Best Looped Poems
I dreamed I was inside a bulb—
a cathedral of filament and glass—
not dead
not born…..
but shumming**.
Glass walls curved like time
sealed but translucent
my fingers curled around voltage
like a secret
God was transcending.
The socket hummed a lullaby
of static.
Every breath of mine made sparks
the air electric
with grief
and longing.
I saw myself outside the bulb
in a room wallpapered with eyes—
each iris twitching
like a seismograph.
They watched
as I shimmered like an angel
in a jar of fire
as if I were proof
of something
too holy
or too hideous
to name.
The room beyond
glistened with wallpapered surveillance—
each gaze a blink
each blink
a test of identity
a hymn of entropy
and wonder.
I touched the glass—
cool as frozen memory
thin as a promise—
and the world on the other side
shuddered
like a dream woken
too soon
My thoughts turned tungsten—
spiraled
stubborn
resisting
the spark of enlightenment
or extinction
I spoke
and the words bent back
like boomerangs
buzzing
with static regret
A child approached
barefoot
real
impossibly tender…..
She looked like someone
I might have loved
if time had taken pity.
She placed her palm on the bulb—
her skin against my sorrow
the warmth of it
startling
as mercy
a forgiveness.
“Why are you in there?”
she asked
or perhaps
thought—
her voice the color
of candlelight.
I tried to answer
but my vocal cords was hardwired
my tongue
a fuse
My words came back
distorted
looped
charred
as if language
were combustible.
For a moment
I flickered
between purpose
and obliteration
Then
the ceiling cracked open
like a wound
and light poured down—
not to reveal
like revelation
like judgment—
to burn away
the questions
And I understood—
not everything illuminated
is meant to be seen
not all vision
is freedom…..
Some truths
are meant to flicker
fragile and holy
inside the bulb of the soul
unspoken
unchosen
alive.
================
**Shumming: Shimmering Humming
Old John's birthday was fast approaching, he'd be seventy-two
And his family asked him nicely what he would like to do
"Do you fancy a nice picnic or sightseeing on a train?"
"No thanks" said Old John "I'd like to wing walk on a plane ".
His family thought he was joking, in fun they all did mock
They said "It will be freezing, and you might die of shock"
He said" I have no fear, and everything will be just fine
I found it on a website, and I've booked it on the line".
His family they were mortified and thought that he was joking
But one week from today Old John he'll be high flying
A week later at the airfield Old John was quite ecstatic
His family on the other hand were all starting to panic.
He had his safety briefing and then put on all his gear
Now he was raring to go, Old John he showed no fear
He climbed up onto the wing and then he got strapped in
The pilot gave him the thumbs up and soon they were flying.
Up into the air now, they banked to the left and right
His family they all agreed it was one awesome sight
The pilot signalled to Old John, it was the grand finale
This is what Old John had wanted all his family to see.
The plane it dived then looped the loop, it was incredible to see
Old John was already thinking of what his next stunt could be
The plane then landed safely his family they were all so proud
Old Johns ears were still ringing; the wind had been so loud.
He'd felt the cold biting wind pressing hard against his face
Jokingly he asked his family if it was still in one place
His wife she then kissed him and asked, "How do you feel"?
Old John said, "I'm starving now, I'm ready for a big meal".
His son then asked him, what his next bold venture would be
Old John laughed out loudly and said "A shark cage in the sea
My life I see as a book with pages that are not written yet
I always confront my fears or there will be blank pages of regret".
Sand in sheets
scuffing skin and reminding
last nights attire reaks like bonfire
a hundred days like this
a sea of endless laughs rolling
like filmreels infinitely looped fantastic
Their cars rolled in, shiney and pretentious
personalized plates waxed clever wit
crowding this small town to gloat in sand-side castles
Yacht club yucks shelling bucks like bayou crayfish
condescending, fun loving, brash Chicago touristas
Bless their daughters who filed in sassy
chin up, chest out trustafarians
scents of coconut lotion and clinique perfume
wafting through our warm lake breeze reality
Giddy and loving our rough edged style
intending to slum with townies, like we minded...
smiles glowing in those bonfire nights
mischievious and promising...
Every action thereafter defied catholic school education
...benificiaries of repression rebellion...like we minded!
Lake Michigan was paces from my bedroom window
These sparrow serenaded mornings..
...morphing into something amphibious
when the alewives were raked, we lay lazy
Bodies melted into sand~~ sated with sun
splashing back to cool off in sandbars
coolers anchored in those cool waters
taking long pulls off a perspiring Heineken
Beach days concluded with seagulls off to hunt
Squaking as they ascended into pink and orangecicle skies
The water shimmered like a million illuminated snakes
...side winding-mirrored the suns final say
Couples pulled up to Harbor landing to see the show
heads melted into one mass in windshields all around
lovers seeing nature's beauty more vibrant as lovers do...
The sunset brings a new purple backdrop
squaks are replaced with crickets chirps
Bright-then-fading green...BRIGHT-then fading green
Children gathered fireflies in jars laughing
Ice cream stained faces aglow with captive glee
Then to black and star filled, became the sky
we returned to cooler sand pushing between our toes
scurrying through dunegrass seeking driftwood and brush
creating a structure to take to flame...a science for proud boyscouts
There we gathered with newfound gals from cross lake 'burbs
sunrise would end our night tonight...awaking to lifeguards scolding.
Inspired by John Heck's Summer Contest!!
Lapping against the shoreline’s edge,
Fluid quartz-crystal of waves rush
through my toes . As I align home-made
paper boats wiggling against ebb tide,
the looped hammock of moon gently cradles
strains from Jobim’s notes, ‘ Agua de Beber, ’
where summer memoirs drip inside my veins:
On this familiar trail, he would nestle
A cocktail of stars unto my hands… riding
upon the torrid pulse of a bamboo’s gyre,
quietly leading me into the fragrant sea
that we, dream-walkers , mesh atop an islet’s breast.
Yet now, only silence mates a heart gazing at
paper boats, humped sandstone far off a ridge
that in August’s glittering last queue,
hints of ‘Agua de Beber’ speak to me
about a current, paddling on a waterfront,
Gentle and wild as the tidal net of retrospect.
Contest: Laura Loo's Any Poem written in February 2016
Submitted 2/12/2017
--------
Originally posted 2/ 5/ 2016
Classical infusion, Beethoven’s “ode to joy”
playing on blaring audiophile speakers annoy
purposely looped to destroy vagrants with electronic music
blends of subversive elements and anxious acoustic
the solution to loitering the bodega doo dropping
spicy Shiitake broth smelling pissy store front,
jaded daily stunt, at midnight wino corks popping
abruptly segway into a film from one music scene
to a melting hallway, a lipstick alley with animate occupants
disconnected unmoored, appearing eerie and dormant
fluorescent lights unleashing a hum buzz in duress
hissing sizzling hornets’ nest of unsettling unrest
illogical levels of unease, an iniquitous den
such madcap absurdity is beyond my ken
not a shack, mall, nor a Holiday Inn,
a queasy Quasi-Moto mood which lies within
backrooms filled in with discarded filets
of fishy maceral that have no place,
frolicking pixella's in a glossy abyss of liminal space
plump puce brushed lips affixed
swollen browns and purple mixed
deep maroon and dusky rose,
make-up art is what they pose
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Crescent shaped moon portions mounted in pseudo walls
mounted upon the glare in unpleasing patterned halls
side by side quagmired half discs dawning a contorted face
in a half dazed-half-moon crest loon’s invisible phase
not unconscious but in some in-between state
bored while in transition and abandoned as they await
whimsical moldings who see me try not to take a peek
an exit to this madness is what I and they seek
maybe re-evaluate my sleep number, for gravity defying rest
What insight imports this encounter and what test?
what it means for a doomed generation Xer or baby boomer,
tacked in stucco, Silly Putty it seems, in a warped sense of humor
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Bill and Blanche set off, to the 'Yorkshire Show' they did go
T'was a yearly trip, and they would always show.
Each time Bill says to Blanche ‘On that elicopter I’d like to ride.’
Blanche always replied’ but it's twenty quid Bill’ and then she and Bill sighed.
'Twenty quid is twenty quid Bill, you always told me that'
‘Tha’s right me old love,’ and he’d give his wallet a pat.
The next year Bill looked, at the elicopter, and he tried once more
‘I’m seventy-five Blanche, there not much time left for me to soar.’
‘Bill, it’s twenty quid, and twenty quid is twenty quid.
So we’ll not go on the elicopter ride, of that idea you must get rid.’
Bill looked at the elicopter and agreed twenty quid was twenty quid
Of that one idea though, he could never really get rid.
Bill was desperate to ride on that elicopter whirring thing
The pilot overheard the couple, and then he made Bill’s heart sing.
I’ll take you on board, but not one word must you say
If you keep TOTALLY quiet, not one pound or penny will you pay.
Bill and Blanche climbed on board ,for the ride of their life
Not one word did Bill utter, nor his terrified wife.
The pilot looped the loop, he dived and twisted and turned
Not one word did the pilot hear, yet even his stomach churned.
He landed and spoke to Bill and he said ‘I am impressed’
I twisted and I turned and I really tried my best.
Bill said to the pilot ‘Well I nearly gave in lad, and I nearly spoke’
‘Twas when the wife fell out, but you know us Yorkshire folk.’
I watched her spiral down; I nearly shouted, but thought that’s absurd
‘And tha knows twenty quid is twenty quid lad, and you said NOT one word.’
©~GG~17/11/2012
Taken from a joke sent to me by Jack Horne and continuing the theme Harry uses of Yorkshire Humour.
Quid Slang name for pound sterling
Yorkshire folk drop their 'h's
Perched high upon the escarpment
of sandstone rubble, the boy sat,
shaded from the rising of the sun
in the shadow of Kings.
Sharp eyed he preyed
upon the tourist below, and to his God Allah.
His path was a treacherous one
looped and twisting like the snakes of ochre gold
shone cresting the brow of Ramesses
in the unearthly Valley of the Kings;
far from the osprey and marsh grass
of the beloved Nile.
Below the boy, on a zigzag path
between the mouth-like openings to the netherworld,
tourists swarm, ants on a mound of honey stone
suckers of sweetness, oblivious,
as they had done for centuries.
He sat as his father before him
hunkered down knees to chest
the vulture heraldic creature of Upper Egypt
death eater, little had changed except
now the robbers wore blue jeans and not the hajab.
He had earned his small bit
of the twentieth century..hawking
4. Quantum Superposition
. A particle can exist in multiple states or places simultaneously until measured
Are humans waves or particles?
Even an entire human being, under the right conditions, can act like a quantum wave. If we can define it, we can quantify just how “wave-like” a particle or set of particles is.
I count the magnificent moons
in my stills as I await the phantom voyeur
with stone blue eyes and a fated look, which sets upon me
The one who stirs my soul, measuring me up in coiled silvery spoons
What obsessive observations you must have
not to turn away those piercing eyes
My world stops, my feelings set on and off
Unseen I meander in other spaces
Your eyes are the “switch” without that which
forbids my existence, hence looped are my stills in many places
From the center of life’s probabilities
Spaciously lit across the universe, with bits of me in tow
Collapsed in your arms, we’ve launched our rainbow
Revealing our humanity in the flesh,
in language of mathematician’s music
Riding the unscrupulous waves of light
roaming across all existence,
reverberating ruthless through you, displacing us
Composing are the alchemists and their peers ~
Splitting into a myriad of mirrors
I bare myself to a random reality,
Totality’s filigree, tangling dangling
When you’re not here,
when you’re lost in thought
As the haze spins up and down around me
my world is unseen and the scale’s unbalanced
Showcasing that I’m equally dead as I am alive
Resuscitate me not—please, it’s here that
monotonous music is unheard in this uncertain trapeze
Until eyes of azure translucence are upon,
I cease to exist in fervor, in your zeal
Alive and very real to boot!
I’m gauged like the intrinsic brightness that shines off a star
Until then, am I just a figment of deepest intensity?
By far, humbled to be, take the bait and consummate my reality
Be the glance exigency
Impenetrable eyes of bluest skies I’ve lost sight of you
As a still, until we meet again
clove cinnamon for simon&dunkin tuna for garfunkel.
wobbly looped spindles, hums tunes "holy mackerel".
silent whispers alluring hoarding ajar.
more candid topics, endorsed by chet choppock.
overtime blenders whip hot fudge tapioca.
from the larva, emerges paul harvey.
orator greetings predestines"good day, utopia.
good healing from dr. oz & charles ozgood,
understood.
bytes penetrating sequin hoods of vast neighborhoods.
well steaked positions, instills glorified bastions.
no wasteful questions, bout times were in.
unconsumed media leaves abundance to chance (t)hen.
signs of our times, perhaps, we should thank (T)hen.
Looped of love
Cast upon a sea of symphonic scent
Cashmere soft and storm cloud kissed
Ventures forth on fingered strings
Spent alone in shuttered mist
“Curtains drawn in crayon colors…stitched on gold locket seams”
Worn of worries, frayed edges weave
Reaching deep into heart felt fear
Bland the noise, served in muted tones
Staring off to nowhere…near
“Tears now fill thy cup…once overflowing in melodic dreams”
Broken desires, a tangled spun web
Knotted by a lingering memory’s hold
Skin still warm of tanned defiance
Fractures locked out in the cold
“Heaved in piles of shoveled excess…soon to be forgotten silent on the street”
Music floods into porous caverns
Echoing a fragrant caring song
On syncopated bar chord promises
To hold you with arms forever strong
“And I play for you in the key of my heart…looped of love in constant repeat”
Velvet red roses stand
cheek to cheek
with daisy faces, ringed
in petal fringes,
sweetly scented
by creamy bubbles
of double jonquil popcorn blooms
beside a starburst
yellow chrysanthemum,
and long leaves
squeezed between.
Below, their stem-straws blur
in the ribbed glass jar,
looped with a satin orange bow
for your 97 years
we must farewell soon.
The loved ones are visiting,
bringing flowers, hugs, reminiscences
for you, last of your generation -
two brothers, two sisters.
I don't want to say, 'Goodbye'.
Let's have a few more days,
or weeks, or months,
just for keeping company,
like the flower bunch.
Passing moons
of shadows glazed
plaster,
looped in fresco’s
fringe s
y
n
t
h
e
t
i
c
s
n
a
k
e
s
inner cries
lingered,
fingers trace
imprints,
alibies,
I let go
the weight of worries,
go where music takes my
songs…
...and v e r s e d melodies
I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap
A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong,
My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop,
Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong,
The silence echoed round the wheel fop.
I screamed with tears which said the news,
When sirenes had been screened for writ,
Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews,
That cared enough to dare read the fit.
Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here,
Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped,
Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear,
When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped.
Critical realism still made no ontological sense,
My metaphysical slippers knew no god,
Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense,
When constructivism departed from my odd.
I could not write to epistemology for methodology,
‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive.
Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy,
Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff.
Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair,
No predicates set my entities alight to condition,
The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer,
I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition.
This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation
FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal,
Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation,
Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal.
Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical,
Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact,
Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal,
The dame. The lame as mentioning the act.
Structural.
Rhoda Monihan
Swarmed by choral tunes of early birds,
Her hands mold curves into shape, touched by love
While fluid eyes hum as bands entwine.
Till weeks alight requesting for night’s quiet rest,
Yet mornings lift palms on the same shade
Pinning tiny beads embossed like rows of wreaths
Crocheted strips finally twirl in dainty pattern
The perfect mingling of straws looped in elegance;
Finally, the night before a most special ceremony
When aisles of the church prepare my young walk,
Grandma smiles tearily and hands me...
My first woven flower-girl basket.
'''' '''''''''''''
* I was told that Grandma lost her interest
in weaving when she cut her palms. After 5 years,
she began crafting when she found out I was the only
flower-girl to his son's wedding ( my uncle).
Contest: Kim Morrison's True Story
by nette onclaud
Two Lovers
Authored by Chuck Keys
Two lovers alone,
Side on side as one,
Hearts together united as one,
Arms and hands entwined, tightly looped as one,
Lips synced merged into each as one,
Words unspoken, breathless heated passion as one,
Ageless love, in love, as one.