.
Entangled encryption
the meaning defined.
Everything happened,
to cause this moment,
Our stars must of aligned,
now our minds intertwined.
Juices flowing ripper than wine.
this scripture use to glow, now it shines.
your literal needs, encompassing mine.
The thoughts alone; truly divine.
These words, sinking into your unruly mind.
Our lips synchronized,
with the sinister hands of time.
The moment everlasting, in our minds,
even after -- the second time.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).
Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.
I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.
There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.
Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.
Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.
My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” **** war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 3:30 PM UTC
Everything is closing in on me
I am trapped in this small place
The darkness slowly encasing my bones
It’s like I’m drowning
Trying to come up for air,
But falling back down
It seems I’m becoming dark and twisty again
Not seeing the light
But at the same time being blinded
To answer your question about being okay or not
I’m okay,
I learned
I moved on
Yeah, I’m stuck in a dark place
But aren’t we all?
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
The Back Roads
Somehow, you always take the back roads.
Narrow. Twisty. The long way around.
Supposedly slow.
And yet, not. That habit you have
of driving too fast for the road
gets you there fast as the highways,
dangerous and exhilarating
both.
About this poem
A bit of history. A bit of now. Some of it has to do with roads.
The picture I used on my blog (www.quarryhouse.us) with this was taken just down the road from my home in West Pawlet, VT.
Tom
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 1:24 PM UTC
in this blue sphere
dancing twisty crimson foxtrots
in pumpkin cream lightflower gardens
where incandescent rose quartz chrysanthemums bloom too.
We speak indigo vibrations
as our hearts glow emerald green
like a single flame illuminates a cave.
Upon an embrace,
bathed in foamy white light
floating away in theta waves
in an azurite lightning whisky bottle.
We go with our FLOW.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Who shall remain to speak of Eden sleeping?
When gone the earth, our splendid garden
left of backward dreaming
and all the glorious twisty tendril reaches
vines to cling to life, anew the greening seasons
Alone the fields in September shades, grains
of wheat and rye will not play, of fall's refraining
or sing the cat birds strange meowing
Once rows and rows, the fields flowed,
fed heavenly our daily bread
before the GMOs
Unearthly - sick the flocks afield
no bees about, the headless flowering yields
all the gifts, the seeds of life cannot be found again
we've decimated Eden
http://www.greenmedinfo.com/blog/dows-deadly-harvest-return-agent-orange
There's hope:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6P03nNeYiJo&feature;=related
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:13 PM UTC
I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But I admit, there’s something about the way the bird in my chest starts to sing your name and I pray you can’t hear it with every step I take away from you.
Instead of meeting yours, my eyes wander away together, because they have better things to do than have pointless conversations— I shush them and push them slowly towards you, because those “pointless conversations” are the only ones we have
There’s nothing really remotely handsome about you. In fact, I can see your mother whenever I look at you: the long bridge of your nose, the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, you were a total momma’s boy, but I remember hearing of adventures with your father—skiing, hiking, camping—all rugged outdoors-y activities that I could only dream of doing or even enjoying.
I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But there’s something about the way you touched my hand briefly that made my ears burn—perhaps you were a lit candle, and I was an ice sculpture of nothing in particular, so when we touched I cried out in pain, but I wanted to bring you closer
There’s this tone in your voice when we talk, and it speaks nothing of love at all—not for me, or anyone in the room. You talk to me as you would a child, a young girl, your sister’s best friend—and I am all of that. I should learn to be content with that
I remember hearing about a girl in your life, and I don’t think I knew what to feel. I shared in with sisters’ and your mother’s teasing whispers about her, in their hushed laughter. I didn't share what another part of me felt—something strange and twisty, like licorice, and no matter how long you chewed on it, it never got smaller, never disappeared, but it did manage to leave a strange taste in your mouth.
I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you.
But nothing stopped me from going up to my sister last night to tell her: “I think I have a problem.” I like to think of myself as “reasonable”, but no matter what I thought, I couldn't reason with myself. I couldn't find the exact moment, the exact word, and the exact reason for why I felt this about you.
We've known each other since your sister and I were small. Even then, I avoided you, and you did the same. There was nothing we could talk about—you were into sports and I was into dolls. I’d hide away with your sister in our imaginary lands, and you were probably at hockey practice, but you were the first boy I've talked to and that scared me.
What am I to you, anyway? I've been told I was a part of the family…do you think so too? Do you follow the unspoken rules like I’m desperately trying to? Do you wonder, at all? I try to block you out of my thoughts, push you away as if you were like vegetables on my plate. There’s nothing about you, logically speaking, that should make me think about you.
I don’t love you.
In fact, I don’t even like you. So why is this happening?
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Cool winds circling round, deep emerald ocean pond,
in dancing waves you play salty summer songs
of weathered boats and rustic harbor homes.
Seagulls perched about the lawns, some on rooftops peering down
flower baskets overfilled, spilling mad their colors on the ground.
A vacant nest amid the vines so twisty, Springtime birds have all flown
leaving remnant feathers of shell and bone.
Seaweed floats, it clings, wrapped to posts and rings
ocean otters sleeping sound at bay
in a sky of blue, changing hues
soon drifts away the day.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
little drops of me start
melting into the velvet skies,
i'm a hot sticky
dark and twisty
mess that needs to
go away into the
mysteries of the night.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
I remember the old tree with apples galore
Which lived in our garden right near the back door
His branches were twisty with all sorts of knots
With fruit to feed many, from a time once forgot!
He looked really posh with his head in the air
And he was my friend and long hours we did share
Up high in his branches where birds sometimes flew
In a make believe kingdom where dreams did come true!
When needing escape from the trivia’s of school
I’d climb high in his branches and wept like a fool
I’d tell him my downfalls and he’d lend me his ear
Then he’d rock me so gently, and away went all fear!
The old house we lived in was too old for repair
Then an order was served, to evict us from there
In the garden of my childhood where things came to pass
Mere mortal and nature,with a fondness to last!
So I’ll remember the old tree with apples galore
Whom lived in our garden right near a back door
There was more to the old tree than apples or wood
His branches held comfort, and his heart had much love!
© by LynnKaren
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
An arrogant frost begins to melt,
dripping from the red shingles
onto the progressively muddy ground,
where dark green lines sprout,
erasing the icy past.
Slow growth of small buds
colored pink, red, yellow, and white
take the dream of warmer days
as a twisty hot mirage
strikes the distance.
Life shakes the leaves off the tree,
as all turns bitterly dark,
orange and brown,
and crumpled up on the sidewalk,
chilling down to the beat
of the pidder padder of rain.
Warmth is removed from sensations,
colors fade from a distance to white,
glazed with the purest icing
as the world turns a new shade of grey,
colored only by the feeling of crystals
glimmering like diamonds.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC