"zigzagged" poems
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
As the skyline alters its guise
From the lively azure
To an idle whitish hue
Which ended into
A mournful shade of gray
Like the shade in films of retros.
A frightening sound,
A roar from an angry beast echoed
After every glowing zigzagged lines
Which I thought he drew.
Louder it went
Like drum rolls
Of an ill-staged concerto,
But uglier it turned into.
Haunted, I cupped my hands on both ears
Crept under the covers
And wished it all away.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
There was something bittersweet about tangling my arm with yours as we finally crossed (or zigzagged through) the lines that had been blurred for quite awhile now. It was nowhere near a fairytale. Maybe it was something about you being the most beautiful, saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and maybe it was me being drawn to everything sad. Maybe all we had been is a cocktail of alcohol, terminal loneliness, and pent up ****** tensions, brewed somewhere between these nicotine-scented sheets and a series of bad decisions. It’s not love, just wanton desire, I’d say. And you’d agree in the mid of hitched breaths and sloppy kisses. And that was the last thing in our minds before we fumble over the zippers and get lost in each other’s uncharted skin.
Of course deep down, we know that you’re everything that’s bad for me, and that I’m not the type to stay naked in bed the morning after the night to make you pancakes. But the way your lips drugged mine into kissing back, the way we said things we’ll never say when we’re sober, the way there was suddenly too much clothes and too huge gaps between our bodies all seemed comforting and sinfully magical. Of course deep down, we know that we’ll never stand a chance out there doing real-life romance; I wasn’t the one you were looking for, and you were just somebody I found. But right now, in this cramped apartment with leaky ceilings and creaky floors, all I wanna do before sanity rushes back give in to **** this", make all the wrong choices, and self-destruct with you.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
silhouette of sails breezed through the twilight hour,
the working man was long aroused from his sleep,
long strips of inked paper billowed out into the dank alley,
infused with the rotten aroma of yesterday.
the paper-thin veil draped over the construction site,
the working men had their silhouettes enslaved to the sheet,
an arrow of shadow shot through the muted screen of the cinema,
a line of laundry zigzagged the sky overhead, ********** pages of blue,
the rickshaw man was crossing stairs,
toeing winding train tracks, children nimbly dashed past danger
a fisherman was dreaming of secret deluges,
he would oar his way through the overflown streets, catching a dim sum box or two
a seagull fixed its hungry gaze on you, chewing stick
you leaned on the cart you have been pushing, facing habour
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 2:22 PM UTC
We had left early morning for sight of the phallus stone
Dragging our feet through the stones of ice mountains
Our horses plodded on with us some times and without,
Our behinds aching with their bony backs in contact.
Old men sat hunched up in two feet long wooden boxes
On young men's shoulders , latter feet dragging stones
The boxes felt like our old men's journey of no return
To a stone phallus to be bathed in tears in the snow hills
Where they will join a mountain stream and flow as river
To return to plains and land in the seas of their villages.
The mountains were cruel and beautiful to our tired feet
The horses zigzagged their way up with their droppings
Filling the cold air with a warm smell mixed with bodies
Their tails swished unending imaginary flies in behinds
As they were lost to their green dreams of the mountains.
Old men paddled all the way up in their wooden boxes
Crouched as in their mother's stomachs,with eyes shut
From their lips came muttering sounds like buzzing bees
That filled the empty silence of the hills in the morning.
It felt as if it was a return to where they had started out
Where this thing had begun, the sea of their first floating.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
You're funny. When you smile it's like the moon resurfacing over the tide and your eyes aren't stars. But fireflies from the bottom of the box of childhood which I keep in a chest within my chest. In the garden that night, I jumped around and caught those flickering gods and stole them if only momentarily from their kingdoms which stood like metropolitan cities...and the lighted tube that zigzagged like lightning across the heart of that city was simply my heart escaping from me. I liked that night. I must have been about seven or eight. Or five or twenty. Because time does not exist in this chest within the chest. And my childhood never ends. So I'm surprised when I see you sitting across from me.
And for a moment I wonder if you can hear my words floating from the other side of the glass. If the glass exists at all. Sometimes it flickers, you see...like the fireflies. Sometimes even I wonder about my 20/20 vision. Maybe all this time I've been blind. And if so, then I'm glad that I see you. It makes the darkness sleeping underneath the light of my room during the early morning hours bearable. Do you know that you make the night feel more like a mystery than a refuge? And now I've got bags under my eyes which are heavy carrying images of things I don't understand. Of places I haven't been to before but are familiar, like yellow Post-It notes on the refridgerator.
....I don't know what you want exactly. Or what any of the things that are unravelling have to do with me. But we are talking now. And I've stopped shivering so that I could listen to you breathe.
- 10.14.09 9.55 PM
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 1:14 AM UTC
I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.
I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.
We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.
I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.
I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Yesterday, in a fit of laughing passion
and monstrous adrenaline
I spun out of my dorm and
went long boarding.
between the speed wobbles and
maniacal laughter emanating from my
masterful failure, I dreamt slyly that
you were the wheels carrying me crazily
zigzagged through the flushed streets
or maybe
you wove the road that carved
into my emotion- threatening both
that you will act too placidly or at the same time maybe
too precariously. (ripping my shaking
ankles from their humanity and
introducing them suddenly-obnoxiously to Course Pavement) You do have that
kind of capacity you know, to
lift me into a peaceful rest or
throw me into a turbulent anarchic spiral.
But truly you are the 100 % bamboo
flexible fibers flowing
between me and the gravel demise lifting me
gently upon the wind of the road,
the adrenaline that courses through my sporadic
insistence and
the breeze that whites my cheeks and
sings my lullaby relationship between speed
and the thin thread of life
spinning through my caustic veins.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
they are very rough when they sing
their vibratos are intergalactic
high and zigzagged with enormous BOOMS!
and crash into sky
and into Earth
but on Earth they translate the sounds to be birds
and bird wings—they’ve come to call it:
an ornithological phenomenon
how these tiny bodies can emit crashing sounds
from their larynx and feathers
and make them echo around the solar system
is a mystery or two
but no one suspects them
on top of their mountains
surrounded by red sand
tracked with utility vehicles, rovers,
so succulent-free
that you aim to drink the earth
and blink when their proximals help them float
against a martian cold
they bring to the desert false colours;
hues of yellows, greens, and purples
and behind them they leave feathers,
ticklish things to be found by astronaut-scientists
citizens of sand and rocks
which accumulate as field notes tell of their history:
they won’t be catalogued
but they will be arranged by locality
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
skin leaves
traces of
love being made
i outline the
love bites
that once scattered upon
my body
my veins
zigzagged across
my corpse
outlining a struggle so beautiful
my blemished skin
was your notebook
empty to write
such tragic memories
i was your masterpiece
you were my artist
i miss the way
you made my body feel so complete
(b.d.s.)
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
I can't sleep. My head feels like a feather and I feel like zigzagged lines are being cut in my organs. I try to make my way back to dream land by my attempts are futile. I get up and crouch in front of the toilet.
I instantly start to gag, spitting up my dinner from last night. My cheeks are wet from tears, my body hurts. Why am I sick? Was is from the food I ate last night?
My throat burns from the stomach acid. My nose is running. My face looks drained of any peachy color, which was hardly even there to begin with.
I go back to bed to just lay down, deciding to see if I can function on about five hours of sleep for the day. I guess I'm sick, or just frightens by the raging weather that's been occurring, I'll never know.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
Tilly and I went back
to some of old haunts,
one of which was our
lake(Tilly's name for
the pond), and we sat
there on the grass, and
gazed at the water's skin,
sunlight playing there,
and ducks swam, and
the odd swan went by
on the other side, and
dragonflies hovered
over the skin of water,
then zigzagged away.
Love it here, Tilly said,
so peaceful. She lay back
on the grass and looked
up at the sky. I lay beside
her. I was 14 when we
came here that first time,
I said. I was 13, she said
turning to look at me, near
Christmas it was, and cold,
and I had that big coat
my mother made me wear,
she said. That first kiss we
had I can still feel it, I said.
She smiled. Yes me too.
She sighed. Now I’m 17,
she said, and no longer at
school, and have to work,
and not see you as often as
I once did. I gazed at her
eyes, blue and deep. We
work at different places,
at different times, and I’m
in town, and you're out
here in the countryside still,
I said. She put out a hand,
and her fingers touched my
cheek. We made love back
there, she said, it was my
first time, and it seemed
a mixture of adventure and
disappointment, as these
things are at times, and I
remember a squirrel was
up there looking down at us,
and I felt spied on. I smiled,
yes we were, I guess, that
**** squirrel bet it went and
told your mother what it'd seen,
I said. It could have done but
she didn't know thank God;
gosh if she'd known I'd not
be here now, Tilly said. I leaned
towards her, and kissed her lips,
and she hugged me close, and
we lay there kissing, but looking
back, I think it was not there as
it had been; something was missing.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Survival on earth has its ups and downs,
Like a roller coaster taking you on a zigzagged ride.
Pain and pleasure will shift throughout living,
Swinging back and forth usually without any notice.
Destiny’s plan will keep swaying,
As the ride will always consist of rocking.
Even though this journey is full of twist and turns,
We can still learn how to live with fluctuations of life.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 4:58 AM UTC
my favorite time to see her is in the morning
so when i found her in the kitchen
with the orange dawn sunlight
swarming in on her face, i was elated
i felt a rectogenital tingle
she was in last night's liquid eyeliner
& a faded Prince tshirt & just a
bikini bottom as she zigzagged her hips toward me
i ran quickly thru the things
i wished i hadn't said last night
& watched her face bloom into
a pout i was born to kiss
she smelled like new shampoo
& the half joint sitting in the
conchshell ashtray sending its musk
ceilingward in ribbons
when we embraced she let me grab her ***
& that's how i knew all was forgiven
then she sashayed to the percolator &
returned blowing softly on a bulging
mug she ate fruit while i steeped & asked her
what our plan was for the day
"the beach, dummy, look at me"
which i did & she followed my gaze
down & nudged her **** to the side
to tease me with its unfettered sway
& the shifting quotation marks of her *******
against her stretched thin shirt
i slipped into an involuntary squint
as i brought the smoldering paper up
& pinched it to my whistle my gaze lingered
on those coral pink lips but
she kept her eyelids lowered
wrinkled her nose
& stood with one hip out
the other knee bent into the apricot light
& stared not at me but at the
dust motes floating in the soft warm mosaics of light
bouncing in time with the pulse from her temple
& my heart melts volcanic
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC