(“Before the Door”, 2023, original encaustic)
Chance Meeting
Where were you when we met just now
In something of a hub,
Airport terminal or hotel lobby,
As you walked right by
And our eyes met
Yours growing in shocked amazement
As you exclaimed,
“What are you doing here!?”
And we hugged in warm embrace.
You now long gone
And yet still we meet in transit
Each of us on our tangential ways
The years between us now stripping away
All the layers those years built
As we are left
More ourselves than ever
Revealing what was always
At the core.
(6/17/25)
" But such is the way of the hood
where everything's misunderstood
there is an Missouri man who never seen a black squirrel he now lives in Omaha
There are Undercover dark brown ninja following ya
future millionaires in Harlem beg steal and barter
Blessed are riddled soiled dirty sheets
In the winter time burning rubbish and old metal trash can to retain the Heat
O' is the beauty of tangential creamy beige centipede
Consciously running barefooted with many feet complete
The infrastructure chuck holes such a treat
Run Johnnie run Cheryl's Sarah got a gun
What's what's why you run
In the urban ghettos rats and roaches harmony promenade pigeons fight with bats at night so docile they play
But such is the way
of the hood
where everything's misunderstood"
Prominent
There's a stuffed animal
that sits in the kid's
corner of the coffee shop
closest to my house.
It seems like a dog,
but it's wrapped head
to tail in what appear
to be bandages.
A mummified canine.
I used to think
this oddity was a bizarre
choice for a kid's toy,
but I think I understand it
now.
Behind the screen
of a body cast, he's
a chocolate lab,
or a rusty dachshund,
a rabbit-chasing greyhound,
or your childhood dog Annie.
Its tangential existence
dependent on the brain
that picks him up.
For me, he's actually
a cat, gone undercover
and every time I pass him,
I whisper "Godspeed, brother,
your secret is safe with me."
Taking a stroll, silently tip-toe
Talking to strangers, tangential existence
Strangled for talk, struggled to speak
Straight for the taking, tangible change
Take a short cut, time stands still
Transformed the scenery, terraformed set
Shouts from the tomb, post-existential speech
Scanning the transcript, searching for truth
Early morning twilight rain
lasting an hour
a snapping of pictures
here and there-
the moon vibrates
no wave tides
away, the watch
hurries to some times
water is cool and hot-
woo, woo, woo
a cuckoo shouts
to thes things
partial glee in bliss and butter
laughing and flourishing in joy
may be akin
to an aestethic tangential
angle of apples?.
Early morning twilight rain
lasting an hour
a snapping of pictures
here and there-
the moon vibrates
no wave tides
away, the watch
hurries to some times
water is cool and hot-
woo, woo, woo
a cuckoo shouts
to thes things
partial glee in bliss and butter
laughing and flourishing in joy
may be akin
to an aestethic tangential
angle of apples?.
It looks funny
To so many
That, verbs have moods
And attitudes!
On their way out
Some stare wide pout,
Going, not gone,
They linger on.
Obsolescent
As if on Lent,
Not obsolete,
Down in a pit!
In a death bed,
But not yet dead!
______________________
Epigram |07.09.2021| Humour
Poet’s Note: A poet is generally confronted with Muses, very rarely with moods of his poetic diction. This one is a tangential take off from moods of a verb: Indicative, Imperative, and Subjunctive. The third one is now largely obsolescent, if not already obsolete, on its way out, if not gone, in a death bed, if not duly dead.
look out from Hawaii
where summit isles peek at volcan panorama
like curious messengers scouting out ahead
where we spied Oumuamua skim slanting past
interstellar sliver rock tumbling by our yard
from Lyra curving by the sun, on to Pegasus
hyperbolic speedster, too fast for solar capture
......
am I poet enough to catch your angular drift ?
prophet of the space age
Arthur foresaw your approach some years ago
for moments our eyes meet, tangential traveller
mysterious wanderer, wonder who probes whom
wonder whether we are worth your fleeting visit
hello from us to the white-horse mythical stars
wisdom and excitement resides in not being sure
......
am I poet enough to read space between the words ?
do not stare directly
be askance, be oblique and somewhat off-kilter
watch the molten islands plume across the ocean
cosmic time, ancient journeys, canoes and planets
stumble on a meaning, kneel down, breathe in, rejoice
feel transition, change of key, symphonic rise and fall
music in the silence, in divergent destinations
......
am I poet enough to hear gaps between the notes ?
Who only Honor can, must never Love!
(And Yet, he Loves, all hidden and unspoke!)
Who hath Heart sworn to Holy Spirit Dove,
Can never break what must remain unbroke!
Yet words a-tangle mesmerize him, still!
They speak in echoes and tangential cries.
They do not dare the sacred chalice to spill
And yet he holds the image of her eyes
As jewels to look on, filled with misty hope
O! Would that I were he, that I might love,
And in my loving, hold the higher rope
But this, my friends, bears never thinking of,
For thinking leads to yearning, that, to doing,
When he that Loves must end his hope’s pursuing.
I wake up at a different time and place each breaking morning
And set a new path on this earth that beggars all forewarning
One day I’ll try my hand at walking backward down the street
While wearing something lissome yet distinctly indiscreet
Then possibly I’ll pass some time with Nitze-by-the-sea
Considering the ocean’s purpose nihilistically
And if there’s time I’ll blow my mind with something by the bard
For Bill’s a bloke who still can smoke the glibbest avant-garde
And then I think the time may come to speak of many things
Like why we hear of mannequins but never mannekings
There’s lots of things I’ve never done, take suicide for instance
There’s naught to do that’s really new when all is nonexistence
Thus every day that I’m around I try for something special
No line-of-sight approach for me, my life’s been more tangential
So if it’s something new you seek, well that’s just not my game
If all my days are different, well then … every day’s the same
October 24, 2018
just the same ring
with a round of row zees
awash manicured lawns
with generic grass seed
that doth spring
to life with synthesized,
(yet deadly) chemicals meant
to guarantee wrest
ting control might and subdue
so nature forced
to become nsync from in vest
ment plot purchase
as proving grounds to test
a money bagged well paid
laborer at leisure time
sprawled asleep in comfy hammock
a much needed self deserved rest
whereat successful proof
evinces "American dream"
no matter quest
necessitates becoming linkedin
with fast paced lifestyle
attendant ulcer inducing "pest"
keeping up appearances,
where younglings nest
scolding woe begotten kith
if flawless grounds get messed
by clod hopping kids and/or smart pets
upsetting calculus figuring formula
determining trigonometric
landscaping tangential
to maintaining perfectly
squared off turf especially lest
the neighbors cease becoming hospitable
and stop offering gold plated invitations
to such honorable humble guest.
Tangential life should be the aim
Achieving a straight steady flow
Navigating the ups and downs
Generating a steady line
Evolving into mindful states
Never asleep, never over excited
Transcendental calmness
Infused within your state of being
Ascending to and even flow
Level not up, down but balanced.
I love the rims on the wheels of my car,
Each rim that’s made out of steel,
And I love the spokes tightly holding these rims,
I love how they each make me feel.
Hundreds of tangential shiny small spokes,
Crisscross from the hub to the rim,
All of them a dark, metallic bright blue,
Makes the car all slick, sleek and slim.
Together they make her big, bright, distinguished,
An air of grace, style, and poise,
And when I drive her, I become all gentry,
No longer just one of the boys.
And then there’s the torque, her true pulling power,
Owned by each wheel dressed in blue,
Simply measured by the number of men that gappingly gawk,
And say that they all love her too.
Thus I sail the sacrificial scabrous seas and touch tormented tides
Battle-scarred in the breeze and washed ashore where evil hides
The Sun regrettably retreats where malice mortals digressively dare
Walking barren saliferous streets where I live on a penniless prayer
The citadels of submission crucially crumble where they saintly stand
In their unholy cognition you are a slave to their carnivorous command
Embedded in stone my tangential tears will endure beyond the grave
Bludgeoned to the brutal bone by the unlawful carnal knowledge knave
Lost in oblivion my blood runs calamitously cold by the river's edge
Beware the Ophidian with sabotaging scales leaving you on the ledge
Deceivers of the realm punitive penetrators connivers as they clutch
They manipulate and overwhelm with their torturous tender touch.
Let's stop the abuse...and spread the real love
Aug.01.2017
Let's talk about it
Sponsored by: Richard Lamoureux
1 original, poem on the theme of abuse, emotional, sexual or physical.
Any form is acceptable.
Dancing with the angel; winding
Like an eel and a geisha girl.
Her hips vibrating like a dog drying its wetting hairs.
Will she glue herself into my waiting hands?
Yes she does, she does it in style:
Her right foot finds a place between my feet,
Her head dangling on me like banana bunch,
Her hands cuddling my neck like a baby in its flannel.
Oh, she parts again like an arrow parting the bow.
What could I have done? What is the irritation?
No, she smiles, stretching out her hands like an eagle wafting in the air;
Her right grips my left as she comes closer, she will not glue again;
Flinging me out like a school girl flinging her paper plane into the air.
Wow! She bows like a zero's cord, her long hairs carpeting the ground.
Suddenly she bounces back like a bent shrub regaining its old position;
Her right now on my left shoulder, her left belting my waist about,
Her lips on my cheek, her hips tangential to mine.
A round of applause!!!
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.