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Best Poems Written by Andrew Rymill

Below are the all-time best Andrew Rymill poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Bending Spoons

...A poem
is a spoon
that you can bend
with your mind.

It depends on psi
if you 
are mutant 
X or Y 
a paranormal opportunity 
or a wild talent
of psionic penmanship .

Stare at the pattern 
on the handle
as you imagine 
the handle
either roses or unicorns
are emblazon here.

So much the better
as your mind
bends the words
and the metal obeys...

Spoon begins to tremble
there is no knife
to run away with.

Then comes
the period
like an empty plate.
to contain
a bent spoon
with squeezed letters...

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Cannot Abide

wind always knows 
it limitation
as it writes its swirling
scripts upon threadbare roof.
lamentations for the
fields of empty prairies
as the dry leaves rustle
in strings of grass… 

i do not know
my boundaries
the geographical shapes
of my darkness
for life
has been left empty
with only a puppy
of narrowness
to feed
scraps of plain verse too
how the tail wagged for years
as empty …

i light candles 
like images on the window
of my smile
for the sputter of light
is much more reassuring 
than the breathless darkness.

i recite my own alphabets
that i have
hidden in the mysteries of my throat
and marvel as the moonlight passes
through the simple words
the trellises of upper 
and lower case

shades i have formed
with my craftless hands
and letters
speak upon the glass
of outside 
like frost
for i have found my true words
and they fit my squalor
with a strength of calmness
for darkness cannot 
abide in smallness 
so it leaves me
as the darkest raven
ever imagined…

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Poem Pinata

Please strike
the piñata
i have made for you
out of the  stripes of paper
and the glue,

In  the midnight hour
i have labored long
on this plump pig
of collaged letters.
with  corrugated metaphors
Sightless Find the weakest point.

let that guide 
your hand
the transparent rose
cellophane
wrapped candy
shall flow
in libation of sound
pour down
like a quirky rainstorm
bouncing 
like silver
coins
on the sidewalk
of your mind.

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Float Above You

Float above you 



My cat
Though small
Is a 
Mighty hunter.

Often trophies
She left
On my door
From her nightly stalking.

A robin that
Will never fly
Trilling couplets 
In cloud stained skies.

A mouse that will
 Never scurry
In the wood-grain walls.
Chanting lays
About the stacking of 
Heroic cheese.

On a dark night
When i heard 
My cat’s claws
Scratching entry upon
 The rude squared door.

“Let me in…”
The claws implored 
“To the stone 
Hewn hearth
Where the wisp
Of a flame does crackle.
Where a bowl
Of warm milk
Waits for me
To pay for my cat chores…”

“Enough my cat”
i am simple
Imagine my surprise
As i open my door. 
To find the moon
Shriveled on my 
Porches threshold.

The moon
With two
Auspicious bite marks
on it corners.

The moon 
Belongs to everyone
Luckily i had 
Some bandages
And dandelion oil
To clean and wrap
The poor moon wounds.

The moon sang to me
In this blessed fortnight 
Of times in deep history
Before the bards.
When she shinned
Above the lands of man. 
Like ghostly jewel among the stars.

Before the woods
Had written elegies
 in leaf of their limbs.  
Before fire deluge
Burned cracks in the walls
Leaving kiln marks
Upon the mountain castles
In the kingdoms of forgotten kings
And unknown peoples.

i nursed the moon
With tea of thousand wild flowers
And the dew that dripped 
Upon the crimson skin 
Of gleaming strawberries.
How the petals floated 
On surface of my teacup.

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

The Fruit of An Invisible Tree

often have i
starved for stars
as i have seen them
hang delicious 
as nocturnal nounlings.
famished
how you gleam
in taste desired
upon the thin mouth
of my inward eyes.

nebulas are sweet
in counting
within the chamber of the throat.
how often when
the bread was thin
and butter non-existent 
in days of empty childhood
space of smooth tables
washed of the suggestions of crumbs.

i looked out the frosted
 cold windows
of my simple habitation. 
Infinities how you fill up
oh stars…
how you minister to my secret hunger
plump like  fruit on the transparent limbs
of the infinite invisible tree
of the cosmos.
unfed knowledge is
its own rich pudding
as my stomach growls 
as a kitten in teacup .. .

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Goose Spelling a Definition

Geese are
Not gifted
Spellers.

They write
Poems
In their eggs.

The letters
Cannot
Be separated
From their yokes.

In the court
Of the Blue King
Atrocious spelling
Is called “Goose-spelling.”

Turn of phrases
That cannot
Be separated
From its image.

Conversely Wicked spelling
Is known as Dragon-spelling.
Where quatrains
May spontaneously combust
Burning the finger
Of luckless scribes.

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Poetry Is Misdirection

to those that read                       the map
that is printed                               for this moment.
i leave the letters                         open to trap you.
remember poetry                         is misdirection,
by way                                             of words.
Branching symbols                        speaking themselves
                  are new glasses for the world…


if you must                                      steal  grapes
from				the vineyards of the gods.
do not as                                          the proverbial fox
reject them                                     because they hang 
just out                                             of touch.
                     do it early while your  young…

for it is embarrassing                      in ones hoary  age
to forgot                                            why
you have climbed                             over the wall
                       to claim  impetuously  imagination’s
                                         shapely  fruit.


feel your                                                 way through 
the stanza                                               and the wayward lines
tap upon metaphors                               to find the secrete chamber 
                          that holds all the answers

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

The Alchemy of Sugar Cookies

On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
 For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.

For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of  cups and ounces.

Retorts of  pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.

Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.

As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser  metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.

At my round
small wooden  table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.

They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.

 As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.

As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.

While i  in a black forest script  
write of spells
of life and  death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Literalness of the Prairie

Literalness Of The Prairie

Those that cannot remember the past -
are often run over by it for nothing lasts.
The truck may 
Be driven
By a unicorn. 
Even ignorance
on some day will lapses.

There is always a dead Greek philosopher
 to tell you the river 
you soak your feet in
 is always different. 


As a honey badger
Finds His way
Inside The refrigerator
Where you let 
Your images cool.
Link sausage chants within the pan
The lines of kings

The dream
Was sleek
A machine
That spilled
Poems
On the mercats
Below in the footnotes
Reconstruct the lines
& scurry like the edge
of self-fulfilling prophecies.

Just storms of mercy forms
damp hyphens
& ampersands
combine the  trouble couplets 
And beat of stanzas over Kansas
 & Find their way back-
From the literalness of the prairie

Details | Andrew Rymill Poem

Life Drawing

her bones
 were pretty 
like the rest of her
it hard to say
the flesh curved
flowed into stalks and fruit
 legs and hips
breasts and torso
throat and long flowing hair
her eyes 
in a  nudeness gleamed
such contours to her mysterious geometry.

i took the penciled
and transformed her
uncovered her 
into a herd of cubes
 a orbit of globes
a hymn of Cylinder
a lotus of pyramids....

 but somehow 
the shapes did not suffice
or reflect the planes of her perspective
and so i drew a secret shape 
from heroine  surface

i buried deep 
my desires my fingers mapped
a little shadow 
i discovered
in the weave of her ribs
a serenity crosshatched in a navel
the foretelling of a breath
and a  pout 
my  lines discovered
 on the corners of her chin
the blossom of fulness
on a lip 
found a sweep of  redness across cheek 
sweetness like the morning
against the smoothness of paper.