Best Rectangular Poems
Blindfolded, he takes me from the car through the humid air of August. He holds my hand, and then surrounds me with his arms, when small obstacles appear. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The silk rectangular scarf, I had folded and tied about my breasts clings to me. My cutoffs ride up further exciting me, as he lifts me onto a wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea where we are but, his voice and footsteps have a slight echo.
the wail
of a harmonica:
moonlight serenade
Vibrations tingle across my skin, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows a shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in echo, I hear him approach. He lifts me high and traces the droplet down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. I am still blindfolded when he places me on the ground. I feel his breathe upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, his face, his hands, his taste, and that night at the empty skating rink…but, sadly, not his name.
the scarf
falls from my hands:
the drawer closes
First Published by Contemporary Haibun On-line Winter of 2013
Categories:
rectangular, sensual,
Form:
Haibun
Late to the party we arrived at seven
At least we showed up before eleven
Sweet Ginette, joined us both at the door
A bottle in my hand ready to pour
Off to the kitchen to see the Birthday Queen
All the happy faces a beautiful scene
Hugs for Chantale, another for Helene
I met a new person, energetic like a teen
Her name if I remember, it is Jocelynne
She is married, to a cool guy his name Martin
Bruno was cooking but stopped to say hi
Christine looked happy to be with her guy
Jokes and conversation, a whole lot of fun
Happy to spend time with everyone
Dave seemed content enjoying the mood
My stomach grumbled, I was ready for food
To the table it was time to sit down
We were all treated, to the best meal in town
First Chantale prayed a blessing on us
Our Savior is great, he deserves a fuss
The meal fantastic but the Tuna was raw
I tried to eat it but it stuck in my craw
My Mary she enjoyed it, although not me
I prefer all things cooked, that come from the sea
The pasta amazing, seafood galore
The wine was superb, I let Christine pour
She sat to my left, Dave sat to my right
Everyone there, made it a perfect night
Once concluded, Christine C sang a song
A Louis Armstrong tune we all joined along
Her voice was clearest ours more like a croak
We were lost in the moment, that's not a joke.
We all started dancing, disco moves on the floor
Armand turned up the sound, as we screamed for more
First time I saw Dave dance, he cuts quite the rug
Armand has his own moves, he likes the Jittery Bug
Before too long it was time for dessert
Hot from all the candles I unbuttoned my shirt
Chantal blew out the candles after making two wishes
Armand served Mary's cake, on rectangular dishes
Chantale's special day, a day to remember
Celebrated each year, October not November
So we raised our glasses, thankful for the cheer
Together we celebrated a friend who is dear!
Categories:
rectangular, birthday, celebration,
Form:
Couplet
The sky is a Luciferian estuary
rolling and roaring in crimson flames,
a twisted design of detonated debris,
like splitting sighs
from internal implosions,
raining fragments of the past:
matchbox memories
piercing through suffocating silence
as time tortures the mind
with flashbacks of floating fragility…
O invisible moonlight,
pour me a purple potion
to erase the pain behind
perplexed pupils.
I no longer desire to be
cast in the clamorous clusters,
convicted as the captive ~
a ghost of games
playing on the bones of brokenness,
this cave of shame,
this cell of hellfire,
this emotional shrapnel,
reflecting self-loathing nightmares.
Perhaps I crowned myself
the commander,
leading the devil’s disciples
into a war assembled from fear…
And this heart ~ a metallic maelstrom
mourning in the turmoil of melancholy ~
breaks from the inability
to step beyond wrathful walls
to a landscape of holiness,
to seek the footsteps of pilgrimage.
For I am caught in
the whirling whispers of
spectral regrets,
replicating rectangular ruins,
electrifying the empyrean
with greyed grief
and yellowed yearning.
Pondering ~ am I the blasphemer
in the cross-eyed faces of monsters?
Am I the breath
that trembled ~ disrupting the peace?
Am I the empty spaces
filling the crystalline cracks
between haunting hours,
while darkness devours
treacherous tales
climbing from the
archives of devious agony…
But can love gift this skeletal sorrow
a twilight-kissed cloak of hope?
Will heaven be a witness
to these bleeding carvings
within the tall pillars
of my splintered spirit,
while the dying lamp of life
slowly fades and waves farewell
in faint colors ~ depicting misery
like demons decaying,
shaping a sadistic sanctuary
of malignant madness~
a familiar insanity inked
as a heinous home…
Categories:
rectangular, dark, emotions, gothic,
Form:
Ekphrasis
My Christmas Baby Doll
Fast down the staircase, eight of us in all,
like Santa’s reindeer, fly to our big tree
the very second that our parents call
us from our bedrooms. Oh, the gifts we see!
The glitter of the tinsel can’t compare
to our excitement as we run to snatch
our presents up! Then we begin to tear
the wrapping off, and then at last I catch
a glimpse of my best present on the floor.
A box rectangular, it makes me guess
it has to be the gift I will adore.
Pink-cheeked and sweet, it’s Thumbelina! Yes!
I wind a knob. Her small head moves. How real
my baby is, and what great joy I feel!
Written Dec. 21, 2016 for The Christmas Day Contest of Alexis Y.
See picture of the vintage 1964 doll above.
Categories:
rectangular, childhood, christmas,
Form:
Sonnet
Was it illusion,was it a dream?
That Garden in moonlight , ink
Dark sky. A single cloud like a
Razor passing. Black tree stretched
High and it’s claws scratched the
The milky way.Rectangular pond
Black as crude oil deadly still, I
Kneel and gaze deep within; like
Narcissus enamoured and
Transformed. A door into
Summer opens, blinding light
And in one stroke, my Garden
Is no more.
Categories:
rectangular, allegory
Form:
she clarifies bacon grease
to make the popcorn
once it is in the bowl
add seasoning with butter
a tad of garlic, sea salt, sugar
the layers of flavor are a paradise
scattered in each morsel
this means a romantic movie tonight
probably one we have seen quite often
i never tire of this
holding her hand as she tears
with each tear, i fall in love again
she finds ways to make vegetables tempting
baked, fried, steamed, an array of seasoning
appetizers of soft cheese, celery, small sausages
while the cheese brings a subtle creamy softness
the celery mixes in fiber and mild juices
then assaulted by the piquant sausage
as it races upon my pallet
masticating this admixture
i become a contented bovine
mindlessly working the promised pasture
ruminating before i must surrender
heavens touch to the stomach
that precious smile she wears
watching that consuming ecstasy
as a soft moan of pleasure escapes me
they sit upon a thin elongated rectangular plate
which rests between two slim vases
one has a red rose, the other is pink
she never varies in that arrangement
red is her undying love for me
pink is her gratitude to God for our love
while colors never change
she will add different meanings at times
which she announces after grace
you are more than just a loving chef
you are the romantic that inspires me
you are the poet in the kitchen
whose depth lives within so many levels
i never tire of gazing upon her
she is the third rose at dinner
my Blue rose, the unobtainable
is obtained, the chimera realized
each bite i take is another sonnet
she has carefully crafted
in that enchanting cauldron
those soft moans escaping onto her smile
have become my book of best-loved poems
1/16/19 Kismet
Categories:
rectangular, devotion, i love you,
Form:
Romanticism
Heavily laden boats, rectangular sails billowing
Under seas of low cloud, braving the fierce Yangtze;
Held between snowcapped mountains, earth and sky
Indistinguishable from steaming mist and rolling fog;
A long drawn straggle of Grey Geese plummeting down
From breathless, rarefied air to stumble awkwardly onto
Plum coloured mudbanks; an unrestrained, excitable
Cacophony of frenzied honking! Then wild monkeys
Provoked into howling each side of the river.
There, at the juncture with Longjin Brook, stilted homes,
Half-hidden by bamboo groves, crouch at the waters
Edge; maidens will come to wash clothes
Whirling wooden batons, twittering like golden swallows;
Fragrant wildflowers enhance their sweetness.
At drab, pale, first-morning light, fishermen cast
Nets over the cooling, placid blue waters;
The fish that swim here are said to be the finest
In the province.
We will exchange Black Carp and Blunt-Snout Bream,
Wrapped in moist bamboo leaf, for glutinous rice
With the clans that tend the terraces inside the fertile
River valley...
Does not the Emperor insist upon good commerce?
If you are dissatisfied as a peasant
You can take the ancient "old tea horse road"
And burden your back with heavy bales stacked high
On a rail;
The road will take you all the way from Zigui
To Tibet...or even further perhaps,
And sombre ravens will soar overhead and taunt your
Every footstep.
But I will remain where I am, in the
Village On The Water
Nestled deep within the Three Gorges;
My life, the endless horizon stretched beyond,
Held in balance as if it were Shaseng
The Shadow Play Stone;
And each new morning awakening to slow,
Chiming bells.
Categories:
rectangular, appreciation, environment, winter,
Form:
Free verse
Life's margins are too narrow for proofreading: a poor catch of extra commas, profiles of girls and monograms of insomnia. For literature, an earthly life is just a couple of words in a not too coordinated sentence, let alone the poetry: here the author's headache determines the character's lifetime, here the area of a paper sheet limits his rectangular space of life… At this moment the protagonist is wondering why his black coat, which he puts on only once a year on Christmas Eve when visiting his wife in Woodlawn Cemetery, is worn through and why a lonely old poet is so cold in December in New-York?
should author tell him
I don't think so life's margins
are too narrow for
19.12.2019
The Darker Side Of Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
Categories:
rectangular, death, life, literature, poetry,
Form:
Haibun
WASTED WORDS
Lounging near sleep and lingering time
are Eliot, Dylan and I.
We discuss preposterously shaped women
and laugh ‘til our heads roll down
the stairs and onto the crumpled street,
past the sordid cafes and triple-X store
to the busy corner where fat men meet.
Barren, with the violet hour approaching,
my dear fellow Thomas remarks,
“Before murderous time makes fools of all
with whispers of immortality,
we must take refuge (or lest give up)
and shed this burdensome cloak, at last,
for the naked vision found in the cup.”
So we plunge into this purple place
and Eliot begins his quest.
While Dylan speaks of pale-faced men
in rectangular wooden suits
and black-veiled women who sing and moan.
Then right on cue the rattling sky
chimes in a thunderous tune unknown.
Meanwhile, in a sullen corner
lost in a sober wasteland,
metaphorically T. S. sits
shrouded by his darkness,
scorned and shamed by the burgeoning sky.
When a cleavage disguised as a barmaid puts out,
“...remember to focus on the how not the why.”
“What is this strange new beauty ?”, he asks,
as he gently strokes her tattoo.
She laconically spit direct in his ear
her storied life as a dancer
and infidelity rose in my pants,
much to my horror, too much to hold back,
when off goes Eliot into one of his rants.
But Dylan will have his dominion in here,
with a song he whipped up the crowd.
A Welsh tune he belted like a demon possessed,
with vile and wasted words,
but for noise violations he was carted to jail.
Eliot’s guilt was his rain-drenched voice
but Sir Thomas had found his Holy Grail.
Categories:
rectangular, imagination, nonsense,
Form:
Rhyme
This is my temple
Like a box
Rectangular contained and lidded
Blood and bones and veins consistent
Asking questions
To my flesh...
Molded giftwrapped thus from ashes
In this space live organs dwelling
Shall I hearken
Soul and sirens
...ever melodies of feelings
Hearken to the simple spirit
Like a chamber or a prison is my flesh, this outside box with-in it's space live
organs dwelling
Like a box I have been moved, abused and used, less often gifted
How shall I express when opened?
Null and void
An empty space, sometimes I feel depressed unopened
As a box this is my flesh and giftwrap me with bows and ribbons
To become a splendid rhythm
On your doorstep
Pick me up
Rectangular a joy I'm giving
Open and release my prison
Like a box
Here I am
Molded giftwrapped thus from ashes
Rectangular contained and lidded
Categories:
rectangular, introspection, me, space,
Form:
Lyric
Touching hearts - did I just call him a ham, her a turkey,
another a chicken, as I directed them with smiles, my
humor-filled wiles. I resurrect, as I’m directed to hand
out love. This makes me generous…I generously give life,
not eternity…directing the elderly…I’m at the fringe,
to pick up their box (not the rectangular offing that will
contain a body with no breath, no soul). For now we all
eat, listen to the boss speak about the disenfranchisement
of belongings, the longing of some to rob the elderly
of their earthly goods. One thing we can be sure of
is to whom our soul belongs. Remember it will not be
in the box. It will go to a heavenly or very hot place.
We all make a choice…who will you serve…I serve the food.
The sandwiches are cold. The hearts are warm and expectant.
Hold the book in your open hands. Chew what is inside.
Don’t forget to savour each bite. There are two slices of bread -
the old and new. They go together nicely - the spread and fillings.
The blessing, touching hearts - faith holds it all together.
Faith in the totality of the revelation God has given. Abraham,
not to be confused with Abraturkey or Abrachicken (just
infusing a bit of humor in my serious sandwich), ahem…
Abraham was saved by faith and so are we when we follow
the path where God leads. We follow him to the cross, to
the grave, to the resurrection and ascension. We follow Christ
to Pentecost where the friends of Jesus were served
the Holy Spirit, like doves, like flames of fire. Likewise,
our choice to be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ.
Under we go, into His death…rising we go, into eternal life.
Back to my Senior Luncheon, serving lots of love, gratitude
in our hearts, ready to depart whenever God calls us. For now,
just leaving the parking lot. Leftovers in box, not me - thankfully. ;)
6/20/2023
Categories:
rectangular, christian, food, life,
Form:
Free verse
PARALLEOGRAMATIC
Four sober quadrilateral equations
were quartered around a rectangular occasion.
No less than a quadrifarious derivation,
are ever admitted to the annual rectangular without libation!
Categories:
rectangular, on writing and words,
Form:
Couplet
Tiranga (Tricolour)
First unfurled, was the Indian tricolor;
on Everest, the world's highest peak.
All the three colours are deliberated
to give some message and speak.
Dark saffron, white and Indian green,
the three colours of Indian national flag;
all in horizontal rectangular bars,
top to bottom, respectively placed.
Green band at bottom tells Indians,
grow with greenery and agriculture;
White band in middle of it, gives us
message of peace, truth and culture.
Saffron says, be brave and courageous,
don't hesitate to sacrifice if nation needs;
Wheel of twenty four spokes at centre tells,
on the path of progress always proceed.
Made of hand spun Indian cloth, Khadi,
at one hand symbolises pride of nation;
Design and colour on the other, say symbolically
what ought to do the great Indians.
On every Independence and republic days
Tiranga is unfurled widely in the country.
That reminds the people; be nice, graceful,
peaceful, prosper and keep in mind your duty.
(C) S. D. Tiwari
Categories:
rectangular, children, culture, identity, independence
Form:
Couplet
(Another childhood poem)
A pamphlet file in green metallic
thrusts through neon antinight
its cornered self, harsh in glare.
Piers of five-tiered fingers --
shelves -- extend beyond,
in series: a formal pattern,
rectangular and angular.
Artificial electric shine reflects
bland or blatant color.
There are books, some in disarray
in order placement on the shelves.
All: solid, relentless, inflexible.
And most were made for use
by patterns much more rigid still.
Categories:
rectangular, allegory, introspection, life,
Form:
Free verse
I had a doll that could close its eyes, “Don’t show it to others.” was a friend’s advice.
Covering notebooks was an important mission; it had to be done before submission.
Extremely delightful and lovely days, never knew that would only be a phase.
Let’s go back in nineteen eighty four, when no tears, only smiles we wore.
Vacations were absolute sensation; leaving station was a real temptation.
Endless world of immature fashion, 'kumkum bindi' was just an addition.
Wearing 'saree' was my passion, who cared for momma’s permission.
No one was allowed break rules, When, we played ‘Schools-schools’.
My favorite game was one leg race, for my pace had some grace.
Pinning a Tricolor was a pride, 'Vande Mataram' we loudly cried.
Playing Cricket was real fun, though companion I had only one.
All of us governed a star or two, aliens! We called them ‘Dru’.
Hopscotch was no big deal; it always gave us an active feel.
'Roohafza' was the coolest drink; I could finish it in a blink.
Fleeing after ringing a bell, then hiding into a nearby shell.
How I wish to make way back then, when I was ten.
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*A bindi, meaning "point, drop or dot " is a red dot worn on the center of the forehead, commonly by Hindu women.
@Saree is a garment consisting of a length of cotton or silk elaborately draped around the body, traditionally worn by women from South Asia.
#Tricolor: The National Flag of India is a horizontal rectangular tricolour of deep saffron, white andIndia green; with the Ashoka Chakra, a 24-spoke wheel, in navy blue at its centre.
**Vande Mataram is the national song of India.
##Rooh Afza is a non-alcoholic concentrated squash. It is still the most popular drink in India.
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Date: 27/01/2016
For the contest: Way Back Then When I Was Ten
Sponsored by: Kelly Deschler
Categories:
rectangular, childhood,
Form:
Rhyme