dogs eating lions
small fish eating big fish
watermelons grown squarish
bombing tunnels is third world war
blind obedience to next level state
is causing mass civil killings in long war
like broken stars,broken earth may discontinue
sun orbit
it is supranova explosion
it is end of civilisation
it is universal death
I wonder why you stole it –
As a trade-in for some food?
To pay a debt or maybe just
‘Cause you were in the mood?
Perhaps you simply liked the style –
A squarish flat red stone
Set into gold, quite possibly
The nicest thing you’d own.
My grandpa made it easy –
In the hospital, in bed.
Was he still breathing when you took it
Or already dead?
As a kid, I liked to touch it,
Feel the smoothness of the gem.
My brothers liked it, too –
It should be worn by one of them.
But no, you had to have it
For the family, wracked by grief,
Didn’t think about the chance
Of being ripped off by a thief.
*This happened over 50 years ago but
I either never knew about it or had forgotten
it. My brother recently reminded me of the
story. A diamond lapel pin was also taken.
His artistry is unpolluted and revolutionary.
The way he pushes color across his world
is a miracle.
Whorls of potato-like people dancing.
Dashes and blots of undiscovered animals.
I like his black lightning streak strikes.
A squarish-lemon meringue sun.
Orange finned tuna flying without fins.
A crucifix lies within the letters of his name.
He's wielding a slashing, strong palette tonight.
Prolific slinger of colors you are, young one.
Your mind must be tiring-mine certainly is
You're on a bright blue forest blitz.
One last fit of color for the night
always well outside the lines,
He finally puts the palette away.
Bowing to a milk and cookie sunset.
His fingers stained with a rainbow's premonition.
The artist sleeping like a cherub, beside a giant plastic ant.
LOOKING AT A MAP OF THE PACIFIC
A big blue squarish shape of paper
But without edges as limits.
Over each swash of this blue bigness
Are names printed to identify the unidentifiable.
A strait or a bay or a gulf or channel may let you try
To grasp the sea or bight or other patch of blue; but
Are identical in ways unseen by all but an experienced sailor.
All salty, all stormy, all endlesssly deep.
The names are no help in grasping
The limitless wetness of the thing.
All salty, all stormy, all endlesssly deep.
Its big blue wetness,
Its wet blue bigness,
Its big wet blueness.
16 September 2019
This pile of pills keeps me afloat,
Washed down with beetroot juice each day
To keep the aches and pains at bay
And ailments more substantial. Who knows
Just where or who I'd be without them
Or what indeed each one bestows
To aid and optimise performance ?
The red ones and the blue ones,
Each of some importance,
Mingle with the squarish pink and multi-coloured
Striped ones. Some dissolve in water
And are ready for the fray,
Ready for the battles , hidden from our sight,
Each has a role to play.
But are they players in a team,
With a clear united mission,
Or is each within our bloodstream
Jostling for position ?
We follow doctor's orders,
Blind faith is what's required.
These cures for our disorders
We've swallowed as prescribed.
Sometimes they'll solve the problem,
Sometimes they surely don't.
We hope they may prolong our life
But fear they maybe won't.
We can't predict our future
Or measure years we've gained or lost,
So keep on with the tablets -
And keep your fingers crossed !
Doors are closed
Doors are closed, windows are closed,
The vessels know the noise they have
And I enter into the suspection of dreams
That sometimes cover the bouquet of my brain cells
with enthusiasm and thrill unknown
Decrease the moments
So dear they speak
Not only do we freeze the signatures of pleasure with the glory of our own songs…
Say those unworthy jars squarish curvilinear.
Wow, the exuberance of wisdom so alone I see
And get my precious mind wrap its disease
Into the carpet of truthfulness and sensitivity.
Do not hide it from the happenings of today and tomorrow
Let it all swallow the stern smile so patchy on the wooden plank
And let the space utter the galaxy of short stories
Sparkling on the twinkling variety of stars wrapped in the beauty of the vacuum.
Talk about it,
Let the lost untold bounce once again on the transitory wall
Let not the waves gather into a lake
And let the freshness so maintained speak about the spring created first
in the first seconds of birth.
Rashmi Pitre.
copyright
FULTON after Hamish, a space poem so 'squarish'
EMILY a paradox , not new ..after Dickinson's no 1732
KUHLMANN seven words of bliss, after Qurinus, sonneted LOVE KISS
DARYUSH Elizabeth's triplet you see! with syllables 6, 5, 3
You may hear me recite from my 4000 + PS anthology on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro..
catch my short forms like these above @strandpoet on twitter..
read my kindle guides on amazo
His squarish jaw, waggles when he thinks,
holding his fingers entwined at his waist.
He stares past his silvery frame, sinks
into mind, until I break in and say hi.
His thin silvery hair, is plush with curls at neck.
He stoops over as if time has weighed in
I see him counting, saying what the heck
here’s a bird, a butterfly, noisy squirrels.
His hands have a pain in them, all webbed
inside, pulling muscles taut, but they wave
they stroke the air, my legs, the seas ebbed
the sand, the sky, building the future in mind.
And when he picks up his violin mistress,
he dances her, never still this man of mine.
His harmonica hoots the day’s stresses,
digging out his soul, bending him like grass.
Sometimes I have to silence his motions,
hold him close to heart, let him sleep.
But always he plays out his commotion
making me music, making him mine.
I love polygons even as they are irregular
Within the tangled space and time
Rich angles become decisive corners
Tricksters of a memory
It was tender congruency at first sight
Delightful and captivating solid cubes
Even as they drooped into prisms
As they vanished into hues of essence
They trembled at degrees of tender touch
Fear not trapeziums of death
Dread not time exhumed from a tomb
She falls in upright squarish
Die, pentagon, rest hexagonal pretty rod
Wither on decagon fading acuteness
Oval memory is with cylindrical insight
Beauty weeps bulkiness of the volume
First letters are undulating, bouncy and loopy
Rest are sort of pretty sloppy and crunched together
With a load of smooth diagonal lines that connect all the way
And a squarish circle degenerated into a quick squiggle
It's a sort of scribble and swirl
Legible in the most illegible sense of the word
Looks like I have been testing the flow of ink
A flamboyant mess and a mysteriously intriguing expression of my mood
It is beautifully hideous and reflects on who I am
If you can read it you are an absolute champion
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