Best Centrifuge Poems
No one can see my eyes
they a covered with dark sunglasses
Dark as my soul and my thoughts
When life goes in grim backstreets
it's reflected by a deeper truth about who I am
My most penetrating screams are always silent
Why should life be so difficult,
where we wear a mask ?
The underside of my wings,
will lead me away into another reality
There is a lot of mystery attached to the theater of life
Out and in of different roles
and various performances -
placed in a centrifuge
When I feel I fall eight feet straight down
while, in reality, I'm sitting in bed
The choices are that I don't need to
to identify me or my own experience
with the content of my thoughts
25.09.2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
In the backstreets of my mind
Sponsored by: Silent One
2nd place in the contest
There’s rain in my brain,
A pitter patter on the old grey matter,
Cats and dogs in the cerebral cogs,
A shower dampening my mental power.
There’s precipitation in my imagination,
A cloud collision in my vision,
A deluge in my centrifuge,
A tidal surge has overwhelmed my optimistic urge,
A tsunami is rampaging through my spiritual harmony,
A lighting strobe just struck my frontal lobe.
There’s a vortex in my cortex,
An eddy in my heady,
A blizzard in my gizzard,
Hail in my vapour trail,
Sleet on my feet,
Snow on my big toe
Making me feel low.
I’ll pop a pill and rest my head
Upon a bed of feather
And when I wake I’m hoping
For bright eyes and better weather.
Searching for love is like a centrifuge ...
you gotta separate the chaff from the wheat,
you have to separate the sour from the sweet
Searching has you spinning around,
spinning like an I'm-looking-for-you top
And when you find the right one,
all the worries in your mind suddenly stop
Love has your back hugging the wall,
has you feeling upside down,
yet catching you every time you start to fall
Centrifugal force has you suspended off the ground
No more tears of a clown,
no more smiley face frown
Centrifugal force ain't gonna let you come down
So put your heart in the test tube,
flip the switch, start the centrifuge
Separate away all the hate,
away from your soul impurities must gravitate
Solid love is all that remain,
beautiful alchemy is how love made your heart change
The centrifuge is the tool that you use
to attract those whom your heart can't ever refuse
A grim, gray day,
endless rain coming in off the ocean.
Endless calls from other people,
"What part do we need for this?"
"Can you order it for us?"
"A happened and then B happened, what does it mean?"
"Do we hold this part toward the motor side,
or toward the brake side of the centrifuge,
when we're tightening it up on the horizontal shaft?"
There he was.
At the grocery store, picking up some stuff -
we were going to be working late that night.
God, people are slow,
wandering around like they don't know what they want,
like they have no other place to go.
Get out of my way,
get out of my way.
Tunnel vision in the fog,
man on a mission,
big mass moving at speed
to the end of the task.
There he was,
in his mom's shopping cart,
staring at me.
Little guy, probably 2 years old,
'Popeye' looking with a knit cap on his head,
half winking at me with one eye.
Smiling.
He was beyond 'stranger anxiety' or never had it.
He looked at me, and he knew me -
I was one of his.
He was a shaman, an imp,
a grinning cherub with a touch of guile.
So young, but he was aware,
aware that he *was,*
and that on the other end,
there was somebody who also was,
and he felt the humor and joy
which surely must be mystical.
I've thought of him a thousand times,
his little face.
A bright sun in a dark universe.
Here
In this centrifuge of sanctimony
Where I sip the atrophied air of my ancestors
The shipwrecked tide of my unborn children
Angels dangle from a precipice of silence
Strained by strings of a theoretical God
Sung by eyes of defiance
Which navigate the jagged epitaphs below
Searching
For that one sediment of salvation
That one moment of submission
Hoping he will see
His wonders, atrocities, his indifference
To cast a shadow of conviction
Over shivering light
There
Across the inlet where ivory columns crumbled
And modernity now deftly mumbles
Its fleets of fortune baptized
Nigh the bronze dust of golden millennia
Where history lies with its victims
A fugue of fossilized souls
A silent prayer remains
Here
Today is the birthday of that
long gone soul. The one spinning
in the centrifuge, even now,
on the counter, as the technician
in the lab coat pulls seven G's
worth of DNA from calcified skull,
in an effort to know what might
have been on the mind of the
Neanderthal still hanging around,
after all these years.
Before Julius Caesar and way before
Pope Gregory, notioned that any day
might be different from any other,
he woke up around sunrise, quietly
rolled to upright and looked about
the dimly lit space.
Perhaps he saw the female lying there
who had brought forth a baby,
now lying there with her, a young male,
a child of perhaps seven seasons,
extending the lineage a bit further,
the trek, apparently a bit longer now.
It's a cold morning, really cold,
and he goes to see what's left of
the fire from last night. Barely a
wisp of smoke to mix with the early
morning icy mist all around.
Thinking about what might be gotten
for the few in his group from this hidden
day he returns to her and his spear.
Her eyes open and he motions to be quiet.
The meal may be just beyond their camp.
Quietly his slips into the dewy mist.
He didn't have any notion of
wider questions, of glaciations or,
distant global warmings, DNA inheritance,
species encapsulation, or lyrical
language structure and etymology,
he only wanted to find a meal, to
provide, and stay alive another day.
Yet perhaps he had deeper, more
cerebral notions, about the beauty of
the drops hanging from the pine needles,
and the bent image within them. Perhaps
he heard the early morning calls of
robins or sparrows, and smelled the
trailing smoke of yesterday's fire mixing
with the scents of the season's flowers.
It's all about history, his story,
that we yearn to hear, after
forty-nine thousand years or more.
To hear his heart, to bare his soul
through those mists of time, to now.
To be reassured, that our story, it's
character, it's plot, comes from
ancient roots, ancient tradition,
ancient emotion, ancient love - of life.
© Goode Guy 2013-05-20
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neanderthal
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neanderthal_extinction_hypotheses
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neanderthal_Genome_Project
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FOXP2
On Saturnian nights I rise;
homing in on apogee and perigee,
my soul rises.
Free-floating energy mingles,
with crackling static;
my body feels nothing and I feel no body.
Crystalline ice in hydrogen milk,
can float my soul forever;
safe in its womb, am I.
A celestial merry-go-round;
Saturnian rings spin Saturnian dreams;
they lull me to sleep.
On Saturnian nights;
etheric body in flight greets many souls;
who’ve gone before.
A classroom of grace, it is;
a spiritual recharging station;
Saturnian nights invigorate all of my senses.
A soul in flight on a Saturnian night;
hears symphonic lessons,
in staccato verbiage.
I awaken from Saturnian dreams;
a new spirit in an old body;
with wider zest for life.
The Saturnian centrifuge,
brings much clarity.
With her hand, she drew perfect circles,
from balloons to bicycles, perfectly formed.
Devine, her lines were always exactly right,
she had the eye and the appetite.
To compensate, she hardly ever cried,
but her buttery eyes were warm to my sight.
She claimed the center of my centrifuge
with her gift of circles, she became a refuge.
But gravity pulls hard on shoulders and wheels
Even the planets are pulled into line.
The whirling dervishes have all disappeared
Gone to nirvana’s lost hemispheres.
A lifetime of circles she spanned every height,
With her arcing reminders of eternal light.
Childhood days knew frivolous fun.
Nights brought fears one by one.
Possessions were many we needed naught.
My heart ached for the love I sought.
Manicured yards brought flowers bloom.
Inside myself was disaster’s loom.
Unique and historic our house served a mission.
Provided warmth; whipped into submission.
Words whirled around like a centrifuge.
God’s loving Son was my soul’s refuge.
Escape came young, but I finished school.
I learned to love and live the golden rule.
© March 12, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
To western seige we're a stooge
Dancing like drunkards in deluge
We sow our seeds in centrifuge.
What race gladly ruins her refuge?
Free souls strolling behind bars
Brave recruits scared of scars
Fragrant flowers staring at the stars.
Is this who we really are?
Running after the beauty behind us
We forget the bliss before us
Only to find fantasy within us.
Will this forever be our focus?
Dignity drowns in our political pool
Sincerity is scam in new school
Wisdom is sourced from cesspool.
Is criminality the new cool?
Is this just my imagination
or the image of my nation?
seconds, minutes, hours
round the crystal centrifuge
through all hows and whys
I think about the moments
as they hover, make contact, disappear
as if forever might prove
to be negotiable; there was
exchange, not so? Something
about recall discerns a somewhere
with receptacles--perhaps for visionaries,
but they do not die.
Between the arms of possibility
are found the glint of hope
(madness perhaps) or irony.
There beside the dry, unwieldy
skeleton of possibility,
are those shy hints of laughter
the bright ones overlooked,
the vision, only vanity rejects.
It comes beyond remembering,
in mute tenacity a surge, frisson
along the spine, confirming origin,
blithe centrifuge that cedes no will
or need to understand;
for there within its vast purview,
is home.
~
Curious about the origin of the universe back in the day
a French fry took a spin in a centrifuge in Marseilles
Decided to stay in until 2021
had himself a whole lot of fun
By 2021, that solanum tuberosum, by the sum of its parts, gave onlookers
quite a start
~ emerging more divergent than 'Napoleon Blownaparte'
Manifestation of métier write
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha rolling stone dishabille poet,
who views challenge of writing analogous
to begetting an heir or heiress,
which former includes
gestation of an emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for prime time
and beak combs devious, industrious,
overconscientious (hopefully), victorious...
though, as swollen womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile Buddha baby
(unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort), the proud
pro-creator bounteous, glorious, riotous
which unexpected success inspires
brassy, ironic, steely wordsmith
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift manorial man cave
the grateful dead foo fighters quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper water nymph sprung from fen
or when the quick brown
(sneaky, leery, and fiery) fox
jumps over the lazy dog
slips into the house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
the end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take a furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation a mugwump,
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
The butterflies flew off some weeks ago.
Pools of blood from my pierced heart have dried up.
My feelings leak insignificant flow -
I no longer drink from passion's sweet cup.
Still, you must realize that love never dies,
for it derives from more than skittish heart.
My soul and my eyes could never disguise -
I still hope that our story soon might start.
Tamer, now - fire, somewhat softer - desire,
but, for all that, hardly less strong or true.
I've guessed from first glance - your face - angel's choir!
I still think it could be right - me and you.
I'll admit - sometimes I taste fear in wait.
But love is patient ... I submit to fate.
6 May 2023