"whirrs" poems
sitting at the computer
ranting about global tragedy
but only peeking through the slightest slit
barely noticeable curtain rustle
when a physical knock finds the ominous
wooden door
the passive-aggressive activist waits –
the blog whirrs into life…
instilling motivation in others
for the terrors of GMO crops
and the vast wealth of lies
perpetrated by government officials
while quietly munching corn chips
bought on the food stamp card…
the passive-aggressive activist giggles –
buying filtered water
in plastic bottles
and organic produce
from chain grocery stores
taking out personal loans
to give to charity
the passive-aggressive activist
reads John Trudell
only because he just died –
watching CNN because FOX lies
only frequenting local coffee houses
while investing in French sunglasses
mispronouncing the names of countries
unable to be located on maps
while exclaiming the wrongdoings
of his government
after going to college on federal aid programs
promoting the second amendment
with no intention of ever owning a gun
the passive-aggressive activist
waits --
someone will one day send the letter
proclaiming the importance
of the insights
offered –
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Deft hands cut precise whirrs the ceiling fan
closed eyes bar view the scene can't scan
before they reach the ground take windy spin
falling in scattered piles gathered for coffin.
Shreds of gray and black dot the white shroud
little to write about nothing to be proud
don't reduce anymore that's about fine
add not to the growing woes says hairline.
Cool the clime crawls the clock at its own pace
halts the head to think about the changing face
would it look better or yield a worse clown
ridiculed by one and all folks of the town.
Nothing can be done enough damage is done
fiercely to blow the heat waits fiery sun
over sir says barber open my eyes
the one in the mirror doesn't look any wise.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
The heater purrs
its motor whirrs
the sound comforts
news channels flicker
their obscene obsessions
basking in the vast
nothingness
of political chess
and my dogs rest
giving sanity and love
for a dollar a day
and my dreams
are practiced
waiting
for the boredom
of consciousness
to succumb
which it will
as the heater purrs
©2012 Lyn
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Walking back barefoot
through summer's empty barracks
on the outer, upper edge
of my homework home.
Feeling the freedom of my feet
beneath a damp and gentle breeze,
the moon reveals the room
through which I let them roam.
With solitary silence,
I can pause and light a fire,
watch the ember enter in,
setting thoughts ablaze.
Holding a holy ounce of hope
below this tightly guarded soul
that there appears a stair
between our summer days.
The dancing dewdrops
sparkle and coat my feet anew,
and splash my every other over
with the starry skies.
Taper the tales where I'm detained,
creating paths to doors and gates,
to find a place to shine
like glitter in your eyes
a million little mirrors that flash and blink
and capture my imagination
as it floats on the clouds of a single flutter
and flies away through the river breeze
bringing all at once a peace and a fervor
and a reason to believe in the feeling
for this beacon before me
we frolic through flocks of freaks
to find a vacant space between them
and create our own vibrations
between the mad machine music
alive with beats and fidgets and dripping sound
bravely bouncing to blips and whirrs
to find our bliss within the instant
you stand there bopping smiling glowing
shining brimming sparkling flowing
rattle my heart like the limb of a tree
the girl on the rope swing attached underneath
and as witness to your swaying grace
it just can't help but palpitate
one by one i count the miracles
you
here
beautiful
and beside me
i am with you
my pocket's treasures are intact
and you're enjoying them
the music is masterful
the weather is wonderful
and there's a smile pasted on your face
and everything comes easily
and nobody's ruining our fun
and there is nothing that stands between me
and my hope
that someday
you will see as i see
our paths intertwining
like strands of dna
encoded through our souls
a beautiful future
worth risking a thousand lives
just to brush my fingertips against
worth the worst hurt in the world
just to try and climb for the summit
and even if i collapse en route
and even if you shoot me down
and even if a landslide unites me with the ground
i will rest in peace
because this time
i *******
tried.
I'm not in love.
But I am in love
with the idea
of being
in love.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
windy whirrs, flying birds
darkened lights, clouded nights
whiter snow, seeds that grow
growing sound, world spins round
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
I slash open
the fine lines
of my veins
to let in the
starry breath
of night
fresh and fiery
as a snap of chaos
left out
in the firmament
to chill,
the frigid air
weaving an
icy filigree
upon the black
cooling my blood
soothing the
night creatures
that swerve and sway
beneath my skin
restless as tiny demons
always locked away,
within
They emerge from
their hibernation
into the gelid
crackle of air,
zipping over the
sheens of ice floes
unstopped by sudden
change in climate
frozen moss between
their claws, their toes
In this icicle-dipped
troposphere
a burning
descends upon
my tastebuds
just as if
you have
kissed me
the ebbs
of time seemingly
bringing you closer
an energetic wrapping
up and through
my being
like the breathiest of
polar mist
and as I gaze up
at the tiny
wisps of light,
lustrous as the
full moon scattered,
the astral plane
whirrs deep within me
stirring up my womb
ploughing the fields
of my mind
creating riverflow
from icy drought
soothing the
cuts and fissures
and rocky edges
of my aching
prophetess
heart
Fragile yet callused,
toughened with time
as it beats
beneath the ice
soft as the inside of
a wounded animal
blessed by its hunters
for making itself a gift
to the tribe
apparently
your warrior's
palm alone
can melt it
down
and sometimes,
as I get
lost inside deeply
wild tundras,
suddenly
I'm
found
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
A warped mirror perhaps?
My face always twisted,
always grimacing behind a dry beam.
Two Tylenols are never enough.
Ella.
A lump caught in my throat.
Her scent walks by,
uninvited, yet welcomed.
A blurred outline,
a cutout blocking the light.
I yearn to sweat nightmares
out of my pores.
At night, her voice still fogs
the thick wall of silence—
muffled.
“Are you listening?”
Obscured echoes stir
down the pit of this endless night.
Tulips grow somewhere
on the side of the bed,
where it whirrs and beeps,
and reeks of alcohol.
But the night is ever still,
unperturbed, as it sleeps in my arms.
Murmurs drift like dust motes,
caught in a sunbeam—
Ella.
I chase shadows of her laughter,
fading out against gushing white noise.
Fingers twitch to speak,
for words are somehow
lost in static.
The walls hum a song,
croaking with hurt it sounds—
“Stay with me,” it pleads,
but my indifference swallows
the words.
In the spaces between breaths,
I linger suspended.
Ella might be digging me out.
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 8:27 PM UTC
mute, dumb, the fan whirrs
sweeping first left, then right,
all around the waiting room,
seeing all, doing nothing,
from its perch on the wall.
chairs, mostly full
with faces furrowed deep
by worry, sorrow, fear.
in one, yesterday’s newspaper,
half- unread, like yesterday’s bride.
just beyond, the triage--
with the presiding nurse
in pristine white, oozing
professional empathy
and tight-fitting oomph.
anxious eyes peering
through the slit curtain
into the emergency room…
was that my dad crying in pain
or the guy with the broken leg?
inside that curtained cubicle
men in masks
squeezing life out
like one does a near-empty
tube of toothpaste.
silent, violent, sobs
from the son and daughter.
was that their uncle
who lends them his shoulder?
maybe, just maybe, the doc was wrong?
from that perch up on the wall,
the fan keeps whirring,
seeing all, doing nothing
sweeping first left, then right
is that fan god?
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.
Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.
Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.
I can only imagine if Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
The water licked his temples,
Whispering calming threats of its depth
He smiled, half-murmured a song to the air,
Balancing his limbs gently to stay afloat.
The pulse of the lake lulled him,
Its heavy beat just like his own.
Light and warmth spread to the bones of his chest
He was luminous, a pale angel easy with the world.
Something so beautiful was also so bound
To disappear from the shallow world of metallic hums
And jarring whirrs
That clash with water's gentle music.
And so he faded.
Arms spread-eagled to the endless body surrounding,
Listening to the surging kiss
Of the only force strong enough to carry him.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
Linking the ritual chronology of the past few days in accordance with 'The Boy's' 21st birthday. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, but unsure if that was the ambition at all. Linking the rites of spring with the rites of summer, endless summer, indian summer, endless ****** no longer sure, were we ever, and did we ever want to be?
The seasonal threshold coupling the brutality of summer freedom. All those years on the bench in systemic education, waiting, counting the days until the breakout of summer, the breakout of the nation-wide epidemic of drips of sweat rolling down foreheads, cars racing up and down the highway going anywhere but home, if only for a few minuscule hours of freedom. Not really knowing what to do; the only certain knowledge; that doing anything is better than doing something, whatever that means.
Proud proletarian patriot, hating with every inch the structure and the scaffold, the zephyr swishing and swooshing over the surface of the storefront, while the air condition whirrs away, in a little town on a little island in a massive inlet in a vast sea, tossing and twisting, raging and blistering with the toils of work, throwing rhetorical fists in the air like-you-just-don't-care, with drops of Digital Ink. –with that strange symbiotic disharmony that emits from the boy's fingers, fuelled with every every-day stimulant, caffeine, nicotine, THC; Trembling Hallucinogenic Creation. The ongoing tremble of uncertain fingers, searching for a certain certainty he knows he'll never see.
And therein lies the tragedy
But also the beauty.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
My best thoughts arrive when
I wait for my towels to be cleaned.
Leaning over the sturdy white machine,
contemplating life's intricacies
and delving into quixotic thoughts only suitable
for my delicates in their spin cycle,
that's when it happens.
Suddenly, as the bumps and whirrs of a laundry room
fill my headspace, I am
Socrates, I am Plato,
one finger heaven-oriented as my clothes spin,
spin, spin.
I can only imagine that Phaedo was
conceived in the throes of ancient laundering.
As slaving women with their washboards
worked tirelessly on his thinking linens,
that's when Plato must have done his
best philosophizing,
when Napoleon felt his tallest.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Like a well oiled engine, my heart whirrs in pleasure at your sight
Found a biker boy and rode into the sunset
I'm a ship honey. Take me from my harbor
A sailor caught my helm and sailed into the horizon
Are you a black hole? Because you **** me in.
The physicist sat me on his lap and we got lost in space
Are you Messi ? Because I'm a Ballon d'or.
Shots were fired. Goals were scored. And they ruled the field together.
I have reached the top tier of Maslow's needs.
After extensive psychoanalysis, we found our counselors in each other.
If you're a rebuttal point, I'll always have you covered.
She and the debater found their grey patch amidst the black and white.
I'll make you a sandwich if you are male, white and a misogynist.
She found love with the racist and waited on him hand and foot.
I'll draw your heart with HB pencils and make an acrylic out of our relationship.
The artist found her bluetiful and incRedible.
I'm a South Indian who loves dosa, an uneducated Bihari, the patanjali promoting Hindu, the Muslim terrorist, the Christian converter, the Russian spy, the fake Chinese, the blond cheerleader, the ladyless female football player, the classy British, the poor illiterate, the fat American, the mannerless slum dweller, the conservative Indian woman, the dumb **** the unromantic geek, the bald science teacher, the old librarian, the charisma less nerd......
Stereotype found it's soulmate and lived happily ever after.
I fall in love with words. Ink is my blood. Emotions and thoughts are my food.
The poet smirked and said," Haha! Nice try."
~Pacific Wolf
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
The shower curtains gets stuck to my
leg as if it knows I need to feel a
comforting touch.
The kettle steams my glasses
and gifts my eyes a rest.
At night the fan whirrs and rotates
as if scanning the rooms for threats.
Living alone isn’t as lonely
as you might think.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 3:55 PM UTC
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Your honour.
Play the evidence”
The sound of a projector whirrs
As wind in a snail shell.
TAKE ONE.
REPLAY.
“The defendant knew the man,
Had talked to him on train stations,
But kept it as hidden as a brief encounter.
He knew this man liked that band,
Not liked, loved,
And the defendant had a whole playlist to recommend and a whole compilation of
Critical readings on Post-Britpop to articulate.
However!
the defendant being
Slow and mollusc minded.
He kept his oyster shut.
SLOW THE FILM!...”
The whirring whizzes to ticking,
As nagging as potentially productive hours.
“Slowing the footage,
we can see
That his mouth even hesitantly gaped for a second.
Not one of his greatest hits was it?”
Ha,
I think,
No need to punish me.
I do that deed upon myself.
My pen scribbling, clicking,
Ticking,
Whirring,
In my head at night,
With conversations I never had.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
I can't sleep, though my eyes are weary,
I can't eat, though my stomach is empty.
I can't dream, though my mind is restless,
I can't think about nothing but you.
My muscles clenched and aching,
My heart throbs fast and strong.
the fear that i could lose you,
makes my body cry out in pain.
I'll try desperatley to hide it,
I'm not as strong as you,
though i try.
Lifes not worth living,
without you by my side.
The night whirrs and howls,
calls to me,
but i stay hidden.
I don't want what i used to,
My future dosn't matter,
unless its with you.
Do you want other people?
Just make the hurting stop,
What did i do wrong,
to push you away?
Just tell me that you love me,
That you can't live without me.
Even if your lying,
I'd rather nto face the pain,
the truth,
not tonight.
Shh; wait for the sun,
Idont want to wake up.
Let me lie here,
Warm in your arms.
Kiss my wouds,
Heal me,
Stop the pain.
Be the one i need most,
My heart is breaking.
carry me through,
You promised me you'd keep me safe from pain.
I trust you,
I love you,
I need you,
I dont care past is past.
She wont have you,
Not while i still need you.
I always will,
Will you?
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
I’m Imagining a place where we make sense - the hot-chocolate
safe-house where we’ll tongue wrestle, watch Gossip Girl reruns
and cuddle - sustained by love and Cinnamon Life cereal.
This dark, coffin-like clock in the corner whirrs, mechanically.
Suddenly a little yellow-clock-bird bursts, jumping-jack-like,
through a tiny door on a blue, tongue-suppressor diving board.
“Cuckoo!” it shrieks, to mock me. “Shut up!” I say defensively
but it repeats, “Cuckoo!” like an oracle - an unfeeling instrument
of adult logic.
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 5:53 AM UTC
four students
printed out sudoku
ac unit whirrs in the room
the disappointment pressed
slacks
too sunk for
integrals and L'Grange
krooser warms my desk
eyelids drooping
sentences left in the birches
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 1:21 AM UTC
Errant little lights ~
of colors marvelous ~
tiny whirrs and whistles ~
sing so sonorous ~
Oh, how they whip and whirl ~
about my silly form ~
tiny, little, laughing lightning ~
tiny little storm ~
the wind abides to swirl my sleeves ~
and offers naught but heat’s reprieve ~
to gaff in gathering gifts so grim ~
the world delights in whimsy-whim
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
It is very faint. The
Memory whirrs about
In my mind, like an
Old VHS tape. Cold
Static, drawing across
My faintest conceptions.
A grey recording of
A time past, old and
Gone. The bright screen
Under the dark sheets,
The cool August night.
That music. All of it
Faint, hewn in static,
Bleeding from decades
Of being replayed. Now
All I can do is struggle,
Struggle to remember.
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC
The bus whirrs and shakes and brakes and errrs
and I think of you.
It stinks and clanks and clinks
and I think of you.
Its silence is screaming, its distance is gleaming
and I think of you.
I'm far away and exhausted and the bus excretes exhaust
and I think of you.
I burr and shake and brake
and I think of you.
and I think of you.
and I think of you.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
It's... an issue of access. I suppose.
Can you imagine how my hair curls? Into my skull
as a soft collapse outwards. Each one is named "me", as if
wonderfully parcelled as phrenology. If you grasp at me
here, then
I become something else. Or simply shoot
me and see
then what happens to my head. I mean that I wish
to be considered
as the way that we look
at lavender, and how our eyes emerge from their beads.
Your pupils are two bees buzzing towards the night.
Focused, stumbling whirrs. You see
that I am scared of your looking? A sting
is a question of when; and with it, your vanishing.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:12 PM UTC
beauty is the mind,
the subtle tickings
and whirrs,
that make up thoughts.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC