Splayed Poems | Examples

What the Storm Splayed and Spared

Dust taints scent of rain
the wind wrenches gate ajar
lightning splits the clouds—
grime streaks down marble headstones,
as silver names bleed deep red

bouquets torn and flung
petals smashed into the mud
plastic stems snapped clean
weeds kneel and crawl up to stones
claiming what storm has laid bare

the squalls scour angels
driving grit deep into wings
puddles drown vases
pebbles scatter like lost teeth
pathways get buried in hail

beneath all this rage
the dreamless ones stay silent
beyond the storm's grasp—
no pleas get through weighted soil
moored tight in unyielding peace

storms don't bow to the names in stone
don't hear the prayers carved to atone.
the dead can't rise, the dead can't plead—
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving
the wind takes all, it's wild and unforgiving

Half Past Summer, Two Months Till Fall

Length of days begins to wane, twilight quickens 
and moonlight obeys the seasonal call of nature.
The time is half past summer, two months till fall
and the warm splayed fingers of sunlight's heat 
are reaching for the zenith of their time to reign.
Soon, night will darken earlier; stars appear brighter,
and autumn's crisping days will wither crimson leaves
fluttering in swan song dances, swirling on the ground.

Loretta

She might have painted the sea—
or a golden field of wheat
beneath a hazy summer sky—
but he took her brushes,
left the bristles splayed,
the paints dried out,
and the turpentine cloudy.
And though she said nothing,
her easel disappeared one day
like a wispy cloud no one missed.
After that,
she painted nothing but dinner.

They had imagined themselves
sharing a studio but
he needed all the mirrors,
so she became one—
reflecting his genius,
and tilting her angles
to catch his best light—
sitting quiet in the corners,
while her palette faded slowly
beneath his brilliance.

She never called it giving up—
just life, unfolding.
Maybe she took comfort 
in recipes, in the hush
of rising dough,
in setting the table just so.
But I wonder if sometimes,
she’d pass the studio
and something nameless would 
tighten in her throat—
not quite regret,
not quite peace.
Perhaps both.

Who Killed the MC?

Who killed the MC?
There he lay, splayed on the street
Chalk outlined mic and fist
A broken clock reads four past nine 
Tatters of a golden thread left at the scene 

Who gained from his silence?
Streets alive with revelation 
Anarchic fire in the air 
They’re coming for us with their rhymes 
Gentlemen this isn’t what we had in mind 

What will happen now he’s dead?
Yacht-and-champagne fantasies
Cheap factory beats repeat repeat 
A few mad prophets rise and fade
Suburbia falls back to sleep 

Who killed the MC?
A hot tub forged conspiracy 

June 23, 2025

What Sound Makes the Clock? - May 11

A woman splayed upon a lofty beach—
the drunkard’s stumble-street-strut-jumble-key—
BUY NOW, AND GET THE SECOND [this/that] FREE!
—and what’s this cracked out weirdo got to preach? 

…”about the senate’s 3rd bid to impeach…”—
.(Get lost.-)—.IF YOU THINK YOU’LL NEVER BELIE—
look,look!a man crushed by a falling tree!—
—(“oh!—my God!”)—nvm—it’s…freedom…of speech?

Get real! Wake up! Which trope must I invoke?—
(Uh?)—GET REAL RELIEF FROM [this.that]for cheap…—
(Am I getting déja vu?)—(Wait a minute…
)—"everyone’s already way deep in it!"*—
(Who’s telling me that?)—it crawls like a creep:
*Deconformity,(am I just a joke?).

Oreo

The night before my father’s heart attack,
my brother and I were splayed across a bed
watching a re-run of “Happy Days”
and eating Oreo cookies.

My father sat stiff and upright
in a wooden chair.  By then, his back
felt like it was being pierced by daggers
and the pain made his face pale and clammy.

I offered him an Oreo,
one of his favorite snacks,
as I gently twisted apart the dark discs
to reveal the snowy treasure
in between.

He watched as I scraped the cream
from the dry, crisp chocolate with my teeth,
then he turned his head
and said, “No, thank you.”

I never wondered if he knew
in those final hours
that his emerald eyes
were about to close forever,
or if he felt death spread inside of him
like a cool drink.

Because if he did,
he would have taken the Oreo,
if only for one small bite,
just to feel the gritty chocolate,
that ordinary joy,
crumble over his tongue
one last time.

The Path Taken

The moon lights a glorious glowing path before us
like a splayed yellow band stretched to the stars
where we walk and listen to the nightbird sing
and allow our hearts to be moved by its melody
we hold the hand that flames the embers of our soul
and enter a rose colored rapture that joins our hearts

Blood on the Hearth

In the cozy inn by the fire's warm glow
Lies a woman's body, lifeless and cold
Her hair splayed out, like flames in the hearth
But no fire could warm her, not even in death

The guests all gather, hushed whispers abound
As they try to make sense of this tragedy profound
Who could have done such a heinous crime?
In this peaceful place, where we come to unwind

Was it the lover she spurned, in a fit of rage?
Or a stranger passing by, with demons to wage?
Perhaps it was someone she thought she could trust
But now she lies broken, her body just dust

The cozy inn is no longer so warm
For the chill of death now lingers and harms
The memories we had of laughter and cheer
Are now tainted with blood and filled with fear

So let us remember this tragic night
When murder came calling at the cozy inn's site
And may we find solace in the warmth of our kin
For life is fleeting, but love will always win.

A Rose By Any Other Name

It was there
for the picking,
a velvet ruby red
long and slender swaying
in the comfort of it's bed.

Petals splayed precisely
an enticing grand display,
nature made perfection
quite impressive in bouquet.

It's time of year approaching
when given, just to say
I think of you as special
you're my valentine this day.

Dead End

A random road wanders across the desert
as voluminous clouds chase the rising sun 
nary a sound can be heard, save for the
whipping wind and clicks of insects. 

The yawning horizon stretches out
reaching towards a vast, expansive sea
its crystalline beauty is but a deceptive liar
for death surrounds her ever lapping shores. 

Almost uninhabitable she is
like a barren womb in want
her waters are lifeless, a fluid grave
bearing witness of her desolate decay. 

Fish carcasses tell their solemn tales
along her distant, lonely shores
their bony apertures are splayed and pecked 
hungry seagulls circle, hunting for scraps. 

Relentless winds are spreading littered
whitewashed bones, causing them
to tumble about
conjuring up a false sense of life. 

Now the moon is rising
as acrid air hovers over the sullen sea
the winds seem to shout, “go away”
a dull emptiness prevails. 

The blackest night, save for the moon
descends upon this accursed place
where the bony beach rattles its lifeless tunes
along a haunting shoreline
that no one wants to see
where no one wants to be
beside the Salton Sea.

Fig leaf

emerald hands wave
fingers splayed, fig fruit fall
palms towards the sun

Ash

Your eyes once struck like lightning
Down winded limbs
Splayed out 
And sparkling
From just a flash

Now you look like charcoal bones
And boiled veins
And lungs
Of skin
That's burned to ash

The Quintessential Enthusiastic Medium

Poetry is your first walk in freezing cold snow
a carnival of whirlwind words that often spin you around
Poetry can be sorrow on the end of a cold tree branch
drama, excitement, joy, disbelief, and humor

Poetry may be a person’s soul splayed out on a page
a weird conflict of ideas, that somehow makes sense
Poetry is confusion, consternation, a confection of candor
in anonymity, she unites us with our self as writers and readers

Poetry is a raven forevermore, Coleridge’s wailing of a demon lover
a boat of enthusiasm, thoughts we have never shared, shown on a page
Poetry is the quintessential enthusiastic medium
she lands without apology, not expecting but accepting agreement.

Silence

The wrinkles of the rug cast sunlight on a pug
Who splayed out her hind legs backwards

And as I left, I looked back and paused
As her face fell silently
Onto 
her paws.

fly away

Peter had to fly,
was that just last night?
I have attachment issues.
I hate saying goodbye
- it always makes me cry
an embarrassing tear or two.

Holidays go so fast
relativity’s been proven at last!
Fourteen days of leisure
of sordid intertwined pleasures
on days free of study pressures.

This morning i was in despair
splayed out on an uncomfortable chair
with tangled, unbrushed hair
wearing faded PowerPuff underwear
bored, and wishing Peter was there.

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