Short Whirred Poems

Dim its room; as if the light
Day's benign, too cruelly burned.
Drowsy kept; as if that heard
Polite whirred, painful turned....

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Bee whirred,
the wings,
making that,
sound,
I was occupied in that,
thinking what it meant,
I discovered  it truly,
only when it had stung....

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Captain Picard enters his quarters
after a hard day on the bridge, the
Enterprise had left Klingon space
    
    Tea, Earl Grey, hot

The replicator whirred inaudibly

    Damn it! 
    Cup!
    CUP!

    Water, soapy, hot

The replicator responded again

    Damn it!
    Red alert!






...

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Before the war
bluejays were just bluejays,
then the missiles arrived.
CNN displayed the mounting death count
until it too was obliterated.
Scorched bodies tumbled listlessly,
down deserted streets.
Some took to the sewage systems,
down there in the narrow dark,
rats were frolicking,
paws were pitter-pattering,
and they whirred and cackled
just like Bluejays.
...

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Can you imagine cream and sugar stirred
into snowy banks and winter flakes whirred.
Ice crystals forming into skating pond
for strawberries' axels and jumps beyond.

Chocolate trees stand, as limbs but a shell.
Gumdrops are children singing soft Noel.
Afternoon dish of strawberry ice cream:
tongue-lickin' good with room for tiny dream.

June 20, 2022
for Julia Ward's Ice Cream Poetry Contest...

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Father: Every Morning of His Life


The cup he took his tea from
all those years was Army surplus,
made of tin. It whirred

to the spoon he wound in it
15 times per lump of sugar.
We who slept in rooms just off

the kitchen rose like ghosts
to the winding of that spoon.
In my house, now, mornings

Sue’s the first downstairs. She 
scalds the leaves and wonders:
Will the winding ever end? 


Donal Mahoney...

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Lying silent
In a wheezing chest of words 
Divining whirred messagings 
Of a moth’s wings blurred 
Paralysed beneath the duvet
Hearing his antenna morse
Rapid flapping mind verse 
The country radio
Tuning from Earl Scruggs to beetles
Munching oak flecks
Blind above my head flesh 
Creaks like floorboards
Spine is peeled
Breathes the walls
Listens to
A record playing
Whose scratch revolves in ragged time.
...

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The robot fancied he could write,
And so he scribbled through the night
And without fail sent off each tale—
Soon the world would know his name!

His levers clicked, his motors purred, 
His gears and little wheels, they whirred—
But all came back with printed black 
Notices that read the same.

At last the robot hired a “ghost”
Who fixed his manuscripts till most
Of them were placed, and soon they graced
Magazines—for cash and fame!...

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waking up in the wee hours of the night
magnetised form charged with divine light
third eye glistened, pulsated and whirred
root at base of spinal column concurred 
liquified energy flowed in third eye and spine
in childlike trust our presence chose to align
energisation done we felt a tap on our head
grace descended of which naught can be said
a subtle yet firm energy descent in a swift sweep
from head to toe permeating each cell within deep

or simply stated, to be touched by God...

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