Best Angularity Poems
Every time I lose your love,
Every time eyes open to dreams
That can't corral your quiet flame,
The silent corners of what’s real
Wash out, their angularity softens
As before a clear night sky
That has no moon or stars...
Still infinity surrounds me
Feels as close as my own heart beat,
Its darkness surprisingly light.
In this space the hum of fireflies
Becomes an almost tactile force,
(Possibly the sound of your breath beside me?)
And so much softer than a fan knifing air,
Almost like gnats trapped in your ear.
So lost am I in my “little death” that
The fireflies’ extinguished flash
Is really the only warmth
That calls me back to hope that
The sun will rise again.
But I suspect that all dark dreams must turn
At last to song, where petals
Touch is anticipated with joy,
Rainfall’s coolness floats God’s ark of souls,
And His promise shines in a rainbow...
For always when my dreaming ends,
I wake to find you there!
Brian Johnston
February 23, 2016
They asked me what I wanted
For they would bestow it to me
But to be unambiguous in what I wanted
I wanted a yellow house
Painted in canary yellow
With a neat white trim all over.
With the most triangular angularity
Painted in the queerest brightness of white
In the front wall was to be a huge window
The most mammoth window
Carefully frosted
Depicting a grand piano of majestic magnitude
I would be in there playing, playing, playing
I would be in there playing, playing the piano
All of this would be perched on a biggest hill
The brightest green hill
The brightest yellow sun
All shining down upon me
As I play my piano
I acquired what I wanted
But forgot the tell them
I want friends to play with too
I want people to talk to too
But I forgot
I forgot the necessity of those
To talk to
Human relationships
I had a yellow house
Neatly painted a canary yellow
With white trim all over
With a roof of the most triangular angularity
Painted the queerest brightness of white
With a huge frosted window
With a great black, grand piano
All on top of the greenest, grassiest hill
All wrapped up for me
But for miles and miles
All around me
No one was there to talk to
All around me was the greenest, grassiest grass
Shining from the buttery sun
They even gave me beautiful flowers
But
They gave me
No one
To talk to
I sat there playing, playing, playing
My heart out
No one was there to hear it
Except the yellow house
The uncharted world outside
I would give
The yellow house
With all the white trim
With all the perfectly angular roof
With the frosted window
With the great piano
With the buttery sun
With the grassy hill
With the blue sky
Just for some company
mentally enveloped with the psychological angularity of a multidimensional prism, thoughts infinitely circulating inside my brain slowly building like an aneurysm, i bring to sight revelations unveiled by a genius but still they all surround with skepticism. the darkness that once entered me is bound to break free eventually, a disposition where mass murder and famine both come essentially, a mastermind rises and succeeds where hitler had failed consequentially, a massacre of hidden variables constructing inside exponentially, a child broken and left for dead grows up to be a little disturbed mentally.
THE COFFER
through the threshold
carried by the wind
a summer skirt below my knees
a request to enter with a sales brochure
an invitation to pitch perfume and jewelry
unbeknownst she’s decorated
her parlor space daring a drop-dead stare
the heaviness of dust, that hides my eyes
from any other prize my sale unavoidably detained
the coffer falls out of time and space
not unlike H.G. Wells time machine
the end of the world might have come
when one sees stars angularity
and the sun splashing in one’s eyes
forthwith, the ejection of a breath-holders breath
a sinking emotion of a pilot’s imminent death
but this darling of the skies survived
to let in this down-to-earth Avon rep
2/28/2019
*Coffer used more as an expression of a treasure
found in my eyes as I spy this pilot’s ejection seat
After a brief illness the world rolls back
as a globe atlas seeking its gimbal.
It occurs to me that the planet has no legs,
that legs are a mark of the ephemeral nature
of all angularity. Roundness the real
mark of the Lord Thy God.
I then wonder if I still have a fever of the brain?
My bowels are irregular
I dump fiber into my coffee, munch on dry toast.
A host of ridiculous thoughts plague me still.
Being perhaps still ill and loosely fitting
I bang my head upon a poem
and pray that it may recover all by itself.