Long Whittles Poems
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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.
Eve dresses the night to Dawn's scorn
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Watching over the night waiting for her turn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
Moon and stars dance to night's drawn
Eve's presence causing a slow burn
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Eve swims the night pond like a pretty swan
To churning eyes a hearts a spurn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
Moon and stars a romancing is spawn
Eve is in the middle like a rose to a fern
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Raindrops and dew spread over Eve's a fawn
To spurning eyes a hearts a churn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
First break of daylight gives Eve's a yawn
Dawn's presence causing a slow burn
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
connie pachecho
1/9/17
~ for Sami ~
oh ...
a pity, that …
such sweet sadness, yours
my lovely lass, lost ...
do not let your lip tremble so ...
it was not made for such iniquity
it was not shaped to
sublime bow-like grace to
be such a dark
dynamism of emotion
or to be the quivering spout of
some slavering
goddess ...
oh, it can push a word or
phrase to hypnotize
it can bring a breathy seduction to
any sonorous expression -
turn my very name
into molten madness
or salacious sigh ...
but even that fails witness to
the verity of its
purpose ...
(a primal and poisonous perpetude)
for it is The Keep -
the bane of my constitution
the very fate of every
such fool whose meat is but
manna for his passions ...
pray, do not bring such sad motion to
that which gilds the gods and
whittles hearts to
compliance -
least, that which thrums, hot,
this very chest -
my capture and my undoing
Avalon and Abaddon
my life, my death
my salvation and doom
my food and my starvation
the ripe, dewy plum that
dangles a-branch
waiting to be
savored ...
perfection's bloom
and the divine portal of sin ...
a most tender press
velvety ... warm
your angelic wings
your throne of judgement
your vessel
your venom ...
your kiss.
it hangs over her bed
s
w
i
n
g
i
n
g
with sinister smile, a
r
e
d
lipstick—smeared
m
a
r
i
o
n
e
tt
e
with awful strings
it is despicable in the dark
she’s not scared of it
it’s not frightened at all
b u t i am
i can’t lay my finger on it
nor can i pinpoint it
that c l o w n i s h grin
it’s e y e s follow me
i pull the c o v e r s over my head
and peek from time t o time —
— at it, as the clock whittles sharply
at
the
h
o
u
r
s
11/26/2017
IT Contest
John lawless - Sponsor
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.
the tempered veil of years with a weave of sweet and sour
can be lavish like the pleasurable return of good deeds
take what you learn from sky high places
that bleed clouds to the hills
weave towards green with its hypnotic continuity
reach for the weightlessness of a dandelion seed
in a breeze of somersaults
weave away if lies spoken with zest
become believable
seek a safe place from huff and puff winds
woven into refuge like design in a quilt
find what's essential like peek-a-boo games
that tickle a child to glee
work strains
whittles at days
the hourglass sighs at what sags away
summer still holds the chatter of birds
young buds still weave upward
ungloving hands holding chains and fear
joy still roams to signboards above
nothing desolate
a sanctuary
Elysium
in walls that rise
in stars unnamed
You know, it is rather difficult to discuss mental health
The simile of the racing thoughts is a swift flight
Swift, and Intrepid like an Arabian horse,
Sometimes, too hard to decipher, even.
I face the past,
and I talk.
and I keep talking about many, many issues
And you heard me there, silently.
Then, you whispered into my ears, “Un the lib.”
Did you utter the word, “Un the lib?”
Or, was it a call for another scapegoat,
with the name Andalib?
My understanding is getting clouded, and clouded enough.
Vulnerably, and abnormally.
But there is no problem.
Neighborhood concept runs into such difficulties, these days.
They are yawning and dribbling in so many places,
chilling effects...
With the metaphor of a prophetic narration
with so many broken chains, harder to trace even.
Understanding.
It whittles down to an empty bottle of pickles, decisively.
Never tried to forget “Un the lib” though,
Never tried too hard to break free, nonetheless.
Word abandons me along the way, cult of own whims too.
Let us come to the points,
Closer enough to the bullet points,
A poet’s life, bohemian, unpredictable
A very fine line to decipher between irrationality, insanity
Nothing more than this. Just this.
“Hallo, microphone testing, one, two, three, hallo?”
Nothing more than that,
not even a one liner.
Please do return to your beloved dream.
Find your imagination in your beautiful enigmatic lover
You may fetch her, even from the farthest corner of a poem
And, please be sure that you may.
And you may do so, for me
On and on.
Is it too much of a task?
I saw you both, together, already.
Wandering around, streets imprinted you both.
Footsteps.
Muddy constellations.
Guided me through. Meticulous coldness.
May I perceive it
as a stigma?
As a cliché?
As a bubbly snow? Whistleblower?
crawling with the irrationality to linger more?
Perhaps, just so, because,
it never served me enough.
Or are there anything?
To digress with any of these?
Yes, it is better that way
Do return, please do so, earnestly.
And lame excuses are in abundance,
It will find me too, sooner or later, anyhow.
“Un the Lib,”
how far are you there, with your two cents?
It's fall and trees are turning brown,
they beat small and swirl in the air,
wavy, curly, crimson, blonde, bare.
Life's gold ring slightly free to drown,
around a bright world went dull gray,
in hope of having one more day.
She hears the song of a glazed crown,
as remembered echoes unfold,
the real story that isn't told.
leaves were blown on the entire ground,
I smiled and felt so blight alone,
Earth and sky fused by flesh and bone.
I expect all these shades could sound,
maybe stretch fall by a little,
I groove how it looks and whittles.
It's fall and trees are turning brown,
Life's gold ring slightly free to drown,
She hears the song of a glazed crown,
leaves were blown on the entire ground,
I hope all of these hues could sound.
Written: September 17, 2022
In Remembrance of Connie
Autumn Theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Suzanne Delaney
The cedar dock splinters out to the moon's shine
Like the second hand ticking along
A white-faced clock
Drawing in loose boats and green moths
To its sweep of time
Is there any difference
Between those little dots of cabin lights
Strung like pearls along the shore
Three miles across Torch Lake
And the stars crowded light years away?
Orbs swirling with life in the dark
Even now
We only but understand the skin of the universe
The ripples of a lake
Thin clouds aching like fossils
Under the moon’s archeological search by headlamp
My wife and I at the campfire
Measure distance
By the relief of this quieted July Sunday night
And the passing orbits of the space station
Three cycles
Is the most we’ve ever survived
Depends on how full the cooler is
And how many words we have left to hum and turn
Holding hands as the night whittles away
And the flames lower to a bath of embers
To the tapping Morse code of our bare toes.
I don’t want to die,
the spring doves cried.
Down the streets and coffee shops
each step in the pavement whittles it down
bit by bit. I don’t want
to die, the flyers say,
through ten layers of
broken staples, of
missing pets. I don’t
want to die, says the cat
on the large wire fence, where someone
has woven it through with leaves.
It meows at me, and I
don’t want to die, the world
spins around with no thoughts
in mind, the people spin around
with their thousands of wishes,
planets of desires,
orbiting each other, and everyone keeps
crashing, the world caves in quietly,
silently so no one else can see
the sinkhole splitting open
I don’t want to die, I don’t want
to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die