Transparency is like a graduated cylinder
that exposes its contents to view;
When the liquid of clarity shows no obscurity,
the measure marks of sincerity stay true.
Transparency is like a window
that lets the truth beyond the glass be clearly seen;
When the curtain dances across the pane,
it turns into doubt's hanging screen.
Transparency is like a flashlight
that unmasks what darkness tries to hide;
When the hand of power turns the switch off,
though the battery of bureaus stays charged, facts feel denied.
Transparency is like an official receipt
that documents a record for authentication;
When the culprit leaves no certificate of traceability,
no item, amount, or date will show the transaction.
Transparency is like an open book
whose text declares what all have rights to see;
When the crook closes the pages of public awareness,
it covers the volume of its dark secrecy.
I once heard a warning from a sailor:
"Don't look at the ocean at night—the darkness offers an escape."
I wonder if it is the same for a soldier staring down a gun barrel.
As they run through dark trenches, fleeing death,does that cold metal cylinder promise a release?
An end to fear.The death of anger.
Or a quiet peace brought to a desolate land.
Many wonder, staring straight into that deep ocean of unforgiving quiet.
But peace demands a price in an empty country.
It means
a mother you will never see,
a wife you will never love,
a child you will never guide—
only eyes wandering a horizon that never ends.
But the sailor never taught me what remains unseen:
the sea always stares back.
It cannot feel your agonizing rage.
It does not share your lonely sadness.
It has no thought of family or friends.
Instead, it only waits for you to jump, and find your peace.
The cardboard cylinder begins
to peek,
The prognosis is grim, the
outlook is bleak.
Only three sheets left on this
spinning white wheel,
And I'm starting to think about
how I should feel.
The plush, quilted days of my
youth have all passed,
When I unrolled with abandon
and lived life as fast.
Now the perforations are
marking the clock,
As I desperately downsize my
remaining stock.
Will I go out on glory, a two-ply
embrace?
Or be wiped from existence
with no saving grace?
The roll spins much faster the
closer it gets
To the end of the tube and a pile
of regrets.
I am down to the glue on the
very last square,
Just a ghost of a tissue, a
whisper of air.
So remember me kindly,
unspoiled and undone,
It was a beautiful, two-ply,
magnificent run.
One- Liner
Like the last square of paper
on a spinning brown roll,
we're all just clinging to the
cardboard at the end of the
bowl.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Turn the kaleidoscope’s brass cylinder~
watch the glass teeth chew daylight
into stained-glass sermons.
A priest of shattered color
preaches through the prism’s throat:
every fracture is a door.
You tilt it again~
suddenly the universe
is a hallway of falling
jewels, a riot of saints
with no faces, only
their bright, dissolving robes.
Teenager’s first epiphany:
Learning that beauty
is just rearrangement~
that the eyes themselves
are hungry
kaleidoscopes.
this poem was written for an online poetry class assignment in response to the above image
Love can be quiet,
even in urgency.
I hankered for capers tonight,
and the juice that came
in its narrow, cylinder glass.
Can passion
be quiet too?
Or is it innately
impatient,
and loudly
disquieting?
Please rate and rank
my poem for slim
and thinking readers,
and let me laugh,
disquietly.
The Master Cylinder spoke,
a most intriguing kind of bloke.
His knowledge, grandly poured,
his oratory fairly soared -
but in the land of Felix the Cat,
very soon, it was found that
he was dumb as a board.
You fit me like a glove
I fly in like a dove
I drop in from above
A pink tornado of love
I try and fix my crown
I look for you downtown
You’ll know when I touch down
A collection of pink and brown
My heart hit a hard stop with you
It met its match, it already knew
Whatever you say, I’ll already do
Oh how dedicated I am to you..
You calmed my winds so gracefully
No more of me twisting painfully
Grounded and balanced tastefully
You tamed me ever so faithfully
I was a supercell with a dark green sky
A cloudy cylinder with physics defied
The eye of my storm and you went inside
You melted my doubts and tossed them aside
All because you fit me like a glove
I swooped in like a darling little dove
Dropped in like a hero from above
Turned into a pink tornado of love
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
~~~~~~~~~~
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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)
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.
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