Poems and Poetry

Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

Aryabhata’s Predicament | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

The Oaf Is On A See-Saw,
Flipping His Wallet Up InTo The Air,
Swinging It On A Chain,
Catching Stares As He Jerks Them Towards His Gapeing Face,
His Eyes Pointy And Dumb,
He Sits Tight And Fat… Rideing Each Bump Like Its His First,
While He Borrows A Friend To Dive The Totter Up And To Shake The
Teeter Down…

Droplets Of Noon Sweat Arc Into The Marshmellow Sky,
It Is Business Class All The Way,
To Hell With Milk Money Like Molasses And Jackie Onassis,
There Is A Genuine Cause For Concern Among The Marble-Jetters
As The Rusty Stress Of Congress Begins To Squeal,
An Orbital Leverage Was Once What Held The Playground Up,
But As Greasy As The Bolt Could Be… EveryThing Falls…

To Bullets And Ballads,
Stomping Chubby Feet Minute After Minute,
Chomping-Simple Machine Wired For The Suspension Of Polarity,
Jaw-Slacking Pulley System To Link The Mind To Its Beauty-Sleep,
With One Thumb In A Thimble And One Pot To Watch Boil Over…

Keeping An Ear On The Music… The Borrowed Friend Now Disengages From
The Tired Game,
Bored Of Dieing… Now To The Swings He Saunters Sullenly…

The Alpha Male Saddles Up,
To Put The Program To The Test And Check Breaking Points,
His Mother’s God Put Fuzz On His Cheeks… Youth Fizzing Right Below
His Nose,
It Is Done So He Remembers His Turn On The Ladder,
And He Grips The Bar And Heaves Up…


The Oaf Smiles And Sits Drooling… For A Split Second… Before He
Releases Tension,
Giving His Best Attempt To Rub Out The Metal’s Curve,
Though It May Take Several Attempts For The New Guy To Come Down,
And He Will Eventually Admit Defeat… From Some Niche Near Sun-Dogs
And Space-Trash,
But Not Before A Shadowy Recession Hits The Land,
And EveryBody Notices How Heavy Buddha Got On The Ride Home.

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/10/aryabhatas-predicament.html.

Mom, Was Jesus A Skinner? | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

It Listens,
Long Waxed-Legged Like In Dali,
Carnivorous On Its HindSight While Footing Fifty,
No Dead Skin Upon Its Elbows,
Floating Its Heels ALong The Linoleum Slide,
No Pores WithIn Its Face,
It Does Not Breathe To Subsist…

It Can Bend Its Knees Back,
When Under The Bridge,
To Tease Curfew InTo Its Open Skirt,
Playing In Limbo Rouged As Any Bimbo Bell-Ringer Could,
Kneeling For The Knell To Deliver…

To Pucker Up A Golden Arch… Or Suck Around The Clap…


Opaque And Split-Second Quick,
Sticking Its Mouth Through The Threshold,
Its Body Invisible To All But Its Fraternity,
With A Flower On Its Cap… Or Several Inches Beneath The Rafters,
Hidden By The Whites Of Its Lies…

It Pokes And Molests Those Sleeping,
As Diplomacy Watches From A Bubble…


It Hatches New Goofs For Its Nursery Terns,
Boxing The Ears For X’s And O’s,
Then It Disappears From Breakfast For The Chance Of Trickle-Down,
For A Drip-Feed From Sourced Code To Hack And Conquer…

Then… Ascot-Cotton’d Or Scarf-Silken’d Or Neck Bared,
It Returns To SweetTalk Those By The SideWalk…


And, With No Bicycles Constructed Tall Enough For Its Shadow,
The Skinner Leans Chainless Against The Back-Drop,
Easeing InTo The Bricks For Its Mother Of Periphery,
As It Allows For Distraction To Wipe Its Collar Clean.

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/10/mom-was-jesus-skinner.html.

The Insane Clam Poseidon | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

See How It Reigns Under The Surf?
Not At A Foot’s Width To Fathoms Under Grace,
Nor To The Sweet Breeze For Morning Chariots,
ACross Such An Horizon Over Bubbleing Brew-Pots,
Beneath The Salty Bogs…Guarded By Its Rageing WhirlPools,
Its Tresses Of Kelp Draped And Trimmed,
As The Tortoise Burys Its Eggs Then NonChalantly Shimmys To Another
Year At Sea…


A Bit Of Jealousy From The Mollusk,
For The Lack Of It Being Not As Nautilus Nor As One With Tusks,
And To Be Forgotten By Both Beagle And Swine…

With No Beard Nor Hands To Stroke,
To Groom A Sea-Horse To Leviathan’s Yoke…!


The Ancient Ruins By Its Dominion Of Stars!
How The Old Albatross Has Lost Its Brother Olympus To Water And Wine!
From Once They Ruled Together High And Low,
But Now To Patience In A Kingdom Empty… While Others With Pearls…

If It Were Not For Curiousity…

Oh… Much It Be The Audacity Of Hecate,
Were It To Be Not The Fault Of Such A Flamingo,
Then The Ostrich Would Have Never Stuck Its Head In The Sand!

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/09/the-insane-clam-poseidon.html.

The Orange Lounge | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

Tin-Can Cosmic,
Swing-AWay And Peel Back,
A Step Out Of Time To Kick It Empty,
Down The Corridor… To Its Ricochet,
Flip It Negative InTo The Air,
The White Room… Now A Black Room,
Now No Piano… Only The Horns,
No Whispering… No Talking… Only A Sound Of Elastic Distance,
No Going Back To Pick Up Where Space Left Its Mark,
Now Standing… One Hand… Holding Its Collapse,
Eyes Craveing For Corners…

No Corners… Now All Is Curved,
The Bend Around The End…

Corners Craveing For Eyes…
One Handing… Now It Stands… Collapseing Its Hold,
Back Where No Space Is Left To Mark Its Going,
No Whispering… No Talking… Only A Distance,
Now No Keys… Only A Pitch,
The Black Room… Now A Red Room,
Flip It Negative InTo The Air,
Drown The Ricochet… To Its Horrid Door,
Kick It Open To Step InTo Frame,
Swing-Back And Peel AWay,
Answer No Thing.

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/09/the-orange-lounge.html.

The Bread Also Rises | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

The D.J. On The Radio Is Chatter From A Marionette’s KnotHole
With The Chronologic Of Sweetened Tea And A Wallet’s Leathery
Despair,
A Glass Cougar In A Tree With The Signals Bristleing His Whiskers,
One Slip Of The Tongue Could Dissolve The Articulated Illusion,
His Broadcast Of PreOrdinance And Its SoundTrack To Better Living
Through A Guarded Royal Arch Leading To His BackYard Dynasty,
To Roosts Where His Dogs Sit To Keep The Grass From Getting
Sun-Burnt,
His Sonic Stutter To Shelter The HomeLess Muse For Her Green Men,
A Performance In Monotone With Slight Accentuation On Trigger Words
Produceing Egg-Layers To Twitch Their Heads While He Roams Freely On
The Wire…

Seeking Landing Strips In The Vista Of AirWaves And Condensation…


He Comes As The Spirit Of Sunday,
Cooling The Feral Brows Of Morning Sickness,
Easeing The Suffering Of Alcoholic Coal-Miners With His Waters,
He Has Risen From The Bread To Guide The Lost InTo Fields Of Heather,
Violet Vibrations From A Swaying-Bridgeing Trust Over The Friday
BeFore,
To A Saturday Of His Hand Tilting The Creamer InTo Cups In Saucers,
With Button Eyes And Stuffing For Friends Gathered Near,
Easter… After Easter… After Yesterday Has Been Slowed Down,
His Muttered Addition In ReVerb To Be As God To Lactation And
Imagination,
Just To Keep Peckers Loyal To His Tree.

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/08/the-bread-also-rises.html.

Boots Left Hanging | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

Dirty Black,
Road Like A Ribbon That Stretches For Miles,
Stealing Nautical Glory From Any Landed Shark,
With Its Fair Share Of Allure And Cripples,
Six Feet From The Gravel Or Its Gold,
Down To The Reservoir To Break It For A Ditch…


Smokeing Smooth-Shogun Soul Spilling Out From A BullDozer’s Blasted
Guts,
Checkered Shirted Engineers Of The Endorphin Bum-Rush Pulling Its
Levers…

With Ghosts And Prostitutes Hooking Their Hitches Off The Level…


White Collared,
ATypical UnTill Typically By The WaySide Evangelical And Tight,
Sniffing Out The Details… Droplets Of Blood On The Braille,
CrossRoads Dusty To Trust The Hanged Man’s Tree With Scratched
Initials,
Six Feet From The Grave Or Its God,
Up To The Bough To Make It For A Witch.

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/08/boots-left-hanging.html.

Jesters By The Clay | A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

The More I See,
The Less I Believe…


So Might I Stab My Green Thumbs InTo The Sky,
Bring Down The Wrinkled Reign,
The Blues And The Less Than UnKnown,
With Friends… Seekers… Of Trips Through Wooden Horses,
Then Catch The Fire… Be Spirited AWay By Totem Permutations,
A Pecking Order That Freezes In The Skipping Of Stones,
Splashing Down With Medallions InTo Open Snapping Jaws…


The More It Eats,
The Less I Become…


To Incubate WithIn That Lighthouse’s Hollow Gut,
Heavy Is The Hand That Feeds The Flame,
Light Is The Head That Leads The Hand,
An Amuseing Absurdity In BeTwixt The Smoke And The Teeth,
Fogging Up The Parting Valley’d Sea,
With One Last Toke On The Bell’s Yoke,
Wishing For The Queen Of Mermaids To Gasp Lovingly…

And So I Leapt…


Immortalized In Defeat,
With The Lessons Won.

Visit Richard at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/08/jesters-by-clay.html.