Dilatory Poems | Examples

OH AUGUST

OH AUGUST!
"The best of summer is gone, and the new fall not yet born--the odd, uneven time of year." Sylvia Plath
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
time drips slow,
like honey from a summer hive.

days stretch like shadows, 
dancing with death of summer’s embrace. 

amber fields rustle,
their golden stalks heavy with grain. 

air, thick with heat and scent of decay,
blooms that once flourished, now wither away.

sun hangs low, a reluctant king
crowned in sun’s afterglow. 

cicadas hum their throaty tune,
a chorus of nostalgia in the dilatory heat.

evening sky,
a canvas of bruised twilight hues.

odd, uneven stretch of days,
a paradox wrapped in sun's shimmering haze.

time of harvest, an unsteady grace,
where joy and melancholy intertwine.

Oh August! Bittersweetness lingers,
for I know summer’s end is near.

Post-Morden Juke Box Experiences

There are time capsules in the rural Mid-West,
not retro constructs, but temporal dislocations
that remain as was,
for lack of a reason to be other.

Small town restaurants are steeped
in a comfortable inertia;
diners serve
all broasted, broiled and breaded everything.
Amish noodles nestle in thick white bowls.

There are still drive-in movies
where movies once missed
can be missed again.

We have bars where the jukebox is not a junk box
but a wood and chrome depository
for long archived selections.
Beer here is brewed as brawny
as rolled-up forearms.

We’re futuristic in a plaid and dilatory way.
We are post-modern Jetson reruns,
we dwell just West of the middle of tomorrow.

Unwashed

Rumbles of boredom lead the mouth to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes.

A need now to refresh this domestic pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.

One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.

The essential factors are smell
and guilt.

When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in an untidy kitchen
or the shredded rinds of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of former slicks
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish we are for leftovers.

Molasses In January

She’s a tedious lecture after a heavy meal,
A glacier inching coolly toward the sea.
She’s sluggish and poky, a dawdling bore,
A long drawn-out adagio, a passive devotee.
She’s tardy in attendance, and belated, as a rule.
Her lethargic applications lack dispatch.
Her dilatory effort winds the thread around the spool.
Her needlepoint is anything but rash.
Her slothful intervention into indolent affairs
Leaves her anchor dragging in the mud.
But even though she’s running at a laggard’s pace,
I sit here waiting patient, as I should.

Dilatory Deeds

Hie thee, to warm utterances
that soothe reddened hearts. 

Hie thee to where it knows no crackles from a cold spirit,
not even from seething sips of a blackened stout.

Hie thee, where no emerald flocks,
to blind thee into tempted wastes.

Hie thee into that which He bellows,
for trails into His Heavens or below.

Hie thee before they drub thee, a sub.
Before pain delivers regrets that deny forgiveness.

Hie thee, away from garbles of chatters,
from the morass of wrong deliverance. 

Hie thee for thou art too late.

Venus Fly Trap

Carnivorous blooms
hothouse fed,
thick tonged in lolling herds.

Feeding time is all day.
The flies are introduced
in humming shifts.

By evening 
the electric buzz is dimmed,
the curvaceous florals ingest;
sticky throats absorb.

One dilatory black fly
drones on alone.

Meaty flowers listen -

wait.

The Unwashed

Rumbles of boredom
lead me to eat
but then there are the unwashed,
the residue of the crumbling
and smeared. Greasy utensils
sneaking like sharks
amongst the soaking dishes.

We need to refresh this pond
with chemical bubbles
yet hands are too dilatory
to be daubed by yesterday’s food.
One has to judge with perfect timing
whether to wash the plates or
leave them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.

The essential factors are smell
and guilt. 
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in your sink,
or the shredded rinds 
of a latent rigor mortis 
coat themselves with the pimpled oils 
of a nibbling fungus,
only then is it time to reassess 
just how peckish
you are for leftovers.

Post-Modern Juke Box Experiences

There are time capsules in the rural Mid-West,
not retro constructs, but temporal dislocations 
that remain as was, 
for lack of a reason to be other.

Restaurants steeped, not in nostalgia,
but in a comfortable inertia;
diners that serve 
broast, broiled and breaded,
drive-ins where the movies you missed
can now (if you have a mind to),
miss again.

We have bars where the jukebox is not a junk box
but a wood and chrome depository
for archived time-warping selections.
Beer here has a fabled and dusty history, 
and is brewed as meaty as a rolled-up forearm.
Astronauts are grown here,
the moon is their backyard,
their silvery spaceships
launch each year from every State Fair.

We’re futuristic in a plaid and dilatory way,
we are as post-modern as Jetson reruns.
We dwell just West of the middle of tomorrow.

No Mistletoe Just Whine - Parody of Mistletoe and Wine

The stores are heaving, hear the tills jing-a-ling
Dilatory Charlie hasn’t purchased a thing
He’s on a mission, buying last minute gift
Better get something good or it’ll cause a rift

But it Christmas time, I hear Charlie whine
Shelves are all empty – didn’t get there on time
Can’t get wifey a present, no gift for the tree
It doesn’t bode well for this family!

Charlie goes to the garage to get her some flowers
The bouquet’s half dead it’s been outside for hours
He heads to the pub where he’ll sup lots of beer
and then stumble home full of dread and fear

Cos its Christmas time, I hear Charlie whine
Shelves are all empty – didn’t get there on time
Dead flowers as a present, no gift for the tree
It doesn’t bode well for this family!

HAPPY CHRISTMAS SOUPERS!

25/12/19

Quick Heal Our Friend Part 1

In the world of viruses criminatory
Quick Heal is the best category
Which I chose as my advisory
And freely continued my story.
Viruses made my PC dilatory;
Looking into browsers defamatory,
Inserting memory cards accusatory,
Unsafe browsing was dormitory
Hacking my info was depository
And to stop this, there was no jury;
At this juncture came this Hoary.
Quick Heal is the best category;
Quick Heal removed PC’s quarry
And made my PC safest Glory;
All ill things made eliminatory.
Among all it is the best Allegory
And is really a judgement priori.

Desolation

Sweet memories are bitter;
For some reason it is for it is
No rehab no cure for this overlong slumber,
Nor a mistake for this miss

I thought we can go through this – together
But that’s just a hope for a crazy; demented man
You had only bitter it up – forever
I don’t think my heart will cure since then

Don’t think of saying sorry or getting mercy
Though you have that good-looking eyes
But a human will always be like Mr. Kersey
Forgiving, kind and nice

That person will never be your friend
Nor a backpacker companion for thee
I think I will go through sea and land
I will be at your heart immediately

Walk through the isle like a man
And gracefully like a woman
I don’t know how much pain
That I will have to suffer

Never had the thought of having inclination with you
Like they said in the story of an unseen story
Where a bitter getaway will have to get through
Or else it will be a pain cause of a dilatory

Five Second Vision

Cloaked in black she sat
with covered eyes from a broad rimmed hat.
Encircled in a wispy shade of cerise
that dripped to fade into the fleece.
Lines that linger on the chair
follow her finger like liquid air
as she stencils out the curlicue 
depicted with pencils in her view. 

Down the wall with a dilatory slither
and intent to enthrall by use of his myrrh
he skillfully eluded his own detection 
making her mind his chamber of protection.
His volcanic eyes thrust into her thought
erupting the lust she longfully sought
igniting her vision like a candelabrum
an incision devising her to succumb. 

Licking the salt from a lover's lips
speaking the scripts in hum
becoming embossed in indium
and forgetting fault of nothing but tongues.
Silhouetting the cast of questions surpassed
indulging in the treasure of temporary leisure.

Her guard was let down as she started to drown
in the light of the fire and her own desire
Unforeseen antecedently.
A scene drawn out by a welcoming invasion
she remains devout to enamouring persuasion
Still life flickering and unceasing to amaze
Like a liquor releasing inward
The inebriating reward of her very own blaze.

White Rabbit

Spying
dilatory lagomorph
hole in one,
curious Alice tumbles while
following

Guilt Gone Prologue

A man I knew once,
A man I knew as friend.

Within his indenture he turned on us,
Fed up, we no longer could contend.

A man who asked so much from us,
Our support, so little we lend.

We weren’t there when he called on us,
We weren’t there to help him mend.

Left with guilt as vile as puss,
For we were negligent and dilatory in his sickened end.



04/20/13

When I'M Gone Remember This Tome

Stephen not Steve when I am gone
A gentle man with a backbone
A sense of humour that jealous patrons bemoan
A un-pretentious faith that hath constance shown
An innovative mindset that others copy then hone

A diligent worker; an example for dilatory employees to emulate
A constant companion when my mate's fealty did degenerate
Civic-minded patriot even when government was stagnate and dispassionate
Son who learned from his mistakes gaining his parents approbate
Exhibiting a wisdom above his scholastic endeavours that others did educate

• Short Dilatory Poems
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