Gnumaginations Poetry
Original poems by Gary “Whit” Whitworth Brower—playful, searching, restless, personal, and driven by the rhythms of language.
Some works contain mature language and imagery. The poems are presented in the author’s original voice.
Poem of Why
Another night trapped by pen and pent. Fuel to fructify this peppery gent; Pen as my clearest form of expression, Pent as it drives me to these digressions. All is told to non-judgmental paper, Soul stirred emotions taken like rape or Sagacious sentiments silently sketched And picturesque pictures pensively etched. Completion of poems are viewed often as birth, Release of an abstract emotional girth.
i want to play
I want to run with a cantaloupe and eat tips off of pens play frisbee with a telescope juggle red potatoes with a hen i want to laugh with a lightpost throw my arms around a rubber tree be a parasitic host give away my sanity join a new age healing group and eat their crystal light bowl of moot juice my soul with candle light battery acid and mosquito bites skip across purple mold in the fridge dye my pubic hair (green mountain ridge) watch Barney and BeBop S&M be a snack in a machine for someone to vend swim across electric plant dreams live mid-air above a ravine snort espresso through my nose then spit it out how a sea anemone would on your clothes sell shopping carts with three working wheels dress like a condom on “Let’s make a Deal” orgasm a blue milk crate puzzle people until they’re irate i want to show the world my soul we’ll start with my birth marks, there’s none I’m told pierce my sagging scrotal sack research sub cultures who live on crack bake in the sun with headless Barbie dolls, and no job play with Calvin and his pet tiger Hobbes.
Daydreaming Circles
Presented here as one continuous two-page poem.
I’m daydreaming circles
of thoughts I’ve had before
exhausting my time
rippling my sense of direction
Other thoughts I’ve had before,
Cyclic reincarnations,
Of memories,
sparked by objects surrounding me. (distractions)
Exhausting my time with that which is around me,
Instead of thoughts that should be spent towards
something progressfull
SO
WHAT if my attention
span sPorAdiCy
ripples after thirty seconds.
There are,
after all,
gobs of objects to nuance my progress,
caterpilling
my sense of direction,
my feelings of affection,
my understanding of progression.
I fight for thirty second span spurts of sanity.
Blissful for that much,
with hopes that some one can relate.
I’m daydreaming circles
of dreams I’ve lived before,
creating a lie
deceiving no one’s perception.
Here it comes again, just listen:
That sure’s a unique
pattern on that mushroom slicer...
Thirty seconds. I wonder how I
think about why I can wonder
how come thirty seconds pined away...
Damn, thirty seconds!
Dare
you quip with my skull?
i don’t understand
thirty one second realities.
Keep time short, succinct, to the point, efficient...
thirty seconds. Thirty seconds?
That seemed, fifteen seconds,
(But hey, whose counting to thirty seconds?)
i, you, me, we’ve glimpsed my rhythmic chaos today.
Mobicly flickering
thirty seconds... THIRTY SECONDS.
I’m daydreaming circles
of crashing metaphors,
believing I try,
attaining quirky perfection.
Attempting to Cut the Ponytail, Miscalculations Resulted in a Change of Management
Sips & sips of coffee drip, bringing you through the caffeine trip, Black & strong the barista quips, while souls spills their thoughts and glasses are flipped. Come on down to the community café, where the opinions are stronger than the grind they say. Music over chatter and everyone’s strange, students in books, and artists in pain. Phonetically backwards “Roma” is “Amore”, where dyslexic love happens, or so goes the lore. Mr. Backlash, Mr. Backlash the workers glare, How come I have to clean, instead of stand around and stare. Hey boss, “I can’t help this person, he looks like a freak”, Retorting “Get in there and serve him, smile, and don’t make his drink weak”. Everyone comes on down to sip the wisdom of new hires, Seeing reflections of themselves, they gives the tips they desire. Homeless traipse in for bathrooms & water, While teens pander quarters & live like martyrs. With lots of Love, a space for all was provided, So to step away peacefully, was what I decided. A liquid culture was sipped, digested, then freed, And the coffee fanatics will still get what they need.
This is the beginning of a much larger archive. More poems and their stories will be added over time.