Whir Poems | Examples

The-Sound-Of-Static

That soft whir that hums away
Holds my heart with so much sway
It slips me to a bygone day
Now digital decay

Those nights when it could be heard
I never noticed when it whirred
But now i’d find my heart stirred
To remember how the white noise purred

At night, while my mind goes on
I realize that the noise is gone
When did it fade with the dawn
Will I follow it into the beyond?
Where is the sound of static?

The Analogue of Ticks Missed

I miss the tick-tock heartbeat, the chiming in the hall.
Watching the slow clock hands glide shadows on the wall.
The seconds hand circling, its clicks beating a song,
Time was something you watched; it carried you along.

I miss the clatter of typewriters, banging on their keys,
Whir of tape spools whining, vinyl discs spinning to please.
The flip calendar flopping forward, page after page,
When time was a living thing, not digits in a cage.

Now silence haunts the corners where ticking used to sing,
Digital screens of numbers flash cold, as unfeeling thing.
Yet I miss the winding, waiting, watching for the flow. 
The rhythm, sounds, vision, and movement of times long ago.

The Folly of Buzz and Blur

You whirl, you whir, a sparkler with no plan.
A frantic rush, chasing all you think you can.
Each flip is fragile, fleeting, never really sown.
A scatter gun feast, that leaves you all alone.

You blaze as if the world will soon ignite.
Your tiny body burns with furious light.
Your haste is commanding, yet what is it worth?
Without pausing to taste the fleeting mirth?

The garden knows your madness; it makes it clear,
That no blossom trusts your beat to linger near.
You skim, you dart, you never claim the whole.
For your shallow sips can never fill the soul.

A slower hand, will plant, endure and stay,
Learning the patient slow cadence of the day.
For haste will scatter, shatter what was planned,
Quickly yielding the dust you cannot stand.

Why do you not linger longer at what you sip?
Your feet are a blur; your body is a whip.
But, why this panicked, fevered, fleeting chase?
What force is driving you at such a pace?

Can menacing winds command you to not rest?
Or are rivals sneaking in, invading your nest?
You know a steady heart, outlasts a flashing one.
Playing slow and stead get the victory won.

Ravine Real

Ravine, art thou real?
You certainly look deep.
Thunder, o'er volcano peal!
Through the boneyard creep!

Hope, just take the night off.
O prisoner, take heed:
First you squat and then you cough.
Golden is such greed.

Emptiness, seep into me!
Flicker, fancy-free.
Time immortal, blessed be?
Sink him in the sea.

O Alliance Black Abyss:
Today I must die.
Yawning chasm, blow a kiss.
Shiver as you sigh.

Back in ancient Carthage?
O state religion, new?
Serenity, O my sage?
O agony, accrue.

Gulf within me, fissure wild.
Robot: reconciled?
Mother, father, clasp thy child.
Floor, monolith, tiled.

Dreams of our tomorrows?
I cannot miss the point.
Endless are such sorrows!
O bitter art, anoint!

Giving up? Why, yes, sir.
I do not have a clue.
Reality, whir a-blur!
Doubt and derring-do...

Turiya

Waking, dreaming and deep sleep,
offer a consciousness leap,
if we be therein awake,
focus firm, calm like a lake.

In staid stillness choose to meld,
with space between objects held,
that thus our eye then single,
in-form pheromones mingle.

Bliss mists deeply penetrate,
each offered consciousness state,
that though awareness may dip,
presence gives ego the slip.

Immanent yet transcendent,
breath by breath, bliss resplendent,
chakras whir, boundaries blur;
with love and light, we concur.

Whether outward or inward,
ego lust is untoward,
so if all that is be Om,
in all states, Self is our home.

Turiya or the fourth state,
staid peace that does not abate,
witnesses the play of light,
centred in drunken delight.

The Self in heart does anoint,
itself at a stillness point,
wherefrom all states then arise,
beheld by us in surprise.

When our soul’s eye is single,
all three states then commingle
but until then we’re trapped,
light of Self by ego capped.

As awareness self-aware,
if dark desires we outstare,
in Turiya, the fourth state,
we fulfill our ordained fate.

Night Numbered

Night, drape deep in slumber.
O dream, to nightmare turn?
Multitude, legion, number!
Death, dearth to discern...

Rule of law in wasted land?
Show them, when ye stand.
Orderly, cold countermand?
Break before bed, band.

Young fools making with the schtick?
Candle, burn out quick.
Light both ends and nicker. Wick?
Bone within me, pick.

Wound in heart of warrior?
Stray, become the cur.
Dynamite, how to deter?
Blades and chimes a-whir.

Terrible to live? Oh, yes.
Blossom, O my stress.
Torment, foment thy best guess!
Who would be the less?

Ululation, ugly, meld.
Hound, bay in the street.
O for yearlings on the geld!
Bill, pay self with beat.

Fallow field in autumn? 
Rickshaw on the move?
Congregation, sing a hymn!
Inspire to improve...

Assimilating the light

the light of Self is embodied
a sphere of eternal living light
implanted in our upper chest
a few ribs below jugular notch
representing our spiritual heart

chakras above and below whir
enlivened by energy from source
the frontal vertical grid is aflame
with the rear held erect by spine
magnetised by the light of Self

A Performance in Beijing

The Great Hall of the People.

After the performance
she appears above us,
stepping out from
a Chinese painting of heaven.

She descends into the foyer,
camera’s whir.

Once more
we are stunned
by the power of beauty
to command our devotion.

This is her moment,
surely no moment could out-match
this one.

Later, a reading,
tea leaves in a small cup,
dragons circle the rim.
A vision.

There are rumors, suspicions,
political purges,

Her path leads now 
to blood
to Tiananmen Square.

To a final act 
unseen.

Gideon Stands Guard

The moon, a charcoal smudge, hangs low and dim,
while stars, like pinpricks, pierce the black night.
Clicking crickets creates a raucous hymn,
and katydids whir on new wings to take flight.

A yellow bulb's honeyed glow makes a homey sheen
until a timer flicks a switch turning off the light
and letting darkness rush into the tranquil scene,
making baby goats bleat from fright.

In the corner lays a lumpy carpet of fur
made by mamma goats cuddling nice and tight;
making the entire goat herd an entangled blur
of white rumps and necks entwined in the night.

Except for little Gideon, who stands in the barn door;
a castrated pygmy goat turned into a withered grazer,
stares at the house below without a snort or a snore,
as he chews his cud, thinking about some tormentor.

Why else stand guard?

When My Nikon Died

I kept the inner workings,
kept the plastic furniture
while it cracked
into multidimensional bones.
I kept (in part),
the whir of its mirroring mind.

Of course, the viewer has dimmed out
nothing in the camera fully develops,
yet images emerge.

I can catch the blurry taillights of stars,
find my way through a long-burnt corn field,
photograph photographs
yet to be imaged.

Fever Ward

Not a room for the waiting
or the receiving of the waiting,
but a room for a liquid thinking
a turgidity
that trickles through plastic tubes.

Is this where doors remain jammed
forever between Hospital floors?

Unseen, a wall clock drops
heavy packages of time
into narrow chutes,
latex handprints are shaken
from sterilized surfaces.
The regularity
of beep and whir mechanically
sucks light in and out.

The yoke recalls it shell.
Desiccated fingers
squeeze a phantom pain-ball,
morphine as cold as ice
is delivered
to an unknown address.

A swish of a starched presence,
fingertips retrace
scorched fever-lines.
Eyes creep toward the voice.

Consciousness
scratches a self-portrait
upon a white neon sun,
a hesitant, primitive etching.

A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse
of a free-floating mind.
Space expands under her hands.

Poetry's Mad

     a towel released cross
       a sheepish floor
     lizards grin at
       what they adore 

     time stands still
       feet replace hands
     only the robots
       shall understand

     of nameless deaths
       blind men sing
     harmonizing
       on apron strings         

     do racecars whir
       around the track
     as icecaps melt
       like pancakes stacked

     poetry's mad
       it’s plainly seen
     watching huskies howl
       ~ the moon doth preen

Tale of a Dove

    She opened the box
       a dove flew out
    nestling down on her shoulder

    A twinge of pain shot through her
       sore conscience all a-whir 
    When was the last time
       she’d called on Monsieur … 

    The dove flapped her wings
       then flew away
    A note fell from her beak
      ‘Rendezvous ~ a year from today’

Pencil Sharpener Woman, from THE WOMAN WHO COULD EAT WOOD

Pencil Sharpener Woman 


Her shapely metal figure was baby blue,
but there was much more to her.
She sharpened all grades of pencil lead
with the greatest of whir. 

Her movable face plate with pencil gripper and human features was, as commented by most
library customers,
the opposite of gross. 

She was very fond of 
customers of all colours, of all sizes, the dented,
and, of course, of all classes. ‘Your love of reading keeps you learning,’ she often complimented. 

Unfortunately some customers
weren’t fond of her at all though,
and they demanded that
she be let go. 

‘Why? Why? Why!’
was her only reply. 

When her haters returned books late, 
and refused to pay the small fine,
anger and hate 
she felt for their stupid action and whine. 

So to teach them a lesson, 
on the front desk made of pine, 
when the whiners sharpened their pencils she shut off her automatic stop mechanism normally fine,
turned her hand crank as 
rapidly as an equine,
and her sharp blades
ate up their pencils just fine.

Salvage A Whir

Stair carefully dear into the unknown abyssal void.

Pier was once past and now rotted and rictus, petrified.

Hue manatee threaded ten den and garnet.

Ruby teardrops and crimson Damascus drips droplets,

like a leak key faucet in the dead of night.

Scarlet necklace four by one who did sow much,

kismet of my bloodlust and neck crow man sea.

Fools are all burning with me now, how kris pea.

Cerberus let me pass for free or dye dog,

he growls but I remain steadfast and waltz threw.

Welcome to my finally fore Hades is dead,

only pan door ah re mains.

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