Best Millimeter Poems
Motherland…
I am a desert, barren and hot.
Hoping for the rain, which I forgot.
Once, I was green, golden, and bright.
Nightingales singing night after night.
My fresh breeze at dawn was ever nice,
Showered me blossoms like paradise.
Year after year, I dressed up in green.
Green and reddish with white in between.
Until I became older than old,
All I have now is darkness and cold.
I lost all of my glory and youth,
Hope death is not the end or the truth.
I had so many kings that were tall,
Now, I am filled with filth that they crawl.
Tired of being a desert that’s old,
Thousands and thousands of years to be told.
Cyrus and Darius lived within me.
Now I am barren; how could it be?
I am now desert far from the sea;
They burned my soul so no one can see.
Empty and lonely, thirsty and dry,
hope for the rain and generous sky.
Hope for someone to answer my cry,
Wash up my tears, and don’t let me die.
I need a hero like the old times,
Come and wash me from all the crimes.
Come to me, my love, my lovely rain,
shower me with love, get rid of pain.
If you come back and shower me, fine
promise I give you, I'll drink your wine.
For me, rain is love; love is my life.
To live without love is endless strife.
I want to become a jungle of love,
making love and being free as a dove.
I am now dying, dying of thirst,
Hope for a drizzle; first thing is first.
1/28/20 Haloo
Note: Motherland is Iran, the birthplace of civilizations, a country with thousands of years of history. In the past forty years, there is a great tension between the government of Iran and the United States. This tension has escalated recently to the point of an imminent war between the two countries. The people in Iran are suffering from an authoritarian government on one side and sanctions and pressure on the other. This humble piece is written to give you the understanding that under a millimeter of skin, we’re all the same, the same humans, and humanities are the same regardless of religion, culture, and geographical background.
Don’t ask, my friend,
How much of His breath our Lord
Has breathed into each of us*
If a cubic millimeter it is
Or
A cubic decimeter,
For it doesn't matter at all
Since HE is infinite,
And the infinite divided by any number,
Infinite remains
Thus, Into you and me, His infinity has breathed,
So, by following His Word,
You and I, my brother, my sister,
With
The passing of time, perfect we can be,
As our Father in heaven is perfect,
In His holy ways!**
© Demetrios Trifiatis
12 FEBRUARY 2015
*Genesis 2:7
“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of
The ground, and breathed into his nostrils the
Breath of life; and man became a living soul.”
**Matthew 5:48
“Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father
Which is in heaven is perfect.”
Miss Gunda moved into my house
she will be living here for several years
I do not know how long
but she is warmly welcomed
She is curious
the eyes moves from room to room
- spends a lot of time measuring every millimeter
Things suddenly disappear ...
yes even the charging cord for the phone
We are looking high and low
The issue is presented to Gunda
As a thief in broad daylight
of her good deeds, she admitted
Although she is guilty
I have found the best robot vacuum cleaner
... she does an fabulous work
and still live here
29/06/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Here’s an interesting fact about the color of our skin:
the section that holds the color is unusually thin.
I imagine to our creator…it was a snap…a finger flick
making the section with our pigment only a millimeter thick.
I’m sure she had her reasons…perhaps it wasn’t even functional
Perhaps she just wanted to make our world a little more beautiful.
Perhaps even though he was the creator he was inquisitive
perhaps he wanted to see how people of different colors live.
Perhaps after creating in us similar brains, and eyes and hearts
he wanted to give us a simple way of telling each other apart.
Perhaps she wanted us to look both outside as well as in
and see there is so much more to who we are than the color of our skin.
Perhaps her belief in her creations was both resolute and strong…
and she never guessed there would be reasons we would not get along…
My guess is he didn’t think it important…the color of our skin
which is why when creating all our pieces she made our color part so thin.
Perhaps our creator hoped…from the moment our life begins
We would use our brain, our eyes and our heart…to see past the color of our skin.
After all, if our creator made color such a small part of you…
and such a small part of me
If she didn’t think it that important…
I wonder…
why do we?
The Deception of the American Public - A Satire
By Elton Camp
I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say
We are shorted out of an inch at Subway
About that delicious inch, I really care
Without it, I leave as hungry as a bear
At the place’s greed, I stand appalled
Even if I can have fixings, one or all
To measure, I’m not sure how to begin
What if tomatoes stick out from the end?
The bun’s length is the standard I guess
But I’ve never measured it, I confess
I want every millimeter coming to me
But does Subway management agree
If so, when the bread they shape
They’ll apply to each a measuring tape
The counter help will measure again
To steal that inch is a horrid sin
What’s good business they ought to see
Because that inch is important to me
I sabotaged my eight-millimeter childhood.
I never knew Sartre
But I contorted my latex face,
Burying my nothingness in family films.
My child was scripted to be ugly, skipped over
In comic relief.
Only recognizable as Menoetius,
My only animation was insolence.
I believed nothing in myself,
I knew nothing.
I sought my masquerade in
Metaverse avatars,
Really just 2D analog shadows,
Swaying waves of gray on ashen tv tubes.
Without convictions, I was convicted.
My craven rudeness landed me
In squalid wreckage,
The debris of my dormant sea,
Forsaken a million or more times,
Rebuffed and scorned,
I succumbed to my dense exhaustion.
I shut down where sleep had no form,
Where space-time is an illusion.
Some hint of dream touched and aroused me.
Some anamnesis so much greater than any containment!
I awakened sweaty, wretched, and authentically flawed,
savoring the sudden phenomenal enigma,
Ready to learn the endless patterns
of all the passions and sciences.
Pouring milk teeth onto a tea cup silence,
rasping over ceramic furroughs -
a harvest of unborn cries -
she shudders into the hollow of a throat
she can’t escape.
She’s already shrouded,
tapestries and bed-sheets and fences and
liquid walls, all white.
Bridal white, white as snow, cold to the touch.
She dreams softly, unassuming,
folded into her wrinkle of universe,
and dabs her weeping wrists with every
perfume she owns, hoping to reclaim her mind
with the memory-laden scents of what was.
But it all smells the same to her now,
like steel corridors and hospital-stillness,
and she can’t hide the decay even
though every mirror in the house is turned
inside out and left alone to reflect the wall.
She’s nothing now: a final breath
a kiss no one remembers,
a candle with a millimeter wick and no matches.
She’s imprisoned in one strand of mercury hair, torn and
bleeding around her finger,
and set free in that instant where vanilla tears swell
with his image on her face.
She held him for so long, but she’s on her knees
begging for more.
Inspiration: Pearl Jam's Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town
and
"Lucid, Nostalgic Perfumes of a
Deceased Love Permeate his senses."
-Conor Jordan
All About Cake-Alleya Joy Kolar March 2016
She looked at it like it was a masterpiece.
It looked as if someone had spent their lifetime on it.
A lifetime so dedicated to every absolute Crumb,
To every bite of which was about to be hers.
She looked through the window, she looked through the glass.
She thought to herself,
“I have to make it mine, I have to make it last.”
So she grabbed her purse and every penny and all her cash.
And then she went, to put her hunger in the past.
She opened the door so effortlessly, so ready for her tastey.
She said hello to a friend waiting by the pastry.
As she waited so eager and ready, she realized she was so anxious that she was sweaty.
The friend in front of her in the line was looking at the very same cake, and could become the beholder.
It was now the friends turn to order.
She stared closely, listened intensly.
She could hear every drop of sweat flow down her back,
she could feel the saliva appear on every square millimeter on her tongue.
They ordered a doughnut.
Relieved she walked forward to ask the cashier for the price of the delicate piece of marvelous-art of a cake that she had been admiring.
He answers and they exchange the amount due.
It is hers as time slows down she finds a fork and a seat to sit in as she joins paradise.
As she takes the last bite she smiles sweetly to the employee and leaves the tip under the plate.
It was the best cake she had ever had.
in a room laced with gloom
his beats boom he dreams of wreckin' the mike
his momma's home she's alone
a sad song she struggles she fights
his lil' sis' is quite a miss
but them fives they do dis' they women so bad
but they alright except at night
for fives will fight you know a drive-bye’s to be had
in the ghetto he's a cello
if he's yellow he's bound to get played
his homies ain't no phonies
they drinkin' forties and lookin' to get paid
on the corner he's a gonna'
take lil' Jack Horner’s fo' they Christmas pie
sticks in his thumb pulls out a gun
ya' betta' run son he's one crazy lil' five
there's two sides to this lil' five
he's full of jive and has a heart of gold
if he jacks you fo' fifty don't give in too swiftly
he's kinda' shifty he'll want fifty more
his mom's on welfare nobody else will care
some fives they do stare at his lil' sis
on Sundays in church his soul he must search
at night he does dirt a childhood was missed
a baby born a bastard; things happen fasta'
the streets might cast ya' in the role of a wimp
a five from L.A. drivin' a six tre'
crime it do pay wants his name on the blimp
the U.S. government cannot prevent
this adolescent from goin' astray
not to mention juvenile detention
just another dimension of the American way
joined a street gang it's a ghetto thang
playin' the dope game he's a thug fo' life
original gangstas like this lil' pranksta'
he can't wait to shank ya' in the heat of the night
OG's got a mission some fives they dissed 'em
pranksta' can get 'em it's initiation day
the scene's a playground it's fin' to go down
babies they run 'round looks like a foray
closer and closer his heart grows colder
gettin' bolder and bolder his nine-millimeter jams
seventeen years old his body turns cold
his last episode hollow points rip his ass
a frontpage story didn't earn no glory
nature was predatory really dug his profile
he carried my name could not break the chain
he lived in vain he was my only child
As the weather chooses its flavour for the hour,
Stubble-ended wood shaves itself on the layers of unseen ground.
Synthetic puke seeps through pores seeking to devour
Every tiny, curled hair floating in the murk around and around.
Pool party skies reside a millimeter higher than the tallest fingertip:
Leftovers infect this mass of last meals passed on.
A spindle of cloth runs out with time enough to graze my lip
And still no locks of winter-lived years could sink a single talon
Into the darkest dark of fleeting moments taken from a fork.
Shall this be all that has come from years after that first unscrewed cork?
My love is black widow spun
Got a red hourglass abdomen,
and a deadly sac of emotional poison
Don’t let my eight millimeter eyes
zoom it’s spider focus on you
Or my Daddy long-legged slender fingers
will digitally creep closer to your heart
to get a better predatory view
Every one of my victims
gets a desirable, sensuous spin of silky lies
wrapped around their lust driven mind
My cobweb of suggested erotic fantasies
catch those sex-hungry human flies so easily
My love is a black widow spin ...
your fate is to be cocooned in
Whenever I want a taste
of your trapped heart,
I just reach in and pierce
your paralyzed skin
Tug on my cyber web at your own peril
Get photo shopped mesmerized
by my cute avatar curls
Let me creep ever so close,
become familiar with your vulnerabilities
Come kiss my night shade lips ...
when they sting you,
begin to feel the weave of my
cautiously careful caresses
Feel my black widow love —
those bared fangs bite hard
into soft, fleshly weakened sensitivities
As the sands in my fatal hourglass,
sink and entomb you
Horror on another stricken face,
gives this black widow
a most self-satisfying arachnid taste
The Disastrous Traffic Stop
By Elton Camp
To pull over quickly Robert didn’t fail
Just as soon as he saw a cop on his tail
“Sir, you exceeded the speed limit, I fear.
That is the reason I pulled you over here.”
Robert gave the office a sheepish grin
“My radar detector wasn’t plugged in.
Hey, man, you have to be on the take.
Shouldn’t a cop be in better shape?”
The cop said, “Hand your license here.”
“I can’t reach it unless you hold my beer.”
As the riot act the mad cop to Robert read:
“You too dumb for McDonald’s instead?”
The cop then asked why he drove so fast
“A well-patrolled area I was trying to get past.”
And I was also running pretty far behind
For my crack delivery the boss did assign.”
“You’re not going to check the trunk are you?
If so, then of being courteous I am through.”
“Hey, is your rod a nine millimeter gun?
This 44 magnum in my hand is more fun.”
Age old wisdom scarred not flamed. A dozen baked bees in an hour glass perturbed. And left undisturbed as a minotaur sunbathing on a single blade of grass on a sixty acre lawn. At dusk. At dawn. Week by week. But no lawnmowers. And it is to be ascertained that a fish bowl is not a serpent pulled inside out upon a circular globular glass. Ok then. One for memory bank but no banking involved in a skyscraper skim. For skimming stones is neither a scale, an octave, nor is it a radioactive material that smothers a bed. Manufactured by a slide. Wee then. Go on shout weeeeee. Surely western interfere of an uneven divide. Two ended manuscripts bow and scrape through the screening. Such interface.....wow......such ideas are neither neutral nor neutrophil. Ok. Great. Now the buds are areas nowadays and obsolete as a spelling test of ten twenty sixty on a business bus balancing over two hundred and forty five fish on a circuit of shape. Wow. Fantastic isn't it? And all the time a two millimeter choir boy sings alleluia and then eats porridge. Great. Oh haha so funny the people have arrived on time. Wow. Ha ha the pig is running around with a giant bread which has many wheels. Hahah playing piano with a timed tuned washing machine is quite remarkable and profound. For it is a diamond dish of display on a deity dish of difference. No ship now. Xxxxx bibliographical xxxxxx hexagon calling triangle to make a square. Xxxxxx z z z z z
This is fabricated evidence of love
Forged reports of a representative that cares
We are stripped of our skins
Chernobyl lingers in the backdrop
Stretches his mutated ligaments to reach us
Barely a millimeter apart
They're already larger than life and yet
they still walk on stilts
The men in black suits waving identification
like batons
Don't tell them a damned thing
He waits alone in the water
for blood; for prey;
for any sign of life
We betray ourselves to him
"Why the face so long"
"What could go so wrong"
I'll tell you what,
it may take 43 muscles
but who even honestly frowns
when they're sad these days
In the throngs of despair
the flight reaction catches
and releases
Everything spreads like disease
Cakes in cracks and crevices in the walls of the well
Nobody's leaving
whether there's a desire to or not
This is fabricated evidence of love
Who Pulls The Trigger
The degree of difficulty diminishes
conscience and justice dim
the fog of zealous denial.
A trigger is squeezed
each millimeter
an agony
each millisecond
a lifetime.
Sharp recoil awakens reality
SCAN QUICKLY TO SLOWY
ACQUIRE TARGET, RESIGHT
resist the pressure
of the trigger
resist the resistance to it.
Death comes
sometimes quickly
always slowly.
The finger compresses
time, life, right, wrong
milliseconds
millimeters.
In a large office
a “leader”
looks at his hands
examines his nails
SCANS QUICKLY TO SLOWLY
ACQUIRES TARGET, RESIGHTS
This distant trigger finger
compresses a button
no conscience
no justice
no connection
to faces
dying.
1/9/2017
submitted to – You Say You Want a Revolution – Poetry Contest