Long Whirs Poems
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On a desk, heaps of books and papers lie,
A bundle of wires, a puzzling surprise,
An honest handmaid, a modest laptop,
That lights bright and clinches words at a prop.
With touch of the keys, it moves to and fro,
Though not a grand device, it seems to know,
With trace of the fingers, the links to chase,
Across the extensive digital space.
A tangled spread of cables of black hue,
Stretch on the desk, like a sleeping snake true,
A forgotten pen, a treasured note book,
On which some brilliant quotes and thoughts are hooked.
A wilful webcam watches, ever keen,
To capture lovely moments, raw and seen.
It eyes the thoughtless yawns, the pensive frowns
And nose, as oft user dozes around.
A printer sits nearby in dull silence
Until it`s asked to come in prominence
With woeful whirs and creaking printing sighs,
Beneath its multiple observant eyes.
At the desk, a fluorescent lamp one wields,
Illuminating this packed working field,
Holding in its sway in the creative life,
A spring of joy, a sober source of strife.
Though the computer desk is worn and old,
It holds unending stories to be told,
A hearty humble haven, strong and free,
The centre of the world for folks like me.
It is where one triumphs, where one may fail,
Where sublime stories start and journeys trail,
A loving laptop desk, set as per wish,
Is the seat and the source of endless bliss.
You unfold the mantles of paradise in my eyes,
As I, ambassador of beauty in curtsy arms, rise!
When I stand from the deck with awe and wonder,
I wish our ferry flies and soars high like a bird.
All charms I see are truths of songs I’ve heard,
As whirs of zip wires play like violin over yonder.
While I stroll the landscape to explore and wander
I’ve glimpse of the moon peeking behind a day cloud curd.
moonlight smiles with sun
as bright foliage unfurl
pirouette cold gentle breeze
adorn forest field
eyes dance on green lake to shore
sun-moon ballroom I sojourn
October 19, 2016 11.50am
Copyright2016Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
First Place
Contest: Three Style II (Couplet, Sedoka, Free Verse)
Judged: 10/22/2016
Sponsor: Poet Laura Loo
Staff Meeting
At my desk each morning,
over my first cup off coffee,
I call the staff meeting to order,
a gathering together
of my various bits and parts
that scattered in the night,
each to its own devices,
be they terror,
notes on that yellow legal pad,
erotic fantasy,
unrepeatable indecencies
uttered in an unfamiliar patois,
a mélange of whirs and clicks,
whooshing breaths,
mah jong tiles scattered in patterns
I don’t understand.
On mornings that don’t hurt
they settle gently
into orderly arrangements,
designs and lines of poems,
the fabric of my day.
Other mornings,
the more ordinary ones,
they reject my need,
become ash
that I scoop into the urn
of yet another
lost
day.
"Humor can alter any situation and help us cope at the very instant we are laughing." –Allen Klein
A GOOD SENSE OF HUMOR BLUNTS THE SHARP BLADES OF REALITY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I lay on the table, a modern-day sacrificial lamb,
pillow cradling my head, a fortress of foam and fabric.
Then came Velcro, the sticky embrace of a high-tech straitjacket,
my legs and wrists secured like a reluctant burrito.
Into the tube I slid, a terrified astronaut on a mission,
the ceiling loomed, a metallic sky, almost kissing my nose.
I clenched my hands until they turned white pondering
“Is this what it feels like to be a sardine in a can?
The sounds began, a symphony of whirs and clicks,
the MRI’s own version of a pop concert—
I imagined it had a fan club, “Team Tube,” with its own T-shirts
while I lay there, a star in a very narrow universe.
I tried counting, “one, two, three.” But sigh…
my thoughts were spinning like socks in a dryer.
I imagined bystanders strolling by, pointing and staring.
“Behold! Look at the sweating patient in the tube!”
The minutes crawled, like a snail on a treadmill.
“Perhaps I should have brought snacks
or at least a good book.” But alas, I was tethered,
a captive audience to my own claustrophobic anxiety.
So I lay still, the sounds swirling,
I chuckled softly, because if this is life,
then I might as well enjoy the ride,
even if it’s a little cramped and a little weird.
After all, who needs a spa day when you can have an MRI,
a slow, relaxing rollercoaster ride into the belly of the beast.
Oh, the absurdity of my situation, and the irony of it all—
Here I was, a human pretzel, searching for sanity inside the MRI.
Then, suddenly, the whirring ceased, the ceiling pulled back.
I emerged, a superhero in a hospital gown,
Velcro stripped away, ready to conquer the world
with a newfound appreciation for open spaces.
Poem written for “A Good Sense Of Humor Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry Contest,” Natasha L. Scragg, sponsor, July 29, 2025.
The gentle whir of the machine
pumps temporary relief into your veins.
It happens more than it did;
even yesterday.
You sigh.
The tight grip of your hand relaxes
I release mine and rub some life
into dead fingers.
You never held my hand before
when it mattered;
it was not what men and boys did;
you used to utter.
I lean over
and breathe gently
on your cold grey face
as I gently kiss your forehead;
another thing that boys don't do.
You whisper something
in your fevered sleep
words I wish I knew.
I murmur gently in your ear:
I love you, dad.
Your eyes open in pain.
The machine whirs again.
Your eyes close;
it's sad to think
that we are all sat waiting
for your last gasp.
'Writing Prompt - Breathe -' Contest Joint 1st place.
Published in the collection "It's Not Easy" by Poetry Choice
Bedsprings crochet bones together.
His back is sutured to gripes
stitched to gummy joints.
In the toilet, avoiding the mirror,
humming softly,
shunning conversation with himself -
the ceiling drips a sump of memories.
The park --- Frances revolves confused.
"I don't understand."
A phrase with self-winding words.
A slight miscalculation,
a turning away at the precise moment
she turned towards him;
an error of timing really.
Frances whirs on "I don't understand."
Later he understood she overdosed.
He imagines this lethal power
over her life to be his.
Time whittles cavities with calcifications.
Softly the spine of a storybook breaks -
where one stitch patches a sorrow
a spur prods and rips.
When he listens to the hollows
between the long vertebrae of his life,
he hears a theory crumbling away
under slowly grinding cogs.
I tell you this as death draws near
As a cautionary tale, but not to fear
I now believe that a notion ingrained in us not to be true
The moment when we pass the lives we lived flash on through
I became aware as it began not long ago
Tiny fragments swaying to and fro
It happens when sleep draws close, a vignette whirs into view
Little threads to tug at and pursue
Gossamer strings of whispers float on by
Ghostly visages flicker like lighting streaks in the sky
Moments in time come from our past
We awake and remember how much we had forgotten as the years have been vast
Night after night new instants play out
Until you realize without a doubt
There will come a time when all the images disappear
The end has come, the light winks out, all will be clear.
The silent hum of divine magnetism,
this morn has ignited the head ovoid,
heart, spine and all nodes in mind-body prism,
state of being-ness pure and unalloyed.
The tip of nose chakra whirs with vigour,
whilst the soul star node glistens on our head,
with toroidal heart as always demure,
looks to crown and third eye where bliss is bred.
All the vertebrae in our spine align,
fused together now as a seamless whole,
that thus though caged in form we feel divine,
radiating God’s light scriptures extol.
God’s hand, a disc of light, supports our back ~
Magnetised head to toe, we feel no lack
Tympani, beat tremendous!
Like thunder roll above!
Dark matter a-tenebrous;
Knowest thou of love?
Ah, young master. In good time!
Riddles, rivers, rhyme!
Griddle, fiddle, sugar, slime.
Covert cold cut chime.
All right, sir, but in earnest;
Full, brass bull, trull, wool?
Summertime, hot clime, addressed!
Roundabout red rule!
Well, it's you two! Black and Blue!
So, what else is new?
Eggs a-light, serpents a-few?
Kittens blind that mew?
Knights of the nebula pond!
Elders strong and wise...
Mighty warlocks, wave thy wand!
Prize? Between the eyes.
Adepts of tomorrow!
Always? Skies and greys.
Surcease, students, all sorrow.
Living for todays!
Miles are marked for travelers?
Yes, and reason thus:
Reality whirs, then blurs.
Black and Blunderbuss.
Rain, pour poems on prophets.
Nerves heal as they warp.
O floodwaters, try Tophet's.
Sailors, tamp the tarp...
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires
lean toward the grots of Hell.
tongues forked, skewered with sapphires
in the mouth of desire, inverted spires.
Adam's apple burning cores, as moths for martyrdom's fires.
on the path to perdition: many had attended well.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs.
the crone fanning her cauldron
a hot vat of ruin, Wiccan shrieks and whirs.
in the mouth of desire, manipulation stirs -
a warlock's cherished heart of burrs,
tears of crocodiles, his every gentleness abandoned.
in the mouth of desire, sirens sweet, curses
lure purple wearers and weavers, beasts with saints,
low_down to the broad gates, gilt black, swinging purses.
in the mouth of desire, sirens' sweet curses
but wisdom's rare jewels, bereft in their verses.
for want of wisdom, man's sovereign will faints.