Warps Poems

Trapped In Your Event Horizon

black    hole    lover 

you are 

and I, 

a prisoner in your event horizon

an astral point of no return

trapped in perpetuum-

two captive hearts

wildly beating

                                  out of sync

time warps, distorts-

cosmic love strings

unravel, become frayed

beyond repair-

despair

the universe

expands then contracts-

entropy inevitable 

so too our love-

white hot then space   cold

destined to spiral into

insatiable cHaOs


A    prisoner    I am 

in your

salaciously spun silken    web

and you

the    black widow

enticing me, luring me

until at last I am at your

mercy

pleasure and pain make for an 

alchemic, euphoric mix

but     prey    must be 

devoured in the end-

evil fangs penetrate 

my flesh

the poison in my blood

entrenched

delirium before    demise

still, with my 

dying breath 

I whisper-


more please

Blue Dogs and Parchment Shields

sniff out the garish lights
loud music and drunken discussions
enter the party uninvited 
conceive uneasiness and instant disdain
you try to dance with strangers
who quickly slide away.
somewhere in the intercourse of a reddish night
they feed you to a pack of blue dogs
willing to drag you down into their fetid fires.

Loneliness warps all reason
lowers the standard
opens the vein to jagged strangers
liaisons come and go 
like a roman legion
they begin the journey devil bold
ranks thinning by the minute by the hour
till only one soul remains
beneath a parchment shield 
his destiny to forever cower

The Portal of an Oval Window

I sit and stare beyond what's there, besides
"The oval window, a portal to another dimension".
It drags the moon's eclipse off the sun's circle
to show an ellipse with twin foci, in two dimensions not one.

The tension woven into its shape shrouds a duality,
a flip-flop state, steeped in, 
and reeking with ambivalence.
An oval coracle holding on,
rocking in choppy seas.

Therein lies a worm hole, 
where logic warps to both sides, here and now, together,
where light bends, twists refracts to an oval rainbow,
where time stands still, then back-tracks
to before, to way, way back when, 
and on to now and then.

An oval belies uncertainty, 
spiraling like sand, 
down in an hour-glass
down the plug-hole, down into the sink below,
collected in an oval coracle, 
an egg yet to hatch.

The Enemy Within

The Enemy Within

   "All cruelty springs from weakness." - Seneca

Oh Yes.
There is an Enemy Within.
It lives within, feeds upon, you.

Senseless, yelloweyed
It informs all that you do.

Born of your Hate, Pride, Ignorance
It warps you daily,
Makes every decision a folly.

The pity of it is,
You spent a life rewarded
For every vile transgression
Cheated of every lesson 
Worth knowing.

So when the Darkness comes for you
- As soon it must -
Its black shape, the shape of your inhumanity,
Will be awaiting by your bedside
To claim you,
Unlamented.

Time Is Running Out

Right and wrong are human concepts, and like
night and day, it's clear what sets them apart.
Fight or flight, warps my outlook and clouds my
Sight, for I stop listening to my heart.

My world is changing so negatively,
I now fear what tomorrow may bring.
Sky-high prices fuel inflation while
sly grifters promote bitcoins, memes, and bling.

Folks are tethered to smartphones that feel like
yokes around their necks, keeping them online.
Hoax or not, climate change is happening,
oak and elm are being replaced by pine.

Crime and anxiety are starting to
climb, and everyone's filled with dread and fear.
I'm afraid that the world is primed for war,
time is fast running out; that much seems clear.

Sunset West of Eden

Candles wax time pulls it to Earth,
drops cool stilled hardens in seconds,
a fire holder girth, warps obverse,
candles wax time pulls it to Earth,
vapors prompt darkening observes,
fire loses fight gloaming transcends, 
candles wax time pulls it to Earth,
drops cool stilled hardens in seconds.

Unfinished portrait

I walked the winding way down your memories.
We live in the age of perpetual documentation - 
a blessing for the socially inept.
Every abstract gives insight,
but I crave the full portrait,
you in your every shade and hue.
I wish to know you better than breathing,
but I fail even to take notice of where the edges of my posters line up.
And I put them there.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame.
When will I grow good at being a person?
How could I ever fill in the yawning cracks?
Anhedonia warps my mind and my memories,
but something remembered shines through - 
thoughts of those dear to me,
occupying me from dawn to the witching hour.
At last, rays light the gray horizon.
Maybe I’ve a reason after all.

how to be a poet

ghosts haunted the room walls,
they seen us do the crime,
time passes with each line,
nightfall to daybreak early call.

worm for the early bird,
shovel and spade,
if they ask plead the third,
we knew about the raid.

placid the face of a blind man,
daredevil hearing a tune.
corpses hunger for their monger,
graffiti on a speechless tomb.

war is not the answer,
the solution is not cancer,
core of a nuclear winter,
momentum of a collider splinters.

black hole warps the fabric,
the shirt of a hillside maverick,
painted blue with memories
old times of lasting rhymes.

where did the palm spring
gather information on dreams
for the wishing well to run dry,
where was I_?

An elegy for innocence

Historically the books are written by a well-known writer 

The characters are formed to choose the sense of flight or fighter 

The library of the mind stows away the facts from the fiction 

The sequence of events unfold, memorised with restriction 

 

The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry 

The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by   

 

The imagery of barricades in a crowded stark front room 

Foreboding silence and tension create a sense of doom 

In the old terraced house, there’s a closure of ranks  

As the fighter steps forward and the other flanks 

 

The pushing and shoving in the silent stark room 

The circle decreases and a flash warps the plume 

The memories jagged as they cut like a knife 

As she’s hit by the boxer and fights for her life    

 

The dry autumnal street carpets red and gold 

The crunch of the leaves cushioned the blow 

The flash of the memory vivid and sharp 

Innocence held with such disregard 

 

The nature of the story, can cause the mind to cry  

The loss of peaceful innocence in those days gone by

the warps of time

time slips through our fingers
most unapologetically
ignoring our pathetic pleas

cycles of sunrise followed by nightfall
seem endless yet each day not resembling the next
at least not always, maybe never

but there comes a day for us all
when time stops, stands still
inflicting a wretched pain

it seems like the end
but it's not really
we somehow carry on

till once again time
slips through our fingers
this time almost apologetic



AP: Honorable Mention 2025

Elephant

How starved you must have been that my heart became a meal for your ego. ~ Amanda Torroni, writer


I dreamed an elephant
was flying high with wings
extended and ever 
soaring nearer to me,
as if it were clever.

I dreamed an elephant
was hiding in my room,
and all it really was
is the shadow of soon
to be doomed lovers' oz.

I dreamed an elephant
quit eating and was dead,
was nothing but a corpse
beneath a blackened shroud,
pall-grey without its warps.

I dreamed an elephant
was screaming in the night
as I moved out of view,
away from misery,
the elephant was you!

Fragments

Living pigmentations of one’s imagination,

Inferring colors makes our vision blurry, but the scorching sun rests our eyes once again. 

Fog covers the lenses of reality, making our eyes peel at the slightest sight of life. 

Existence taunts our ideals and warps our abilities.

Capsule in a Caravan

A shored life
awakes the old
patience is a virtue

a wondrous light
a way for the world
one way passage

yielding trifles
abundant returns
nameless faceless

novelties in scrolls
constant to air
The Book of Life

accounts tallies
clearly visible
hidden from sight

chance of a lifetime
warps through glass
bottled sealed.

Song of The Bucket Orchid No 11: ABBA

Flower blooms heaven in seventh-year warps,
yet, Coryanthes, the Bucket Orchid,
is an odd flower. The lip's limited
into a water-filled bucket; bugs, oops, 
fall in, but can't fly out, it’s not for show.
Evolution shaped, for thousands of years, 
the male orchid bees as equal partners.
The orchid makes a scented chemical
that's used by male bees to court female bees. 
To get the perfume, male bees drop into
the flower’s bucket and go through snags to
escape, freeing pollen stuck on bodies. 
Males now have perfume to attract females,
and pollen to pollinate -- love now sells.

Song of The Corpse Flower, No 10: ABAB

Bug-free surroundings are most possible,
but not this repulsive, disgusting beast.
The so-called, Corpse Flower, how shockable,
repulsive, disgusting, and to the least
of it said, gives off such a horrid stench,
unbearable, odoriferous--mesh
vibrant acts that the breed needs to entrench
pollinators to the scent of dead flesh.
Twill bloom as the largest inflorescence,
a total flower stems, stalks, bracts, and bloom.
Twill blossom once every seven years. Once
pollination impacts, ensure its doom.
Tis their way to everlasting, The Corpse
Flower blooms heaven in seventh-year warps.

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