Submissions by mjs211 (MikeTheEngineer)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Oh, Mike the Engineer can build your brand-new hip, or synth your pills. But engineers left unfulfilled poor Mike's creative writing skills.
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
12th Mar 2011 7:10am
12th Mar 2011 7:10am
Contentment
I want to write of existential angst,
to put a microscope to the cracks
of some whiny slut's facade,
to relay the brutal flaying
of some poor fool
or track the tragic causality of life...
but I find myself unable.
I want to graffiti the walls
with which she sealed herself in
then hung a sign claiming
the world boxed her out...
but I just can't find the moxie.
I want nothing more
than to grasp him by the ear
which he boasts is deaf to all,
yank it when he protests
that he's too hardened
to feel...
to put a microscope to the cracks
of some whiny slut's facade,
to relay the brutal flaying
of some poor fool
or track the tragic causality of life...
but I find myself unable.
I want to graffiti the walls
with which she sealed herself in
then hung a sign claiming
the world boxed her out...
but I just can't find the moxie.
I want nothing more
than to grasp him by the ear
which he boasts is deaf to all,
yank it when he protests
that he's too hardened
to feel...
948 reads
6 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
5th Mar 2011 6:33am
5th Mar 2011 6:33am
The upper hand
what a man he was.
you wouldn't know it at first sight,
or the second,
but maybe the third—
in between his half-dozen
sandwiches a day
and his chain-smoking
(always gonna quit just as soon
as the cartons in his closet ran dry)
you begin to see a man...
always smiling the screw-loose grin
of a cleaned-up ex-junkie
who can't barely remember his own address,
obsolete with the childlike mental capacity
that two decades of hard drugs left him,
wandering idly from one warehouse bay to the next,
loving life and letting you...
you wouldn't know it at first sight,
or the second,
but maybe the third—
in between his half-dozen
sandwiches a day
and his chain-smoking
(always gonna quit just as soon
as the cartons in his closet ran dry)
you begin to see a man...
always smiling the screw-loose grin
of a cleaned-up ex-junkie
who can't barely remember his own address,
obsolete with the childlike mental capacity
that two decades of hard drugs left him,
wandering idly from one warehouse bay to the next,
loving life and letting you...
1306 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
28th Feb 2011 11:44pm
28th Feb 2011 11:44pm
Clive Wearing: The Tragedy in Poetic Beauty
Eternally ethereal,
permanent transience.
Well that's a nice thought, isn't it?
The sliver of time
in which you exist,
a splinter in the tree
but you can't see
the grain.
Eternally ethereal,
permanent transience.
Well that's a nice thought, isn't it?
Playing the piano,
your closest kin:
the ivories strike chords
a thousand times over
without knowing
that they sounded
those very notes
mere moments ago.
Eternally ethereal,
permanent transience. ...
permanent transience.
Well that's a nice thought, isn't it?
The sliver of time
in which you exist,
a splinter in the tree
but you can't see
the grain.
Eternally ethereal,
permanent transience.
Well that's a nice thought, isn't it?
Playing the piano,
your closest kin:
the ivories strike chords
a thousand times over
without knowing
that they sounded
those very notes
mere moments ago.
Eternally ethereal,
permanent transience. ...
1118 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
17th Feb 2011 11:37pm
17th Feb 2011 11:37pm
On grasshoppers and ants
They told him he was lazy,
that he'd never amount to anything.
He replied, I amount to happy
and damned if I ain't rich in it.
But you never push for better (said They)
and you accomplish nothing at all!
He responded, I accomplish relaxed
and that's the highest art to master.
I give up! said an exasperated They,
I'm not worrying over what I can't change.
And he said,
Now you're getting it.
They asked him, Where will you be
in twenty years? Still relaxing and happy?
Probably, he replied, and babydoll
it's beautiful.
that he'd never amount to anything.
He replied, I amount to happy
and damned if I ain't rich in it.
But you never push for better (said They)
and you accomplish nothing at all!
He responded, I accomplish relaxed
and that's the highest art to master.
I give up! said an exasperated They,
I'm not worrying over what I can't change.
And he said,
Now you're getting it.
They asked him, Where will you be
in twenty years? Still relaxing and happy?
Probably, he replied, and babydoll
it's beautiful.
808 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
17th Feb 2011 2:16am
17th Feb 2011 2:16am
Venus and Mars
She thinks he's gazing
deep into her eyes
while he's really just
staring at her tits
It's the start of something
beautiful, she believes
as he thinks those words
with a different meaning
** I'm not sure about this one, from the title to the punctuation style to whether this piece should even bother existing. Thoughts? **
deep into her eyes
while he's really just
staring at her tits
It's the start of something
beautiful, she believes
as he thinks those words
with a different meaning
** I'm not sure about this one, from the title to the punctuation style to whether this piece should even bother existing. Thoughts? **
914 reads
6 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
10th Feb 2011 7:23pm
10th Feb 2011 7:23pm
Tinfoil Beauty
This hectic Hallmark holiday
is meant for those haughty princesses
raised on plastic Disney dreams,
suckled with red tinfoil hearts
and educated in high-end chocolatiers,
harassing even the most even-keeled men
into the role of stupid, vapid prick
because "it's just what you do."
Having survived it once,
chivalrously sautéing fish and tomatoes
and overpaying egregiously for blood-red flora
apparently intended for the simple joy
of handing over hard-earned cash,
I vowed to be single
every February fourteenth
'til...
is meant for those haughty princesses
raised on plastic Disney dreams,
suckled with red tinfoil hearts
and educated in high-end chocolatiers,
harassing even the most even-keeled men
into the role of stupid, vapid prick
because "it's just what you do."
Having survived it once,
chivalrously sautéing fish and tomatoes
and overpaying egregiously for blood-red flora
apparently intended for the simple joy
of handing over hard-earned cash,
I vowed to be single
every February fourteenth
'til...
872 reads
11 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
4th Feb 2011 7:35am
4th Feb 2011 7:35am
Summer Heat (from the Three word inspiration thread*)
Toiling through my summer job
with the roofers,
stuck in the warehouse
with the burnt-out shop man
and the burning-out drivers,
I can't help but feel
this job grating my palate.
I'm not ungrateful for it, no--
(jobs are tough to come by
and spending-money tougher)
but I'm not meant for it either.
Their roofs are my experiments,
their shingles my cell trays.
I craft with the palette
of cellular processes
and bend them to my will.
And I'll paint a new tomorrow
where people will have the luxury
of calling...
with the roofers,
stuck in the warehouse
with the burnt-out shop man
and the burning-out drivers,
I can't help but feel
this job grating my palate.
I'm not ungrateful for it, no--
(jobs are tough to come by
and spending-money tougher)
but I'm not meant for it either.
Their roofs are my experiments,
their shingles my cell trays.
I craft with the palette
of cellular processes
and bend them to my will.
And I'll paint a new tomorrow
where people will have the luxury
of calling...
713 reads
1 Comment
ANGER POEM
Published
31st Jan 2011 7:58pm
31st Jan 2011 7:58pm
For (and because of) Danielle
I am not perfect,
if tonight speaks truth.
I saw them leave the bar,
four of those cocky bastards.
Pulling their leather jackets tight,
cursing loudly at the cold.
I followed them a block away
watching as they peeled off one by one
'til there was only him left...
The man who ruined my life,
the coward that never knew my face—
well he'll find it tonight
engrained in his memory,
and if I'm lucky
he'll find my knuckles
traced on his face.
I rushed up an alley to cut him off.
Adrenaline washing my elated...
if tonight speaks truth.
I saw them leave the bar,
four of those cocky bastards.
Pulling their leather jackets tight,
cursing loudly at the cold.
I followed them a block away
watching as they peeled off one by one
'til there was only him left...
The man who ruined my life,
the coward that never knew my face—
well he'll find it tonight
engrained in his memory,
and if I'm lucky
he'll find my knuckles
traced on his face.
I rushed up an alley to cut him off.
Adrenaline washing my elated...
1038 reads
8 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
31st Jan 2011 6:39pm
31st Jan 2011 6:39pm
The motive
The phrase "going postal"
sprung up years ago when
postal workers, unhinged
by the endlessness of the
mail, brought in guns and
blew away their bosses.
The doctors said it was
brought on by the eternal
stream of mail, that there was
no job-well-done satisfaction,
that the letters just kept on
like Chinese water torture.
After digging out my car
for the third time this week,
and having nowhere to put
the newest snow, with more
on the way, I can at least start
to understand the motive.
sprung up years ago when
postal workers, unhinged
by the endlessness of the
mail, brought in guns and
blew away their bosses.
The doctors said it was
brought on by the eternal
stream of mail, that there was
no job-well-done satisfaction,
that the letters just kept on
like Chinese water torture.
After digging out my car
for the third time this week,
and having nowhere to put
the newest snow, with more
on the way, I can at least start
to understand the motive.
687 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
26th Jan 2011 2:40am
26th Jan 2011 2:40am
Wandering Quixotic
Having reached that point
in a young poet's career
where I no longer wrote of torn hearts,
moved past cheap cutter portraits
and pounded the lid
back on that abused black paint,
I discovered the existential crisis:
If I am to better myself,
What, then should I write?
My first thoughts
were rather slow;
mistaking spinning wheels
for distance, I decided
I should write of my own life.
But the more I lived my life,
the less I desired it chronicled.
Besides that it's very boring
(unless you care for Navier-Stokes),...
in a young poet's career
where I no longer wrote of torn hearts,
moved past cheap cutter portraits
and pounded the lid
back on that abused black paint,
I discovered the existential crisis:
If I am to better myself,
What, then should I write?
My first thoughts
were rather slow;
mistaking spinning wheels
for distance, I decided
I should write of my own life.
But the more I lived my life,
the less I desired it chronicled.
Besides that it's very boring
(unless you care for Navier-Stokes),...
880 reads
4 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
24th Jan 2011 5:38am
24th Jan 2011 5:38am
blind eyes take lives
lost and forgotten
she begged us to seek her...
we marched past with heads down.
wracked and neglected
she willed the world to care...
it maintained its self-gravitating tilt.
fading and desperate
she searched for a rekindling...
they hoarded their passion.
hanging and breathless
she succumbed to it all...
no one even cut her down
she begged us to seek her...
we marched past with heads down.
wracked and neglected
she willed the world to care...
it maintained its self-gravitating tilt.
fading and desperate
she searched for a rekindling...
they hoarded their passion.
hanging and breathless
she succumbed to it all...
no one even cut her down
831 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
18th Jan 2011 7:17am
18th Jan 2011 7:17am
There's Grace in All God's Creations
He stands as if uncertain, that ornate ballerina
awkwardly clad in flak jacket and tights.
Lifts one arm to hail the other end
of what now passes for his world.
The zebra demigods
(who, though omnipotent on this plane,
still abide by higher laws)
signal their assent.
The flak-jacketed ballerina lowers his hand
and looks about his comrades.
They ready to charge
though no battle cry is issued;
the fickle many-headed beast fringing his world
takes care of that.
Whipped to a blood frenzy, its heads cry out
sixty...
awkwardly clad in flak jacket and tights.
Lifts one arm to hail the other end
of what now passes for his world.
The zebra demigods
(who, though omnipotent on this plane,
still abide by higher laws)
signal their assent.
The flak-jacketed ballerina lowers his hand
and looks about his comrades.
They ready to charge
though no battle cry is issued;
the fickle many-headed beast fringing his world
takes care of that.
Whipped to a blood frenzy, its heads cry out
sixty...
781 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by mjs211 (MikeTheEngineer)
