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Carolyn Dewey Poem
My teeth crunch into golden heaven,
savoring fresh cream and salt.
This is my tenth - wait, no - eleventh
cob of corn. Time for a malt.
Corn cob, Mom, Bob,
Can't have another?
We love each other,
so you must.
Cob of corn, my golden heaven,
After you I love to lust.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
They are bilingual,
fluent in a paradoxical
intersection of a line and a cloud.
Each language has a distinct cadence,
a unique inflection.
They can jump over the discontinuity,
the differential between
derivative and derivative,
integral and integral.
They put the rhythm in "logarithm"
and could remove the "can't" from "secant"
if words were defined
at the point of intersection.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
The phospholipid membrane
has a rhythm to it;
integral proteins interrupt,
but vesicles slide through it.
It's fluid, wavy, effortless;
Ziploc can't compare
to technology in biology.
Machines don't craft with care.
Its oscillating phosphorus
and swaying lipid tails
put on a micro-spectacle
for those minds that flail.
The beat of homeostasis,
kept constant by diffusion,
depends upon the bilayer,
which is a clear illusion.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
It unfurls itself along the x-axis
with a contained passion, fluctuating
between -1 and 1 like a photon
whose brightness is one of an infinite number
of dimensionless values, coherent, distinguishable,
continuous.
It is counterintuitively optimistic; it insists
that half of a pie should be called pi radians.
It confuses to enlighten; it sends our minds rolling
through loops, performing flips and inversions
until we step backward
and see a straight line.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
This ode's impossible, a structured mess
of playful praise, stacked serious on a shelf,
closed spheres of wit contained. I must confess
I think of it in excess to myself.
It hoards the writing room inside my brain;
it locks the door four times, once for each page.
It's taken me a year; I must abstain
from overthinking at the thinking stage.
Clichés and tired words are enemies;
they're banging on the wall, then plummeting
into that mushy high school poetry
that thins and deconstructs like rotten string.
This ode's impossible, a four-page worm.
It coils around me so enticingly;
I declare that I will finish and affirm
commitment to the art of purity.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2019
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
Although an angle in radians
seems a trivial quantity
compared to its degree equivalent,
it exceeds degrees in its elegance.
A tolerant, uncomplaining denominator
gracefully balances a weightless platform
on its invisible head,
while two abstract concrete pillars
point to the critical points
of a single cycle of a periodic function.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
A chocolate cake she didn't like to eat;
she much preferred tortilla chips with lime.
She was not picky; eating was sublime
with her; I must admit it was a treat.
Her shoes were shined; I rather liked her feet.
A gleaming silver wristwatch kept the time
that I devoted to this girl sublime;
her golden leather sandal kept the beat.
Her lips, they wore a color dark as coal;
disturbing was her necklace, sharp as teeth.
Her toes, a bloody red, would bother me.
She would not hesitate to climb the pole
of our dear flag; she'd fall down underneath.
Oh, my sweet Melanthara, I hate thee.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
Oh, we need honey?
And milk?
And cheese?
Well, I will get them
If you please.
I am now leaving.
My friend
Is now talking.
I take a detour
As we are out walking.
Soon, we are lost
In the jungle
And squelching
Through the wet bog.
I think I hear belching.
We are face to face
With a creature.
A snake!
I wish for my home
And berry shortcake.
We are now running
For our dear lives.
I think what I see
Is a tree of beehives.
Our fate is uncertain
As we run toward the tree.
My friend can keep going.
But I fall. Oh, my knee!
Just as I think
It is time to give up
A chap comes along
With a cute little pup.
"Howdy-do," says the chap.
I look up.
What a guy!
"You see," I then say.
"I am just about fried."
I get in his wagon.
I am embarrassed to say
That I kind of like this dude.
But just then I heard a sound:
A cow mooed.
I jump off the wagon
And run toward the barn
With doors made of silk.
Then I steal from the cow
A bucket of milk.
I go to the back
And it stinks
But there's cheese!
I take all I want
If you please.
Then I look in my pocket
And there is no money
But lo and behold!
A sweet comb of honey!
I run away home
Just as fast as I can.
"I just went to market,"
I tell my mom Fran.
She looks at the bounty.
She looks kind of suspicious.
She tastes all my treasure.
She thinks it's delicious!
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
The current whizzes around the wire.
If there's no resistor, there will be fire.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2021
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Carolyn Dewey Poem
I used to be a poet-on-demand.
Their curious faces looked at none but me.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.
I would imagine stories swift and grand
and points of view, me, you, them, he, and she.
I used to be a poet-on-demand.
They badgered me with sharp and shrill commands;
My time was short, the hours dark and wee.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.
With no more life, my verse became so bland
that no one knew I'd been a prodigy.
I used to be a poet-on-demand.
My face was slapped by angry, burning hands;
like firemen, they ordered me to flee.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.
I'm now a waiter at Salut on Grand.
I now cost money - I'm no longer free.
I used to be a poet-on-demand.
When I did write, the poems turned to sand.
Copyright © Carolyn Dewey | Year Posted 2018
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