Best Cylinder Poems
He fills his syringe with poisoned words
pulling the letters one by one from his rusted spoon
They rise up through the needle in perfect order
"Disgusting" "failure" "worthless" "loser"
There in the cylinder they mix together
until they are a perfect black ink
Although he no longer sees the words
their meanings are not lost on him
As he injects them into his arm
he feels the blackness
Ink travels slowly up his arm towards his heart
At first he enjoys the burning sensation
as capital letters make way for the smaller ones
In the moment he's convinced they are lies
When they reach his heart
he becomes a true believer
By choosing to be less than he is
he occupies his excuses
The I can'ts and never coulds
The poor me's
All the reasons
he's not good enough
The words stack one on top of the other
until his heart is filled with empty
Empty promises
Empty dreams
Somehow this comforts him
He holds tightly to
It's not my fault
It's just the way it is
His is a waking dreamless slumber
only lies seem believable
So he injects another word
"Anger"
Then a question
"Why do others have all the luck?"
Someone who cares
Takes a silver spoon
Fills it up with better words
Feeds him nourishing words
Smart, tenacious, kind and happy
He starts with small sips
one letter at a time
in front of him a golden bowl
filled to the brim with phrases
"You are Lovable"
"Anything is possible"
"Your opinion is important"
At first he is convinced they are lies
Until they reach his gut
Until he becomes a true believer
Taking everything to heart
Satiating his empty
Now he can see beyond what he thought was impossible
His actions speak louder then words
His life is not a wasted gift
From this day forward
He's living his life to the fullest!
Inspired by Jai Bankson's poem "The Habit" check it out!
Categories:
cylinder, courage, poets, psychological, recovery
Form:
Free verse
I’m a poetic gun;
Shells of great caliber.
I measure each poem,
With my trusty caliper.
I load my own rounds,
Thoughts are the primer.
The powder’s my inspiration;
I’m a quick draw rhymer.
With my cylinder loaded,
I’m ready to take aim.
Shooting poems into existence,
Into life’s open range.
In the heart of the prairie,
An outlaw poetic spree begun.
Shooting rounds onto the page,
From my poetic gun.
Categories:
cylinder, imagination
Form:
Quatrain
I don't care anymore. You are the most wonderful thing I've ever seen in my life.
Everytime you look at me I want to explode. You're doing some sort of yoga move in front
of me which you claim not to be yoga with your 15-year-old autistic client, rubbing your feet
into his hand, bending over him between a giant cushy yellow soft-leathered cylinder, your
hair dangling over him, now up in a pony-tail as you resituate your thighs, steadied and
jeaned in that young and smart physique, a show of craving futures for my sitting nature,
not more than two feet away.
I will love you from afar with light beams if I must. We'll be left to devour each other with
our eyes. In hot-quick glances.
Categories:
cylinder, workme,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Sharp as a whip, and not really drunk,
the drunken monk
has the sober monkey on his back.
A cylinder of mighty words
chained to a cylinder of craft and trickery,
behold the clever nunchucks,
I don’t follow the trickery, perhaps you do,
the blank look on your face, though,
suggests that you probably don’t.
Monkey be still,
Five Finger Shush Punch,
we’ve been bamboozled, you know.
A gorilla in a china shop
is smarter and more dexterous
and, by extension, more destructive
than a bull in a china shop,
but he also understands close to none of it,
he’ll randomly smash it as he pleases.
Nothing too clever, please,
Five Hammer Crunch Punch,
we’ve been bludgeoned, you know.
21st May 2019
Categories:
cylinder, conflict,
Form:
Free verse
UFOs have been sighted in Yorkshire,
a global hotspot it appears,
witnesses, mostly sober
to the moors and up over
have regularly seen them for years.
They all give them various descriptions,
some were captured on video tapes,
as they hovered and zoomed, no jet sound
or smoke plume,
and they come in a variety of shapes.
Several saw an enormous black cylinder
it slowly climbed up, then moved faster,
through the clouds it went scudding
like a giant black pudding
could it be Bolton has it's own NASA?
One arrived with three coloured lights, flashing,
seems like ET had finally phoned home,
as it buzzed the landscape
a triangular shape, maybe from the planet Toblerone.
Whatever these visual conundra,
their existence must convey some meaning,
I've seen them, a lot
mine are little black dots
and they tell me my glasses need cleaning.
Categories:
cylinder, humor, space,
Form:
Rhyme
Firecracker - a paper or cardboard cylinder filled with an explosive and having a fuse, for discharging to make a noise.
Firethe Southern sergeant shouts to the boys behind him
In unison, we live or die together, light the fuse. The enemy
Rises up from behind a rocky outcropping
Effectively blocking the allied advance. Shrapnel
Crescendos from the jeeps in the rear, cutting down
Riflemen not killed instantly by the attack.
Another night passes, nightmares replay the
Carnage of a war un-won, I see the bodies of friends
Killed in the name of God. Every dead man
Earnestly left life not knowing if
Right was truly in their
Side.
Categories:
cylinder, death, war,
Form:
Acrostic
What is this flower perched like bird on stem
With tiny feathery florets in pews
Aligned along rows on cylinder heads?
Tis Banksia, native of Australia.
Named after botanist Sir Joseph Banks,
Who sailed on "Endeavour" with Captain Cook
To unearth Australia, the Great South Land
With shores bedecked with Banksia flowers.
Not a rose with its gaudy petal flush
Nor a daffodil or iris pendants
Nor ring of daisy petals stuck to sun
But hundreds of small flowers pinned on heads
Plethora of colors, earthy and rare
Red, yellow, brown, cream, white and orange hues
The colors of dawn and dusk and the moon
The colors of soil in the dry parched land.
Flower candles on candelabra bush
Arise like flames from sharp serrated leaves
Lighting the Australian bush with color
A pleasure, joy, delight to see in bloom
Enjoy Banksia flowers in gardens
As picked in vase they look so out of place.
Better still, see them in their native scrub
Outback of Dwellingup and way beyond.
Categories:
cylinder, flower,
Form:
Ode
People made fun when I bought an Echo
they said it couldn’t out run a gecko.
Called it a four cylinder sewing machine
about the size of a large kidney bean.
In 01 when the gas was not as high
a manual stick I opted to buy.
I said gas will go up you wait and see
they jeered and laughed, all poking fun at me.
I pampered it with K & N filter
made sure not a thing went out of kilter.
Added a tornado to air intake
increasing mpg was piece of cake.
With windows rolled down, holding constant speed
forty-seven miles per gallon- indeed.
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Categories:
cylinder, on writing and wordsfun,
Form:
Sonnet
I turned the key,
pressed the gas pedal.
The motor belched
the starter grated.
“No. Not today!
I can’t be late.
I’m teaching the class.
I have to be there!”
Our three-year-old
piped up from the back seat,
“Try it again, Mom.”
The motor coughed, caught,
settled to a steady purr.
My little two-cylinder Fiat,
slow, but steady as she goes,
took me everywhere.
Again, from the back seat,
“I knew it would start, Mom.
I prayed.”
Categories:
cylinder, child, faith,
Form:
Narrative
Pursuing fantasies of youth;
love becomes an impassioned goal.
And fledgling feelings flying free,
influence both the heart and soul.
Plagued by uncertainty and hope,
fantasies carry little clout.
And though you yearn for happiness,
you have not yet figured love out.
Playing Russian roulette with fate,
you give the cylinder a spin.
But, taking risks with your feelings;
doesn't guarantee a surefire win.
It's okay to want more than dreams;
life wasn't meant to be slept away.
But do not mistake lust for love,
no matter what your heart may say.
Forget the past; no one's perfect;
sometimes, fragile dreams break apart.
And as you gather the pieces,
time starts to mend your broken heart.
Categories:
cylinder, emotions, feelings, imagery, inspirational,
Form:
Quatrain
A meeting through obscure means,developed into friendship a bond was hit but short lived,of which in hindsight an highlight. You opted out of the path of a possible darkened cylinder
Along your own family line. Not working out as you anticipated, moving on in life, educating from the bottom up, always has swerves and slides. My friend,you have eppitified all my expectations.
A now blemishing family, wife and sons that be a highlight. I can safely say now, you`ll admit maybe futre referance lifting a solemn shadow from my shoulders,
if not ease. Everybody needs that outlet, you came along in perfect time. Blessings to a Gent that i didn`t think would amount, but did. Eugene Stanley Dobson. ;)
Categories:
cylinder, friend,
Form:
Free verse
God`s love for mankind is immeasurable and total,
so also
my love for you is genuine and true , like pink
Diamond which is better than the edible almond.
Sun rises in the east and set westward;rivers flow
out of the mouths of two rocks embedded in the
pacific and tundra,the clouds shower the soil with
water , which makes young plants and seedlings
to sprout out ,breeze blows with soothing effect,
the pores of the skin absorb this coolness; the
nostrils breath in fresh unpolluted air. Birds sing
with mellifluousity as the branches of the trees
clap and dance as the wind whistles along, this
combine music brings sweetness which makes
one appreciate the good work of nature ; Oh!
nature ,love immeasurable ; right from genesis
my love is total not virtual and without blemish.
Though you are weak,sick and dying as I stand
beside you~ wishing! and hoping that you stand on your feet
again,remembering when we walk in the rain on the beach, hand-
in-hand,laughing and smiling soaked with aqua;sitting by the river bank
watching the goodwork of nature.Now I`m waiting!waiting for you toget well,
My love for you is without measure and unique;please!,stand up like a unicorn.
*A measuring Cylinder-is used to measure the volume of liquids and irregular solids.BUT this CANNOT be USED to measure the LOVE I have for YOU(ALL my poetrysoup Friends).
Categories:
cylinder, care, love,
Form:
Shape
Helmet-wearing stripe
Humanoid-cylinder slash
Ignited in lime
Categories:
cylinder, confusion
Form:
Haiku
There were six in the cylinder,
Strapped to his side,
He stood tall,
And walked with pride.
His feathered friend, Hawk,
Upon his shoulder,
No, he didn't talk,
But was so much bolder.
Out west they would ride,
Toward the setting Sun,
Upon his horse,
Named Son-of-a-gun.
When the day had ended,
They would rest their bones,
Sit by the campfire,
And sing their songs.
The life they led,
Was a simple one,
Not much to dread,
But a lot of fun.
Fishing in the river,
They would catch their meals,
While son-of-a-gun,
Would graze the fields.
Every so often,
On the trail, they led,
A stranger would appear,
Sometimes shooting lead.
But this one fateful day,
A stranger did appear,
A six gun at her side,
But nothing to fear.
Her name was Ringo Kady,
With Sally on her lap,
Strumming a little song,
While the cows took a nap.
So not fearing each other,
They decided to talk,
Got off their horses,
And took a little walk.
Small talk was common,
In those days of the west,
They would tell of the news,
That they knew best.
Now on this day,
As they walked and talked,
The sun started setting,
You could hear his screeching hawk.
Time to make camp,
And rest for the night,
So in came hawk,
And gave Kady a fright.
But the stranger assured her,
That there's nothing to fear,
Hawk is a friend,
One to have near.
So resting again,
They decided to sing,
She got out Sally,
And strummed like a queen.
The song was simple,
But said so much,
Enjoying their company,
Now to keep in touch.
Addresses were given,
At the break of day,
And off again,
Going their way.
Kenneth Fordham
2008
Categories:
cylinder, fantasy, funny, humorous, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
From Chicago to Tampa Bay in a Ford Granada some time in the mid- 70's. Unfortunately, we were not interested in mountains, because we took interstate 75 and drove through Tennessee 'at night'. We felt the elevation but never saw the Smoky Mountains.
As we proceeded south, our four year old kept asking, "Are we there yet?" Can you blame her? We should have had at least one mountain story to tell; and why did we not take time to enjoy the healthy smoke? We arrived in Tampa by way of mostly 'flat lands'.
On another occasion we drove from northern Mississippi to Atlanta. While there, we not only viewed, but also trekked until we grew tired. The visit on 'Stone Mountain' was a good one as we also enjoyed the beautiful water fall.
Fast forward to 1981, and find me driving a '79 chevy chevette from San Francisco to Lake Tahoe. Oh, what a ride! From just above sea level to over 9,000 feet and the worst head ache of my life. Our second child who was then four was on board, but he was head ache free. Nice sceneries, and mountains aplenty, but I should have had my head examined; not because of the elevation, but because I had the audacity to drive a Chevette.
Later in the early 80's with my entire family on board, I headed up another mountain in Marin County, Ca. This time there was plenty of room and power in an 8 cylinder full sized Chevy van. Just beyond the Golden Gate is Mt. Tamalpais, but we never reached the top, because my wife changed her mind.
My most recent mountain experience was a scenic view from a Jumbo Jet. Returning from a vacation by way of Portland, I had a nice view of *Mt. St. Helen 36 years after the mountain blew its top in 1980. No, that does not make me a 'Mountain Man'; but from where I sit 30 feet above sea level, it is rather refreshing.
08052017PSContest, Mountains, Julie Rodeheaver
*Or Was it Mt. Hood?
Categories:
cylinder, mountains, travel, vacation,
Form:
Narrative