Cylinder Poems | Examples

Alignment

 
 
crown petals unfold for lofty Light
fontanelle gaping softly smile
Centre Point’s hole blazon mile

pineal connects as conical way
to galactic edenic binomial rays
loosens ovuliferous scales honed

thyroid equalises, tongue relaxes
cylinder opens larynx true blue
speech becomes intended hues

heart softens atria, ventricles 
valves linking doors of paradise
protected golden it rhapsodises 

coin-line verticle-horizontal spherical 
solar plexus flowers monumental near
mystical super might no incidentals 

feed flows smooth for tantric beats
sacral seat in creativity knowing heat
power is orange action satisfaction 

rooted into Earth mooted primordial 
authentic estate mirthful immemorial 
aligned connection very refined  
                                        
                                               
                         ~~~~~~~~~~

Reflection

Tackling a slick problem like D’Alembert’s paradox— 
a cylinder set in motion, destined to roll on and on— 
My fresh numerical method spoke in the same voice, 
but sparked sharp debate—someone blamed me for ignorance. 
Until a quip cracked the tension: “D’Alembert’s paradox doesn’t account for lubrication.” 

Truths can slice deep, sharper than we expect, 
Yet a wry smile, a joke, can transmute iron into gold. 
Humor doesn’t erase the sting—it dulls the edge, 
revealing strength when despair weighs us down. 

A sense of humor is our forged armor: 
a spark of joy in the heart, a reluctant laugh on the lips— 
it signals someone who grasps life's brittle elegance. 
A gentle jest softens the hardest truths, 
shading overwhelming realities with grace. 

When wit stands as a stronghold, 
even bitter truths echo with less sting. 
You don’t flee reality—you greet it with a grin— 
and in that greeting, you find the courage to begin again.

Tinned Fish

A little fish in a little coffin
i find my self indulging so often
burried in a sludge of oil and viniger
so much flavour packed into this small cylinder
i love the fishes in the ocean
but fishies in tinneis bring me such emotion
i love you tinned fish 
and thats devotion

Shapes

Sometimes I feel out of place, like I'm a triangle in a circle hole.
I have too much in some sides whilst I lack a bit too much at some.
It's hard to fit in a place you're not meant  to be in. Especially when you're supposed to be there, just not meant to be there.
Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it's okay. Just not always, as life is like a tire, sometimes you're up sometimes you're down. 
But I'm not a cylinder, I am a triangle.
If a box were to go through the same as a circle it wouldn't fit.
But sometimes a circle can go through a box hole cause they fit.
Yet a rectangle has to fix itself a bit in a way to fit into a square hole.
Even if I were to talk about this and explain it thoroughly... 
Noone woukd understand that each and everyone of us is a different shape, in different situations, or holes.
I just wish I was at my correct hole..
For I'm a triangle, trying to go through a circle hole.

An Imperfect Morning

Imperfection abounds, 
the evidence is everywhere,
misshapen leaves and tree trunks
hunched over and almost touching
the ground mark the morning - 
a dog chasing a ball along the beach
has a bent tail, the owner a limp. 

Across the road, a mower 
that is cutting the grass
in the municipal gardens coughs 
smoke out of a sick cylinder and a seagull 
that waits at my feet for a scrap 
is missing a foot.

And I and all the people that are here
taking in the morning air share
an imperfection written in our genes, 
unseen, benign or a ticking time bomb 
waiting to explode into disease.

Perfection is an ideal
that perhaps exists only in our heads, 
a notion conjured up and given to grace
our departed gods. Everything carries
the seeds of its own decay,
is sentenced to pass away

and yet we swear we see it 
shine through a crack in time,
in nature when caught sublime 
in a moment of transcendent beauty
and in the love hiding at the center
of ourselves and our art 
that threatens to break through 
and illuminate our dark.

Kaleidoscope

Beautiful shapes to look at
(that’s the Greek etymology)
cylinder of imagination,
childhood companion,
hours spent squinting and twisting,
magical mystery machine,
a carousel for the eyes,
never the same pattern twice,
akin to snowflakes or human faces.
If the world were a kaleidoscope,
I’d twist it round and round
discerning the beautiful facades
of places, people and peculiarities,
a prismatic eye-feast
restoring hope in humanity’s future.

A Wolf Waits

A Wolf Waits

Early one morning
reason escaped
And prescience went with it
unlocking the gate
Lights in the asylum
flicker and fade
The inmates grow restless
a deepening shade
Evening brought darkness
no stars in the sky
But nobody wondered
no questioning why
The moon simply vanished
a wolf waits to howl
All order disorder
—with thought disavowed

(Dreamsleep: December, 2023) 


Spinning The Cylinder

When does intelligence
turn on its host
Killing the patron
leaving a ghost

Russian roulette
in a game zero sum
Perception reloading
—acuity’s gun

(Dreamsleep: December, 2023) 


Quantum Leap

Life beyond numbers
images reign
Killing all reference 
lost in refrain
Gaming the theory
zeroing out
Counting symphonic
—Angels about

(Dreamsleep: December, 2023)

Parallax

I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.

A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.

"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.

She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.

"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?

I answer, "I think this is our date."

"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.

I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."

A withering look.

"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.

Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.

Oh How I Hate Okra

There is a food I hate to eat,
I hate it in my mouth
it taste like slime in my mouth,
the nastiest food on earth!

Oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
the nastiest food on earth!

It has a flower on its top,
and grows in the garden dirt,
it looks like a small cylinder
upon a pretty plant stalk.

Oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
the nastiest food on earth!

Its slimy when it gets cooked,
and slimy when its baked,
it taste like yuck in my mouth
the yuckiest food on earth!

Oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
the nastiest food on earth!

Oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
oh how I hate okra,
the nastiest food on earth!

Nature's Kaleidoscope

World's kaleidoscope turns gray-green.
The elders request: summon please, 
it's August, coerce Earth's palette
to wake absent artist, Autumn.

Kaleidoscope's gray cylinder	
wants reddish, orange and yellow trees.

Loosen-up leaves that tightly cleave
still hanging on to summer heat.
Hasten Mother Nature's routine
and free the colors deep within.

March 11, 2023

sponsor: Constance Le France
contest:  Writing Challenge, words with K

The Cruelest of Hate

It is the cruelest of hate
Creeping like an imposturous reptile
In the morning light of Eve’s Garden
Fangs dripping with malice
Searching for tender flesh to taste

Cruel hate clandestinely charging
Uncharged minds
Innocent ones
Too young to leave
Too old to hold on

Hissing rancorous lyrics
Like a street pusher pandering opiates
To abject addicts
Hate creates images of a fresh world
Socially acceptable to his guiltless prey

It is the cruelest of hate
Proffering empty promises of transcendent fame
Lying in the wake of the fallen ones
Dead on square tiled floors
As muted school bells forget to ring
From sandy grounds to tangled woods
To weeping waterfalls on a westbound highway
Counting the dead
Nineteen names prancing across digital screens 
Held in hands too small to tremble
Hate authoring hallucinations 
To guard against truth

It is the cruelest of hate
Peering through the eye of a grooved cylinder
Pushing calloused flesh against curved steel
Lead projectiles penetrating
Again, and again
Unblemished innocence
Teddy bears held against beating hearts
And the let go dreams of 
Our children

It is the cruelest of hate

Foreign Hitherto

Pushing cascades crest bastion, stomach lost
    Largesse spread wafts orange blossom bridal
    Bestows clouds let go to marshmallow moss
    Fearless flight crinoline crash vertical


    In gospel gothic deep chasm, drunk mink swims
    Stirring fate, bleeding tea leaves bewilder
    Leather gil quiver, loaded to the brim
    Goddess mink Milda, silk coat cylinder


    Poison spore auburn myrrh lassoo arrows
    Immune audine preened, unwitting Otto
    Seduced by sadist, dart sought embargo
    Incapacitated poderoso


    Discharged firearm, struck futile, fratenised
    Love liege embalms gun powder, satisfied




            Ninth February 
              Hijacked by 
             Milda Audine

Cylinder Doesnt Play

Electrical spark, you are nothing without me!
Brags arrogant spark plug, my cousin, Lee.
Distributor gets mad and keeps current back.
Cylinder gives spark plug a mighty ugly mean whack.
Gasoline engine starts up now in the right way.
Jealousy handled by Cylinder, because she don’t play!

Time Takes a Cigarette

A Line from Bowie reminds me of this
But maybe a cigarette takes and defines time
Defines a day, moments taken to enjoy
Not from a packet, no pleasure in this
Construction is important, to be savoured
First the filter held in teeth, the paper flattened
Tobacco softly selected, just the right amount
Then assembled, fingers rolling, moist tongue to seal the glue
The cylinder shaped, the task complete
But just the beginning, the next to come
Deciding to stand in the wind or the shelter
Then it is lit and comes the time to think or talk perhaps
This action, this movement, segments the day
From the first morning event, followed by others
Until the last evening excursion signifies closure
These divisions of the day almost profound
A definition of time passing, like small mile stones
Just another microcosm, parallel to many other daily things
Yet significant in my contemplative states

Jan 2022

Gambit

the tables have turned 


victor spins the cylinder


triggering the end

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