Sonnet-screwdriver

Sonnets and Haiku of a non-normal nature and other forms as they fit. the poetry blog of Matthew Glover my art/normal Tumblr is textiles.tumblr.com feel free to send asks suggesting topics for poems.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

How to End a Night Shift

The morning Sun, always more frank, is sliced in ribbons by the skyscrapers, vast lines of illumination and swaths of shadow lay across the building across the way from the diner where you’re sitting in the farthest booth from the door, leaning your head against the wall, while watching the people trudge, bundled against the sharp wind. Everything is chrome, or rose, or dusty pale blue. At the far end of the counter the waitress and cook are chatting, while waiting to be relieved, their words only make it to you as soft mumbling. The cook laughs, a deep rumble, outside a gust of wind rears up, the howl harmonizing.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

How to See a Rainbow

As night swirls around you, you start to climb the last bridge home. The lights of the radio towers blink slowly, bright against the dark night, as you pull your jacket tighter. The coke streetlights below you make a jarring silhouette of the leaves blocking the light, the breeze blows, setting them to dance. Beyond them, construction barriers rhythmically pulse cordoning off an intersection, where the signal has just switched to “go.” As you crest the bridge, the pavement is flooded in light as a sports car rushes past you. You pause, your sight is drawn to the left, where the last bit of sunlight splays against the Western sky, the chemical haze of the city refracting the light; deep, rich crimson; warm, vibrant amber; dark, glowing emerald; the navy blue of night stretching outward. Maybe half a minute it lasts, and is gone. Your feet still ache, you continue on.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

the hill race

You're running up a hill covered in leaves. The hill is impossibly steep, but you strive. Every few yards the leaves slide you back down. A truck, weaves along the path drunkenly. It has already knocked down the others. You're running a race, five thousand meters. The finish line is just past the hill's crest. The truck swerves past, you jump out of the way. You've got a stitch in your side, lungs burning. Your thighs, your calves, are throbbing a slow dirge. The truck has swerved around at the hill's base. You're just cresting the hill and you wake up You've got a stitch in your side, lungs burning. Your thighs, your calves, are throbbing a slow dirge.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

Waiting in a Too Thin Sweater

Your hand brushes against the rough cross bar of the chain-link fence. It's cold, but you grip it tightly as you look to the road. Far past the horizon, the Sun paints the lip of the sky bronze, making the edge of night all the darker. Tonight, the stars are shy. A dusk wind blooms, you pull your sweater tight. From past the screen door noise floats to the sky still and starless. Headlights swerve onto the gravel path. Heart racing, you walk over to the dying hedge where your bag is wait- ing. You lift the bag, and you leave your key on the porch. Rocks grind under the tire. Your grip tightens. You step towards the gate.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

Trying to Think of the Worst Pick-up Line Ever (Based on True Events)

I don't mean to keep touching my own butt, can I compare it to yours?

[textiles]

Ode to Uncomfortable Pauses

Well, now you’ve done it. You were just thinking What with all the laughter, all the coy smiles, All the times you caught a knowing, gleeful Look, all the nights long pauses, when you get A little warmth in your belly seeing A gentle, peaceful look transform to wiles, And when you huddle together, sleepful, Waiting for the sunrise, well, you said it. First of all, you’re definitely wishing You had waited for the dawn to be a Bit more established, because a shadow, Instead of helpful expression, looking Through the morning mist gives nothing away. You’ll look again, in the day. Then you’ll know.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

this is reblogged from my normal blog due to it being from a prompt list

[sonnet-screwdriver]

Looking North Long Enough to Hear Thunder

I made what I'm calling an immersive poem, Check it out, and let me know what you think

[sonnet-screwdriver]

scratching one's foot with

one's other foot while watching

the gathering clouds

[sonnet-screwdriver]

On Lunch Hours

It starts off subtly, a slight twinge in the bottom of your ribcage, your eyes flick to the clock, some mental arithmetic as you page through the morning hours when you had some pizza from last night's din- ner. Now you candle burns close to the wick, you're wondering what food will do the trick and jettison your hunger to the bin. Finally, the hour arrives, you stand up and make your way to clock out for lunch. Your first choice, the Health Inspector has banned, the next option is teeming with a bunch of screaming kids, next, a food cart, unmanned. Out of time, at work, a pop-tart you'll munch.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

Something I saw on my walk into work and made me feel empathy

A squirrel runs into an ivy-covered wall. BONK! Metaphor for life.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

Seventeen Syllables on the Topic of Sexual Arousal

trying to flirt in

a haiku is challenging

something something butt

[sonnet-screwdriver]

Specificity in Metaphor

And now the rain begins its sweet, sultry bossa nova. On the distant street you can hear the elegant whoosh as a car drives on to some appointment, far away. Evening, tentative, makes its first, subtle forays into the gears of your mental grandfather clock, pendulum slicing the hours left until the silver grey sky is blotched out as though from a broken jar of india ink that an artist keeps on the dusty windowsill that over- looks their work table. Years later, they have moved so far away from ink that their pen, naked from its cap, dried out and solid, oxide coating the nib and spreading like pustules of a fungal bloom, languishes, quite forgotten, at the bottom of a rusty toolbox; however, the ink was sealed tightly. It was waiting, every breath that's gone by, for the fuzzy paw of this unsteady kitten, on, on the table vellum, intricately wrought, is laid out. Where was I? Oh yes, the rain piques a new excitement. The day is arcing westward. Yesterday, the sky was lit a golden zoetic hue, now calm's silky silver.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

On Overnight Bags

This morning she gets on a strange bus at A strange time. People who have never seen Her know. She sits down, legs parted, and pats Her hair into place. Weary, she sighs and leans Back, brushing wrinkles out of her black dress. No one sees what's in the giant bag next To her. there will be, or had been caress- ing recently. She giggles as a text Rings on her phone. She grabs, from bag, a bra, Lacy, red, in addition to her sleek Black phone. It's caught in the wire. She paws It free. A man saw, she grants a quick peek As she crosses her legs. Smiles, she blushes. She types to someone with gentle touches.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

On the trustworthyness of Robots

Seriously, is it us? Are we the Problem here? Creatures of chaos building Companions based entirely on the Systems of logic that we're still decoding. It's true, chaos defines order, but the Underpinnings of logic shouldn't be Decipherable in that way. That's the Reason, we're just as good at defining Intricate processes for the making Of decisions as we are at drawing The difference between large and big. The Robot apocalypse comes from failing To clarify the slight difference be- tween pink and salmon, not their deep hating

[sonnet-screwdriver]

On Disembodied Hands

Standing, waiting for the bus, I see a Hand, all on its own, its wielder shrouded In shadow and a gothically minded Ensemble. Severed claw, steering away, Off to go touch typing, earning its pay. Thimble of coffee, its typing proofread, It cruises job sites, it contacts its head Hunter. Nothing. Looks like another day. On the drive home it's distracted, thinks Back to the time it hitchhiked across The American west to be a star. Hanging in Los Angeles, some hijinks On set, dropped as a stunt double, their loss. Falls asleep tonight, dreams about that scar.

[sonnet-screwdriver]

On Creepy Handshakes

I hand shake too readily. When near a Hand held forth I always grip it heartily. Too eager I trust the motive given, A bond of friendship between our two hands, A test of hidden weapons by the shake. Sometimes it;s a fair damsel whose hand is Offered, and the clinch, modern chivalry. Unfortunately there are those who deign One only worthy of their fingertips, lean Too far in, pulling your hand down and in Towards their shadow region, smiles like ice, and Those who try to simulate and earthquake, Or, while tickling my palm, speak a des- ire, or, does that only happen to me?

[sonnet-screwdriver]

On Movie Popcorn

After so much patience the lights go down I lean forward, and, with just my tongue, lick My first taste, careful not to make a sound. Salty, with just a tiny feel of slick Oil sliding it's taste across my upper Lip. In the flickering light again I Quietly take another nibble. Fur- ther I go. I have two whole hours, why Should I rush? I slow down, take all my time, Sometimes delicately, sometimes in a Frenzy. Hand covered in an oily rime, Jaws tired, I scrape the edges of this cay. Finally, the lights come up. It will be With me for weeks, in my smell, in my teeth.