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Andrew Rymill Poem
...A poem
is a spoon
that you can bend
with your mind.
It depends on psi
if you
are mutant
X or Y
a paranormal opportunity
or a wild talent
of psionic penmanship .
Stare at the pattern
on the handle
as you imagine
the handle
either roses or unicorns
are emblazon here.
So much the better
as your mind
bends the words
and the metal obeys...
Spoon begins to tremble
there is no knife
to run away with.
Then comes
the period
like an empty plate.
to contain
a bent spoon
with squeezed letters...
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Rymill Poem
wind always knows
it limitation
as it writes its swirling
scripts upon threadbare roof.
lamentations for the
fields of empty prairies
as the dry leaves rustle
in strings of grass…
i do not know
my boundaries
the geographical shapes
of my darkness
for life
has been left empty
with only a puppy
of narrowness
to feed
scraps of plain verse too
how the tail wagged for years
as empty …
i light candles
like images on the window
of my smile
for the sputter of light
is much more reassuring
than the breathless darkness.
i recite my own alphabets
that i have
hidden in the mysteries of my throat
and marvel as the moonlight passes
through the simple words
the trellises of upper
and lower case
shades i have formed
with my craftless hands
and letters
speak upon the glass
of outside
like frost
for i have found my true words
and they fit my squalor
with a strength of calmness
for darkness cannot
abide in smallness
so it leaves me
as the darkest raven
ever imagined…
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Rymill Poem
Please strike
the piñata
i have made for you
out of the stripes of paper
and the glue,
In the midnight hour
i have labored long
on this plump pig
of collaged letters.
with corrugated metaphors
Sightless Find the weakest point.
let that guide
your hand
the transparent rose
cellophane
wrapped candy
shall flow
in libation of sound
pour down
like a quirky rainstorm
bouncing
like silver
coins
on the sidewalk
of your mind.
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Rymill Poem
Float above you
My cat
Though small
Is a
Mighty hunter.
Often trophies
She left
On my door
From her nightly stalking.
A robin that
Will never fly
Trilling couplets
In cloud stained skies.
A mouse that will
Never scurry
In the wood-grain walls.
Chanting lays
About the stacking of
Heroic cheese.
On a dark night
When i heard
My cat’s claws
Scratching entry upon
The rude squared door.
“Let me in…”
The claws implored
“To the stone
Hewn hearth
Where the wisp
Of a flame does crackle.
Where a bowl
Of warm milk
Waits for me
To pay for my cat chores…”
“Enough my cat”
i am simple
Imagine my surprise
As i open my door.
To find the moon
Shriveled on my
Porches threshold.
The moon
With two
Auspicious bite marks
on it corners.
The moon
Belongs to everyone
Luckily i had
Some bandages
And dandelion oil
To clean and wrap
The poor moon wounds.
The moon sang to me
In this blessed fortnight
Of times in deep history
Before the bards.
When she shinned
Above the lands of man.
Like ghostly jewel among the stars.
Before the woods
Had written elegies
in leaf of their limbs.
Before fire deluge
Burned cracks in the walls
Leaving kiln marks
Upon the mountain castles
In the kingdoms of forgotten kings
And unknown peoples.
i nursed the moon
With tea of thousand wild flowers
And the dew that dripped
Upon the crimson skin
Of gleaming strawberries.
How the petals floated
On surface of my teacup.
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2014
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Andrew Rymill Poem
often have i
starved for stars
as i have seen them
hang delicious
as nocturnal nounlings.
famished
how you gleam
in taste desired
upon the thin mouth
of my inward eyes.
nebulas are sweet
in counting
within the chamber of the throat.
how often when
the bread was thin
and butter non-existent
in days of empty childhood
space of smooth tables
washed of the suggestions of crumbs.
i looked out the frosted
cold windows
of my simple habitation.
Infinities how you fill up
oh stars…
how you minister to my secret hunger
plump like fruit on the transparent limbs
of the infinite invisible tree
of the cosmos.
unfed knowledge is
its own rich pudding
as my stomach growls
as a kitten in teacup .. .
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Rymill Poem
Geese are
Not gifted
Spellers.
They write
Poems
In their eggs.
The letters
Cannot
Be separated
From their yokes.
In the court
Of the Blue King
Atrocious spelling
Is called “Goose-spelling.”
Turn of phrases
That cannot
Be separated
From its image.
Conversely Wicked spelling
Is known as Dragon-spelling.
Where quatrains
May spontaneously combust
Burning the finger
Of luckless scribes.
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2014
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Andrew Rymill Poem
to those that read the map
that is printed for this moment.
i leave the letters open to trap you.
remember poetry is misdirection,
by way of words.
Branching symbols speaking themselves
are new glasses for the world…
if you must steal grapes
from the vineyards of the gods.
do not as the proverbial fox
reject them because they hang
just out of touch.
do it early while your young…
for it is embarrassing in ones hoary age
to forgot why
you have climbed over the wall
to claim impetuously imagination’s
shapely fruit.
feel your way through
the stanza and the wayward lines
tap upon metaphors to find the secrete chamber
that holds all the answers
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Rymill Poem
On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.
For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of cups and ounces.
Retorts of pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.
Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.
As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.
At my round
small wooden table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.
They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.
As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.
As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.
While i in a black forest script
write of spells
of life and death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew Rymill Poem
Literalness Of The Prairie
Those that cannot remember the past -
are often run over by it for nothing lasts.
The truck may
Be driven
By a unicorn.
Even ignorance
on some day will lapses.
There is always a dead Greek philosopher
to tell you the river
you soak your feet in
is always different.
As a honey badger
Finds His way
Inside The refrigerator
Where you let
Your images cool.
Link sausage chants within the pan
The lines of kings
The dream
Was sleek
A machine
That spilled
Poems
On the mercats
Below in the footnotes
Reconstruct the lines
& scurry like the edge
of self-fulfilling prophecies.
Just storms of mercy forms
damp hyphens
& ampersands
combine the trouble couplets
And beat of stanzas over Kansas
& Find their way back-
From the literalness of the prairie
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2014
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Andrew Rymill Poem
her bones
were pretty
like the rest of her
it hard to say
the flesh curved
flowed into stalks and fruit
legs and hips
breasts and torso
throat and long flowing hair
her eyes
in a nudeness gleamed
such contours to her mysterious geometry.
i took the penciled
and transformed her
uncovered her
into a herd of cubes
a orbit of globes
a hymn of Cylinder
a lotus of pyramids....
but somehow
the shapes did not suffice
or reflect the planes of her perspective
and so i drew a secret shape
from heroine surface
i buried deep
my desires my fingers mapped
a little shadow
i discovered
in the weave of her ribs
a serenity crosshatched in a navel
the foretelling of a breath
and a pout
my lines discovered
on the corners of her chin
the blossom of fulness
on a lip
found a sweep of redness across cheek
sweetness like the morning
against the smoothness of paper.
Copyright © Andrew Rymill | Year Posted 2006
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