Best Buffing Poems
If these four walls could talk they would say..
I'm so sorry that I'm driving you crazy today
there's so much on my chest, I've much to convey
And no one will believe you if you repeat this any way
Leaving is futile, I've locked the door
Stop screaming and crying, don't wanna hear it any more
Help yourself to some popcorn, I promise I won't be a bore
You'll find that recliner to be more comfy than wallowing on the floor
But...as you wish...floor could use a good buffing, but I digress
That's chalk residue beneath you, and it outlined a macabre mess
I've developed 5 more cracks just this morning, I just can't handle the stress
I've...witnessed a murder, and to this I must confess
There is a back story to this, and this room is the center of the tale,
Host to many extravagant galas, known for entertaining on a grand scale
The most extravagant to do, was just for two, Saturday date night, held without fail
They supped sumptuous steaks, sipped bubbly ale, and read each other like braille
But the only thing they read that last night was the riot act
Accusations of infidelities loosely based on fact
Text messages, instant messages, emails hacked
He was tired of the Saturday night charade, and soon his bags would be packed
You're going to regret using me like a pawn she said
Saturday night special aimed at his head
Then she mouthed that pistol, and ingested it's lead
Their last night spent together in this room, laying there dead
That wall over there was painted a darker blue because it had the biggest splatter
Somebody really needs to replace the window in that other wall, the first bullet made it shatter
Gee I feel so much better now, actually looking forward to new owners... So, what's the matter?
Are you still interested in making a bid, or was that just idle chatter?
2/21/16
One DIRTY BIRD COP and (our) cities burn... again
now the far lefty loons are flapping about wanting to defund
and even ELIMINATE police forces all together,
while stripping 2nd amendment RIGHTS
of citizens to defend themselves-
So they want to disarm citizens
and leave them without a police force
You can bet your STAINED UNDIES
that the DIRTY BIRDS of our society are
buffing their Saturday night specials
and HIGH FIVING to their good fortune-
Who do you think these suicidal policies will hurt the most..
bingo..high crime neighborhoods(inner cities)
so once again hard working BLACK CITIZENS
are going to get SCREWED BY the knee-JERK reactions
of their LOCAL GOVERMENTS..
WHILE the WEALTHY-(all politicians and their donors) have state of the art
HIGH END security systems-and can hire a ZIMMERMANN
when the crap hits the fan(and it will). So they don't care
about the carnage that results from their P.C. pandering-
My guess is there'll be a humongous run on
big-headed dogs-BEAR SPRAY -Louisville sluggers and BIBLES
in the very near future..
Good luck to all the GOOD PEOPLE of our great nation..
SWING AWAY -spray away- read away...bite away!
this is a bit long winded so I've cliff noted(LARGE FONTED) the main points
You left to prey on another innocent heart,
and yet, it came as no surprise;
after all, it was your signature move.
My subconscious wasn't willing to overlook the obvious,
and attach genuine feelings to love's fake facade.
Confused and lonely,
I allowed you to breach the walls
of my heart with your whispered, witty words.
But when we cuddled close,
your thoughts seemed so distant;
your mettle started showing signs of corrosion
and I tried buffing it with trust and love;
but to no avail.
I realized our goals would never align,
for I had to contort the truth to make it fit your lies.
And I got tired of hanging on to a lost cause;
and so, I let go!
He chooses his medium and tools carefully:
It's oil and sable promises today.
He lays it on thick-haphazardly.
He folds then unfolds the unframed canvas many times
into the shape of a woman.
Squeezing out her dignity,
then reads what's left behind...
(his flavor of voodoo).
He fondles her entrails-shakes her bones.
That spill into the shape of.. "a little less than yesterday".
Picked over prey he frames her.
Hangs her in his fun house tilted mind;
Then he buzzard hops away, taking to the sky.
Circling above searching for another pair of wide soft eyes.
He chooses his medium carefully...to fit the deed.
Today it's his black clay heart that changes shape.
From a soft nest- to cold cackling cage...
The bunny takes the musky bait,
he spits gasoline on the bars.
Runs metal talons against a dying star...
igniting her.
He waits till her ashes cool.
he inhales deeply, puts the rest in a mason jar.
...proclaiming victory
he slithers away...
He chooses his medium carefully.
Today it's his stained-glass smile....
"his heavenly mirage".
A magnet for she doves
which fly into it, heart first.
they're diced with shards from a toxic rainbow.
but there is no gold at the end.
only hollow caves and poisoned winds...
He dons his cape and crown of dying doves.
Which, have since turned from white to red.
He lounges around buffing his trophies with split tongue.
He chooses his medium carefully...
********************************************
Twelve steaming appetizers, artistically set.
Seven sea morsels in a bird's nest net.
Great pies of meat cooked in butter and sweat.
Puddings and pastries and a heart-thumping bet:
That you'll eat to live in and live to eat out,
And never see your little piggies wiggle, twist and shout.
The steering wheel gets closer every time you drive,
Huffing, puffing, car seat buffing, hefty hungry hide.
Your tires flatten daily, their pressure put to task.
The trunk is strewn with Devil Dogs and a strange unlabeled flask.
Puffed with dough and chocolate, your massive stomach changes --
Scattering civilians as a seismic needle rages.
No stopping fatty acid or blubber when it's fed.
The time will come when the heart is done
And a lump of lard is dead.
Don't mourn but learn and prosper
From a waste of God's good mud:
Moderation and self-sacrifice is the way to love a Bud.
Now down to the top -- with eyes as bright as phosphor!
Twelve steaming appetizers, artistically set.
Seven sea morsels in a bird's nest net.
Great pies of meat cooked in butter and sweat.
Puddings and pastries and a heart-thumping bet:
That you'll eat to live in and live to eat out,
And never see your little piggies wiggle, twist and shout.
I’m building castles in the sand
on the shores of a grey, grey sea.
The clouds have gathered overhead
and the shells are wave-washed clean.
Footprints wander down the shore
of the vast and vacant sea,
the waves are buffing them away
and turning the sand sateen.
Beyond the berm and the waving grass
inked upon the setting sun,
someone sits in a house of glass
as sand through fingers runs.
I’m watching seabirds dodge the stars
when the waves reflect the moon
and pulling seaweeds from the rocks
they drearily festoon.
And the sand’s run out of the fingers now,
and the drink’s run out of the cup;
the house of glass is quiet now,
all the shutters drawn up.
Darkest night and longest hours:
Hours to labor and
Hours to trip in the primitive ooze of repetition
Hours to catch up or trade for spare minutes,
Hours with eyes only half aware
Of life and its warnings,
Lifeless and blissless hours of emptiness,
Hours that never end,
Hours of yawning and stale coffee,
Hours measured in radio songs and cigarettes.
Darkest light before the day,
With shades of grey and
Unidentifiable lumps of black.
Humped, dark masses of human
Trudge through the hours
With brooms and coffee and sleeplessness
And floor buffing machines
Humming angelic tunes like flagellant dirges.
Shapeless figures with no place to go
For hours, no home to fine
For hours, no peace of mind
For listless hours.
Moonless hours for the streetlamps
And for the peddlers of lawlessness.
They count their hours in dimes
And nickles and quarters,
But never pennies or half dollars,
And never by retracing foot steps,
If they can help it.
Hours for the fools that sleep.
Hours for the watchman on his beat.
Hours for the black blood
Puddled and undiscovered on the blackest streets.
Still to come is the hour of discovery.
Hours spent despairingly counting
The slow progression of passing hours.
A second hand that drips like cold molasses.
A minute hand that tortures
A set of wide and soulless eyes.
An hour hand that doesn't move at all.
Rituals and rites mark the odorous plumes of hours unseen.
An echoing scream amplifies the darkness.
The howl of sirens follow in the distance.
Hours of violence or depravity or sin or pleasure.
These are the hours set aside
For the ageless telling of tales
And the insomnia of music makers.
All the misery of graveyard hours
If for no other reason
Than the gravity of their six foot title.
my curiosity coaxes me into sneaking in
to this cubbyhole built under an old robust tree
a rumor I heard, there’s a clandestine
so, I peep through its small and dusty window pane
I widely open my eyes as I could
while I’m surreptitiously gazing inside this empty room
the only thing I see is a barricade of wood
Oh, I think, playing hide and sick in there is still good
as I go around to find if there’s a small door
to my dismay, it’s locked with a rusty knob
then, I find another small window on the other wall
on big branch of the tree, I clamber to view the whole
watching all over again the void inside
shadows begin to appear behind the wooden bar
as they accrue, my braided hair rise up on both sides
for a high jump, I prepare my legs while thinking where to hide
their ears likely found on top of their nose in shape of cone
so creepy things they are, I’m so scared but I must know
are they giants or dwarfs who’ll give me their magic stones
or a black lady to transform to white and lurks me with her bones
while my whole body is reverberated with numbness
I hold on to the small branch of a tree with a glued grip
suddenly, a mother cat with her five lovely kittens
coming out buffing their fur softly with tenderness
March 31, 2013
Note to the contest sponsor:
My dear friend Seren, I’ve seen your blog before but I’m so sorry if I was not able to leave a comment because of time constraint. However, I vividly remember the picture because it was truly beautiful. I’m pretty sure it was one of your awesome paintings. You’re a very talented artist/painter and I was inspired to write a poem today for that beautiful paintings of yours. Thank you so much for sharing!
Fourth Place
Contest: What Lurks Within
Judged: 4/7/2013
Sponsor: Poet Seren Roberts
Winged Vamp – for contest
Hey, who’s in charge here…?
I need a serious makeover,
spent a summer eating a very…
well….green diet
put on a few ounces..
had some of “those” curves.
Been in here working
on my image, you know,
buffing it up on all levels,
a little firming up,
splash of color,
new wardrobe.
Now it is time for
my coming out party….
“Sweet Sixteen??” No Way!!
Can’t wait that long.
Gotta break out,
spread my wings,
sashay down that winding staircase,
enrapture the garden,
enhance the beauty of the flowers,
tease them with my love,
make even the roses blush.
Leave but the scent of my wings
wafting over their petals,
a dewy tear on their cheeks
for I am as fickle
as the winds I surf
as frail as my fluttering
beauty.
John G. Lawless
8/11/2015
for SKAT’s Butterflies Among Us – Poetry Contest
There's a stash of swag and bling in lady liberty's lamp
and if you look closely enough her tablet says:
To succeed you can grind along or just be a tramp
you could spin cycle the system -be another government lamb
or pick up your @ss and become your own woman or man-
There are the privileged but they're rarer than one might think
its not a good fit for 300 million blue collars you see on the street-
Hate is thriving in the darkest and brightest corners of society
and in no way is it just a triple k or white supremacy thing
its crept into black and brown hearts and is gathering steam
the media makes alot of green from spinning on our misery.
Crime-gangs and poverty run ablaze in every big city,
drugs are painted on every pillar of low and high society
laws are lax and punishments are getting a little to breezy
taxes go to the ogres who get perfume dabbed on the wrist
three squares -free medical- recreation -education-meditation
access to the internet to torment their victims again and again
Freedom is never for free, but pursuit of happiness just may be
darkness wants to bend the barrel of the second amendment
chainsaw liberty-pull the tongue from the mouth of free speech
tear down every nativity scene while buffing up the pentagram
treating the black book and starry flag like a back alley snot rag.
Without doubt a second civil war is stirring in the soil
the blood is filling the pot and coming to a rolling boil
the masses are hoarding caliber-scripture and bread
painting a winking bulls eye on the soon to be dead...
where in the he!! is our wayward god in all this mess?
Tucked away in dad’s back closet,
Stocked with polishes and such;
Dad would let us boys come work,
And learn to earn a buck.
He taught us work had dividends,
If we would put the effort in.
Come days, or nights or weekends
We’d shine them up for him.
He didn’t pay us what we’re worth,
Or offer “bonus” pay;
But there we learned initiative,
That drives our lives today.
I remember when he taught me,
About colors, soles and buffing.
Then He’d spit into the tins
I’d scoff and thought: “He’s bluffing!”
In reflecting dad, I’m thankful…
For little jobs like shoe shines.
You gave our lives a “polish”
Beyond your quarters and your dimes.
If I could, I’d take your shoes right now
And polish every one.
To let you know my love and thanks
For ways you raised good sons.
By Shoe Shine Son #3
this is how I am blazing
life goes through fazes
everyone around purple hazing
customers around me grazing
hoping that I am slanging
reality is amazing
so many could be craving
my life ever changing
where I lay my head is my home
internally alone
people all around
constantly calling my phone
buffing my chrome
none of it changes the fact
that nobody is home
or my activities are condoned
god what am i doing
my life is in ruins
money in pocket
but heart still bruisin
life just a crusin
never to stop and take in
the ruins
life is so amusin'
I gotta know why
why we live and die
where my heart lie
before I die
I will constantly try
to fight temptation
and live my life, why?
cause you want me to reach real high.
in your creation
is our relation
so the elevation
is a revelation
that I must bring to creation
I know it will be hard facing
the man and his temptation
but in me you trust,
your greatest creation
Allow those sunrays
Bypass through the lenses
Compose up my window
Buffing
Agree to those blends
Seize on to my grip
And let my sun
Grant me my limelight
Smiling, blurring
Sojourn!
Don’t swathe my sanity
My guide
My warmth
The exquisite
My Love
You shall by no means
Recoil beyond the pillows
is that the spearman swinging
his weapon to and fro
and is that the giant weeping
down and down he goes
that smile i remember
everytime you kill
that laugh so sinister
when you feel that thrill
are you in hotan the glavie called
buffing and stroking
chasing the so sun abroad
the thoughest of them all
you have me waiting
counting down the time
till i can feel that thrill
now im wiriting this rhyem
We go through a period of time
When God is working through us
Whether it is buffing us
So we can shine
Or giving us things, gifts
God is going to do everything to change us
We may think we never get through it
But the end will come
And we will get there
If He puts on your mind something He is going to do
Trust that He will do it
That is his cue to you
That He is about to do it
You will see that it gets done
It is true that He does whatever He pleases
But He will listen to your wishes, desires
And fulfill them
Just know that his desires for you are better than yours
So sleep easy
And rest in the knowledge that He will look out for our best interest
Hard at work
He is
He is looking out for his little ones
Like a mother hen watching out for the little chicks
He will not let you falter
Always shaping you
Correcting you
Molding you to the person He wants you to be
So let the Potter do His thing
Just yield and be compliant
He will do His work for you
To you and in you
He never rests
And that is why He is God
And we are not
Let the Potter shine
You