Short Cylinder Poems
Short Cylinder Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Cylinder by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Cylinder by length and keyword.
To whom does this belong
this giant cylinder bong?
Perhaps this blue bong belongs
to those in the throng
or perhaps to those playing beer pong
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.
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
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!
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.
Baby newborn incubated in a tiny cylinder
Soon free breathing on her own…
Her parent’s glee when she shyly smiles
Her doctor’s silent plea that she thrive
A beautiful little sweet pea so fully alive
SECOND PLACE WINNER
written October 29, 2021
especially for "Something Beautiful 5 Line" poetry contest
sponsored by Charles Messina
I woke up this morning
pent-up as a Roman candle.
All it would take is a spark
for ideas to shoot like fire into the sky.
My life to this point
has been ground down to combustible powder
and packed tightly inside the cylinder of my being.
I'm waiting
for a flicker to touch the fuse of my brain.
Stench of sulfur,
Someone just lit the match.
Candle,
cylinder,
of wax,
with a thread,
end to end,
spread,
a break in middle,
limps the fiddle,
and reduces,
the candle,
to a riddle,
our lives,
are like candles,
soul threads them,
like handles,
a broken soul,
lessens the light,
and it would not be long,
before you break yourself,
to limit to unbroken thread,
and burn in parts to death.
I’m a poetic gun;
Shells of great caliber.
I measure each poem,
With my trusty caliper.
I load my own rounds,
Thoughts are the primer.
The powder’s my inspiration;
I’m a quick draw rhymer.
With my cylinder loaded,
I’m ready to take aim.
Shooting poems into existence,
Into life’s open range.
In the heart of the prairie,
An outlaw poetic spree begun.
Shooting rounds onto the page,
From my poetic gun.
Black dress,
The fortitude of color put to the test,
By the cacophony of incessant pests,
Preying upon a perfect cylinder under duress,
Unaware of the heart right under her chest,
Suffocated by her skin she exhumes without her behest,
An anamorphic monster that claimed violence was best,
To silence the swarm of insects that made her mind their nest,
So she grabbed a scalpel and made a mess,
All over her black dress.
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
I turned the key,
pressed the gas pedal.
The motor belched
the starter grated.
“No. Not today!
I can’t be late.
I’m teaching the class.
I have to be there!”
Our three-year-old
piped up from the back seat,
“Try it again, Mom.”
The motor coughed, caught,
settled to a steady purr.
My little two-cylinder Fiat,
slow, but steady as she goes,
took me everywhere.
Again, from the back seat,
“I knew it would start, Mom.
I prayed.”
Follow my voice make your
breath fail
Hips drive and
pump the air
Cylinder falls; choke and stall.
Fall in love
for a first kiss
A battle scar across your lips
Burning kerosene against
the thin moon
stinging, weltered
rubbing alcohol in a wound
Yoke together under simple
law
God's ugly celebration
In a bedbug rut
the thaw.
A dog with his fleas
a forest of oily pine
needles
and dark green night
silent, curled together on the floor
Form:
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.